The Papers of Samuel Marchbanks, Page 41

  Lang may your lum reek!

  Minerva Hawser.

  • TO MISS MINERVA HAWSER •

  Dear Miss Hawser:

  When I made enquiries here concerning the Hawser tartan I was greeted with oblique glances in several shops, and all knowledge of your family was hastily denied. Are you sure that you know all the circumstances which led to the migration of the Clan Hawser?4

  Long may your blood boil,

  Samuel Marchbanks.

  • TO SAMUEL MARCHBANKS, ESQUIRE •

  Dear Mr. Marchbanks:

  As you are in Edinburgh I write to you for information on a matter which arouses me to anger. I read that the British, subverted by foreign restaurateurs, are now eating horseflesh. If this is true it must stop at once. Cruelty or indignity to dumb creatures is a thing I will not tolerate, even when it is posthumous. I demand that you get to the bottom of this story at once. And if you yourself have been eating any of our dumb friends, I command you, in the name of Canadian Womanhood, to desist immediately. Cows, yes; pigs, yes; fowl (so long as they are not singing birds) yes. Of cats I forbear to speak. But horses and dear, dear doggies—NO! Please reply immediately this reaches you. The eye of Canada is upon you.

  Yours,

  (Mrs.) Kedijah Scissorbill.

  • TO MRS. KEDIJAH SCISSORBILL •5

  Dear Mrs. Scissorbill:

  Pray compose yourself. I have not seen any horseflesh consumed as yet. If I have eaten it, I knew it not. Canada may therefore take its eye off me. I may perhaps quiet your suspicions regarding British Dogdom by telling you that there is a statue to a dog in Edinburgh; it is Greyfriars Bobbie, a dear doggie who used to go regularly with his master to a restaurant in Greyfriars; when his master died the doggie kept on going to the restaurant for twenty years, begging for food. Everyone was touched by this act of fidelity, including the restaurant-keeper, who reckoned that in that time Bobbie had sponged 7,300 meals from him which, at six pence a time, amounted to a little over $180. He felt he had been extraordinarily touched. The statue of Bobbie was erected by American admirers of the dog. No other dog in history is known to have been faithful to one restaurant for so long. I am, Madam,

  Your servant,

  Samuel Marchbanks.

  • TO SAMUEL MARCHBANKS, ESQUIRE •

  Dear Mr. Marchbanks:

  What a disappointment about the tartan! Please try again. And another thing; I am anxious to possess some personal relic of Mary, Queen of Scots. Could you possibly get me something—one of her sweet little shoes, for instance. You must remember, Mr. Marchbanks, that I have been an orphan for the last forty-five years. Surely I deserve some consideration from one who, whatever his faults, is a man, and should be glad to assist the weak and helpless.

  Yours confidingly,

  Minerva Hawser.

  • TO MISS MINERVA HAWSER •

  Dear Miss Hawser:

  Really I cannot get the eighteen yards of the Hawser tartan you ask for. Could you manage with an equal length of something else? I was talking two days ago with Mr. Telfer Dunbar, who is said to know more about tartans than anybody else in Edinburgh, and he says there is no earthly reason why anybody should not wear any tartan that pleases them. From my recollection of your person, a few yards of a hound’s-tooth tweed suggests itself for an appropriate evening gown. As for Mary Queen of Scots’ shoes, I have not seen any for sale. What makes you think, by the way, that it would be sweet and little? Are you aware that Mary was six feet tall? With such a physique she may well have had feet like a policeman. I fear that you are a romantic.

  Yours unromantically,

  Samuel Marchbanks.

  • TO SAMUEL MARCHBANKS, ESQUIRE •

  Dear Marchbanks:

  While you are in Scotland will you collect and send me a dozen new Scotch stories? I have just been appointed to head the Speaker’s Committee of the Rowanis Club for the next year, and good funny stories are scarce. I find that stories about Scotchmen are always popular. Oh, yes, and will you send me a few tips about the Scotch accent? Everybody thinks I tell stories very well, but I have only one funny accent and it has to do for Scotch, Irish, Jewish, Negro, etc. I would like to specialize in Scotch stories. Please hurry about this, as I haven’t any time to waste.

