With warm good wishes,
Sam.
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To Samuel Marchbanks, ESQ.
Dear Mr. Marchbanks:
As you are in Edinburgh I know you will not mind doing a favour for an old friend and well-wisher. My family, as you know, is Scottish and I have long wanted to honour the land of my forbears in some striking fashion. Will you buy, therefore, sixteen or eighteen yards of material in the Hawser Tartan—the Dress Hawser, not the Hunting Hawser—and bring it back to me when you come. You might as well see it through the Customs, to avoid any trouble. I shall then cause an evening dress to be made from it, which I shall wear on any occasion which seems to warrant such a display. I hope you enjoy your stay in “the land o’ cakes.”
Lang may your lum reek!
Minerva Hawser.
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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?
Long may your blood boil,
Samuel Marchbanks.
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To Samuel Marchbanks, ESQ.
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.
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To Mrs. Kedijah Scissorbill.
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 20 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 sixpence 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.
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To Samuel Marchbanks, ESQ.
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 45 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.
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To Miss Minerva Hawser.
Dear Miss Hawser:
Really I cannot get the 18 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 they 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.
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To Amyas Pilgarlic, ESQ.
Dear Pil:
I am having a wonderful time in Edinburgh. There is a kindly spirit here which is beyond the professional kindliness of tourist bureaux; it is entirely genuine and unselfish. The Festival is the great thing at present, of course. There are a good many young people about, as well as the usual congregation of the lame, the halt and the blind that artistic gatherings always attract. There are plenty of Scots wearing the kilt, and last night I saw some of them dance a strathspey most attractively, and then follow it up with a dance called “Prince Charles of Edinburgh.” I suggested that he was Prince of Wales, and attracted some darkling Highland glances. The Scots nationalists tend to wear beards as a sort of trademark, and from time to time I am mistaken for one of their number. There are all sorts of things here which would engage your scholarly attention: for instance, a learned Scot showed me a volume of poems by Burns which have not previously been collected, as they were deemed to be of too frank a nature to appear in print. Mild stuff, really, in the lurid light of modern literature but the Scots have a low threshold of outrage. And you would be delighted by the magnificent stone-masonry one sees everywhere, and by the high quality of commercial sign-writing even on the most ordinary shops. I saw one yesterday bearing the name of “Madam Doubt-fire”; charming, don’t you think? And I have seen a tram which claimed it went to Joppa. Surely odder even than a Streetcar named Desire?
Yours,
Sam.
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To Samuel Marchbanks, ESQ.
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.
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To Richard Dandiprat, ESQ.
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. The acquisition of the right accent for such a remark is far beyond your feeble powers so no more from
Yours regretfully,
S. Marchbanks.
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To Amyas Pilgarlic, ESQ.
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. I grew bored with sitting still and felt like the Hermit in the legend. You know it? It seems that there dwelt in the desert a certain Hermit whose goodness and austerity were so great that news of him reached the ears of the Patriarch of Jerusalem. So the Patriarch sent for the Hermit, who bestrode a mule and rode without stopping for 40 days and 40 nights. At last he was in the presence of the Patriarch, who considerately bade him to take a seat. “Nay,” said the Hermit, “of sitting, as of all earthly pleasures, there cometh at length satiety.”
Meals in English trains are perhaps a little worse than they used to be. That brown sou
p 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—Clink-scales. Now if I wrote a book in which anyone was called Clink-scales 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.
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To Samuel Mockbanks, ESQ.
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).
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To Haubergeon Hydra, ESQ.
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 are 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.
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To Miss Minerva Hawser.
Dear Miss Hawser:
Yes, I quite understand your passion for relics of eminent persons. But I assure you, dear lady, that it is not easy for me to procure for you anything which would be, as you phrase it in your letter to me “a link with past greatness, and an inspiration to great achievement.” 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; no doubt you read that he was hanged on August 10, 1949, for murdering no less than nine ladies 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 those 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.
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To Haubergeon Hydra, ESQ.
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.
A brand of cider which I particularly like is sold here under the brand name of “Woodpecker.” I think this must be because the explosion of the bubbles in the throat and stomach of the drinker is exactly as though some jolly woodpecker had crept in there and was pecking happily away, right, left and centre.
Yours merrily,
Samuel Marchbanks.