  Yours eagerly,

  Dick Dandiprat.6

  • TO RICHARD DANDIPRAT, ESQUIRE •

  My presumptuous Dandiprat:

  I have no time to send you Scotch stories, even if I knew any. Nor can I help you with your assault upon Scottish vernacular. Everyone speaks it here, but it defies analysis. Yesterday a lady of my acquaintance said to me, “Hoo lang is it sin’ ye pit meat in yer wame?” She was enquiring when I had last eaten. Having some acquaintance with Scottish vernacular speech I was able to reply, “Lang syne, and I hae na’ suppit cockieleekie sin’ Hogmanay.” The acquisition of the right accent for such a remark is far beyond your feeble powers so no more from

  Yours regretfully,

  S. Marchbanks.

  • TO AMYAS PILGARLIC, ESQUIRE •

  Dear Pil:

  At last the flood of letters subsides, and I have a moment to write to you.

  The Edinburgh-London journey took from 10:40 a.m. until 8:15 p.m. Meals in English trains are perhaps a little worse than they used to be. That brown soup is somewhat browner, the coffee is somewhat weaker, and the cheese hints more strongly than ever at an origin in a soap factory. The English are not really a puritanical people, but railway meals suggest a dreadful mortification of the flesh—an urge to take the joy out of travel.

  As I wander about my fancy is greatly caught by the unusual names which I see on signs and advertisements. Just as I left Edinburgh I saw a beauty over a clothing store—Clinkscales. Now if I wrote a book in which anyone was called Clinkscales the critics would accuse me of being fanciful. Yet it appears that people of that name really exist. Wonderful! Travel is so broadening.

  Yours broadly,

  Sam.

  • TO SAMUEL MOCKBANKS, ESQUIRE •

  Dear Mr. Mackbonks:

  In your correspondence with the Passport Agency and Fiscal Control Board recently, your “Form Z” was returned to this office unstamped. It is therefore invalid, and the sterling currency now in your possession has no legal existence. In order that your position may be regularized as soon as possible, you must secure Forms H and Q from the British Currency Legitimization Authority, and obtain permission to export one cent (1¢) in Canadian currency to us. We shall purchase a one-cent stamp for your “Form Z” with this sum. A further charge for service in purchasing, moistening and affixing the stamp, amounting to five dollars, will also be charged. Please attend to this matter immediately, as until you do so your money is a fiction.

  Yours,

  Haubergeon Hydra.

  (Sub-deputy Fiscal Repressor).

  • TO HAUBERGEON HYDRA, ESQUIRE •7

  Dear Mr. Hydra:

  Far be it from me to dispute the word of a government official, but my sterling currency seems to be quite real. The people of Edinburgh were willing, and even eager to accept it. However, if you want a one-cent stamp I happen, by a lucky chance, to have one in my pocket, which I enclose. You overestimate the difficulty of getting it on to the document; it is not five dollars worth of work even for a Civil Servant. Just a quick lick and a slap, and it’s done.

  Yours, with dripping tongue,

  Samuel Marchbanks.

  • TO MISS MINERVA HAWSER •

  Dear Miss Hawser:

  Yes, I quite understand your passion for relics of eminent persons. You have asked me for Sir Walter Scott’s walking-stick and for Robert Burns’ snuffbox; I regret that both of these interesting objects are in museums, and I am too timid to steal them, even in order that you may exhibit them to the Canadian Authors’ Association, who doubtless need them.

  The only relic I can get you is associated with Haigh, the Vampire;8 no doubt you read that he was hanged on August 10, 1949, for murdering no les
s than eight persons of about your own age and general character; after each murder he drank a glass of his victim’s blood, mingled with a liquid which he supplied from his own person. How’s that for connoisseurship? A friend of mine has a tumbler which he is practically certain was used by Haigh in one of these curious toasts, and he will let me have it for only $10. If you want it please cable this sum immediately. I am sure your branch of the Authors’ Association would be thrilled. All friends around the punchbowl!

  Yours amiably,

  Samuel Marchbanks.

  • TO HAUBERGEON HYDRA, ESQUIRE •

  Dear Mr. Hydra:

  As I understand that you are permanent secretary of the Government Alcoholic Discouragement Board, I write to ask you why there is no cider for sale in my part of Canada. Since coming to Britain I have renewed my acquaintance with this wonderful drink (or beverage, as I suppose you call it) and I want to know why I cannot get it at home. Canada is a great apple country: then why no cider? Cider rejoiceth the heart of man (and of woman) Hydra, old boy, and the Canadian heart could do with a good rejoicing.

  Yours merrily,

  Samuel Marchbanks.

  • TO SAMUEL MARBLINKS, ESQUIRE •

  Dear Mrs. Matbanks:

  Your letter re cider to hand and contents noted. In reply would beg to state that (a) the Civil Service cannot entertain suggestions from unofficial sources and (b) cider is objectionable to the Medical Association, as being a notorious Physician Repellent, and a prominent feature in the coat-of-arms of the Royal College of Chiropractic Healers.

  Yours semi-officially,

  Haubergeon Hydra,

  for Government Alcoholic Discouragement Board.

  • TO SAMUEL MARCHBANKS, ESQUIRE •

  Dear Marchbanks:

  I am offering you $50, cash down, for your car. It is a good make, only two years old, has first-class tires and has plainly been well cared for. That is why I am offering you $50, instead of the $25 which is what a dealer would give you.

  The fact is that Chanel, that skunk that has been hanging around Marchbanks Towers for years, has been living in the garage since you went away. It looks as though she had made a nest in the back seat, and last night she was badly frightened by my dog, Bowser, who happened to be snooping around.

  Take it or leave it; $50. I say nothing of the shock to Bowser’s nerves, as you are a neighbour and I want to treat you decently.

  Yours decently,

  Dick Dandiprat.

  • TO AMYAS PILGARLIC, ESQUIRE •

  Dear Pil:

  It is high time I came home. Dandiprat and his dog have sabotaged my car and that accursed old crone, Min Hawser, is hounding me to run down relatives of hers who have titles. I cannot write to them now, as I am on a train bound for Wales, and you are the only one who can read my train-writing.

  Railway travel in this country has one great advantage over train journeys in Canada; I can get unlimited reading matter in every station. There is a book-and-paper stand on every platform, offering the most delightful train literature. At present I have The Matrimonial Post, and The Girl’s Own Paper with me. Have you read either? They are very rich feeding, let me tell you. Consider this, from the Post: “Attractive, witty, physically opulent lady of modest means seeks correspondence with gentleman of refined but not inhibited mentality. Object, a mutual exploration of intellect, with a view to intimacy and possibly matrimony. Photograph offered and expected.” Or how does this appeal to you: “Lady, twenty-eight, who has lost left leg seeks congenial gentleman friend lacking right ditto. Friendship and possible matrimony.” Or what do you say to this choice offer: “Gentleman, mature but well-preserved, amusing, presentable, experienced, seeks ditto lady with private means. Offers unlimited comradeship and fun.” I can dream over the Post for hours, calling up the opulent ladies and comradely gentlemen before my mind’s eye.9

  The Girl’s Own Paper I read for its style. Here is a sample paragraph: “ ‘Crumbs, girls,’ cried Crackles Crompton, bursting into Dormitory Thirteen where her special chums Bubbles, Giggles and Foibles were washing their hair, preparatory to the great lacrosse match against their hated rival, St. Rawbones, the coming Saturday, ‘have you heard the news?’ ‘Oh go and eat coke,’ cried Giggles, lifting her ruddy head, thick with foam, from the basin, and cramming another fig-bar into her mouth, ‘your news is always about boys since Foibles’ brother Derek took you to the Natural Science Museum last hols.’ ‘Oh boys are rot,’ cried Crackles, a flush mounting from the top of her navy blue serge blouse toward her chestnut hair, ‘boys are utter, piffling, footling rot, and you know it. There isn’t a boy on earth I wouldn’t give for a really spiffing hockey stick—except Daddy, of course,’ she said and her liquid brown eyes grew even more liquid as she thought of Major Crompton, who was in Africa subduing native tribes. ‘Miss Checkrein’s stop-watch has been stolen, and until it is found the whole school is confined to the grounds.’ ”—This sort of writing still flourishes in spite of all the books and films about St. Trinian’s; the really deep things of life are impervious to satire.10

  You know, I really think that I shall have to have the law on Dandiprat.

  Yours determinedly,

  Sam.

  • TO MOUSEMAN, MOUSEMAN & FORCEMEAT •

  Dear Sirs:

  Will you, as my legal advisers, give your attention to the following matter: A neighbour of mine, one Richard Dandiprat, has caused his mangy old dog Bowser to chase a skunk into my car, which I have left in my garage during my absence. The skunk has, I gather, done its worst. I know that Dandiprat did this on purpose, and now he wants to buy the car at a ridiculous price. I want to put Dandiprat in court, and take his shirt. He is a low scoundrel, and I want to show him that I am privy to his base design. If you will begin legal proceedings I shall be home in a week or so, and then we will get after him.

  I hope that the rheumatism of the senior Mr. Mouseman is much improved.

  Yours faithfully,

  Samuel Marchbanks.

  • TO HAUBERGEON HYDRA, ESQUIRE •

  Dear Mr. Hydra:

  I have now reached Wales, from which country some of my forebears emigrated to Canada. I became conscious that I was on un-English ground at Gobowen, a Welsh junctional point where the ticket-taker thanked me in the Welsh form—“ddiolch yn fawr.” How pleasant, I thought, and how characteristic. And this made me wonder whether some distinctive form of thanks could not be devised and adopted in Canada. “Thank you” is excellent, but formal and English in effect. “Thanks a million” is excellent, but it has an American extravagance which is unbecoming in Canadian mouths. What would you think of “Thanks a hundred thousand”? It seems to me to strike the right Canadian note.11

  I direct this suggestion to you because, as Permanent Secretary to the Royal Commission on the Arts in Canada, you might be able to popularize it. If you can do so, you may take all the praise which such a happy thought will surely evoke.

  Yours self-effacingly,

  Samuel Marchbanks.

  • TO SAMUEL MARCHBANKS, ESQUIRE •

  Esteemed Sir:

  I am in receipt of your letter in which you instruct this firm, as your legal advisers, to bring action against Richard Dandiprat for having wilfully and with malice aforethought induced, instructed or compelled a skunk to commit a nuisance in your motor car.

  Immediately upon receiving your communication I dispatched my efficient and discreet secretary, or confidential clerk, Miss Prudence Bunn, to Marchbanks Towers to examine the scene of the alleged misdemeanour. Miss Bunn’s report was as follows:

  Confidential to Mr. Mouseman: “At a distance of a quarter of a mile from Marchbanks Towers the atmosphere became noticeably heavy. Asked to describe this odour in court I should use the phrase ‘burning old gym shoes.’ At one hundred yards from the Towers it was clear that a skunk, or some animal indistinguishable therefrom, had committed a nuisance. In order to carry out my instructions I was compelled to soak my handkerchief i
n eau de Cologne and hold it over my mouth and nose. Thus protected I examined the garage, but found no evidence of violence or felony. Determined not to fail in any requirement of duty, I opened the door of the car, and at once lost consciousness, collapsing head foremost into the rear seat. I regained consciousness to find that I was being sniffed in what can only be described as a searching manner by a large white dog with pink eyes—a bull terrier, I should judge. Whether this was Mr. Dandiprat’s dog Bowser I cannot say, though I have my opinion (which is not evidence). However, I can state without fear of successful contradiction, and if necessary upon oath, that a skunk or some animal indistinguishable from a skunk has been living with the utmost freedom in Mr. Marchbanks’ car and has sustained an emotional shock therein.”

  Yours faithfully,

  Prudence Bunn.

  Now, Mr. Marchbanks, we cannot advise you, as your lawyers, to prefer a charge against Richard Dandiprat without further evidence to show that it was he who put the skunk in the car. My father, Mr. Jabez Mouseman, is at present unable to attend to business, as rheumatism and great age render him incapable. However, I have consulted our other partner, Mr. Cicero Forcemeat, who does all our court business and his report is as follows:

  “Tell Mr. Marchbanks that unless we have something to pin the skunk to Dandiprat, we wouldn’t have a Chinaman’s chance in court.”

  “Chinaman’s chance,” Mr. Marchbanks, is Law Latin signifying “slight likelihood of success.”

  Yours faithfully,

  Mordecai Mouseman,

  (for Mouseman, Mouseman and Forcemeat).

  • TO AMYAS PILGARLIC, ESQUIRE •

  Dear Pil:

  I am making a short stay in Wales with my Uncle Fortunatus before coming back to Canada, and to work. You have never been to Wales, I believe? A great country, and the people have immense charm. For some reason the English seem to think of the Welsh as rascals and cheats, and this unjust notion has taken hold in Canada. Of course some Welshmen are curmudgeons, but on the whole I think they are wonderfully high-spirited. As a matter of fact, the only man in medical history who died of joy was a native of the very district where I am now staying. His name was Edward Burton, and in 1558, when Queen Elizabeth came to the throne, his own patriotism and the celebrations drove him into such a frenzy of delight that it killed him. He died while roaring with laughter, and uttering loyal yells.