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To Samuel Marblinks, ESQ.
Dear Mrs. Matblanks:
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, the apple 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.
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To Mrs. Kedijah Scissorbill.
Dear Mrs. Scissorbill:
As you wished it, I visited the National Portrait Gallery and verified your suspicion that it contains no portrait of the Canadian heroine, Laura Secord. I made enquiries about this and was told by a person in authority that only portraits of eminent persons who have lived in the British Isles were sought for the Gallery; obviously this is a mere excuse. The truth is, the British are jealous of Laura Secord, and want to belittle her.
I feel that while I am on this subject I should tell you of an ugly rumour I heard yesterday from a fellow-Canadian; he said that the famous portrait of Laura Secord was really a picture of an early and obscure premier of Ontario, upon whom a bonnet had been painted. You had better take this up with your women’s club, and kill the rumour before it runs across Canada like wildfire, destroying the national pride of little children.
Yours agitatedly,
S. Marchbanks.
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To. Raymond Cataplasm, M.D., F.R.C.P.
Dear Dr. Cataplasm:
Do you want to make a fortune? Convince the Canadian people that they need another meal. Already Canadians are addicts of the English custom of morning coffee: convince them that they need afternoon tea and you will be hailed as a medical genius equal with Dr. Abernethy (who invented a biscuit) and Dr. Graham (who invented a new kind of bread).
Canada has a vast sweet tooth. Think of the oceans of pop, the glaciers of ice-cream, the deluges of milk-shakes, and the tons of chocolates that we descendants of the hardy pioneers consume every year. You have but to persuade the Canadians that they need a meal consisting of rich pastries every afternoon at four, and your reputation is made! Tell them that their efficiency sags at four, and that they need food to stave off heart failure, and the rest will be easy. The road to a nation’s pocket-book is through its stomach; don’t tell anybody else.
I offer this suggestion quite without strings: of course, if you choose to knock anything off my next bill, that is entirely your affair.
Your perennial patient,
S. Marchbanks.
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To Haubergeon Hydra, ESQ.
Dear Hydra:
As a civil servant you are undoubtedly interested in new categories of human beings, so I write to tell you of one which came my way yesterday, when I stopped for a drink at the Hop Pole Inn, in Tewkesbury, with my uncle Fortunatus. We had been travelling, as had another man who entered the bar just before us: he wandered disconsolately to the far end of the room, and shortly returned looking more woeful than before. “Gents?” said Uncle Fortunatus, helpfully: “No, only Ladies and Telephones,” said the man, and disappeared toward the street.
Yours,
Samuel Marchbanks.
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To Mrs. Morrigan.
My very dear Mrs. Morrigan:
Knowing how fond you have always been of gypsies, I write to tell you that yesterday I saw a tribe of them converging on the ancient and beautiful Shropshire town of Ludlow. As I drove along the road from Wales to Ludlow I passed t
en gypsy caravans—surely the most romantic dwellings in the world, shining with brass ornaments, and gay with shawls, quilts and bits of tinsel. Every caravan horse was led by a man, usually an old rascal, but sometimes a handsome, black-eyed lad: in front of the van would be a young woman, nursing a baby; in the back of the van other children tumbled, dirty, fat and lively. The women were all either young beauties or old hags: are there no middle-aged women among gypsies? And how the beauty of a gypsy woman surpasses that of the simpering lollipops of the films! How wondrously they dress, and how they make even their very dirt become them!
A few days ago I was passing through the Welsh hamlet of Penegoes, where Richard Wilson was born. A group of gypsy children were playing around a fire there, outside a queer tent made of skins, and obviously half as old as time. How Wilson could have painted them! Do you suppose that he would have agreed with Augustus John that, “it is always worth half-a-crown to have a good look at a gypsy—front or back view”? I accepted the invitation of a gypsy girl to touch her baby for luck. One shilling. Cheap at double the money.
Your humble servant,
Samuel Marchbanks.
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To the Rev. Simon Goaste, B.D.
Dear Mr. Goaste:
I am sorry to hear that your thrombosis has been at you again. You should come to North Wales. There is no thrombosis here—at least, not under that name. There is a similar affliction, but it moves in three stages. The first of these, usually marked by a coma lasting a few hours, is called a “warning.” The next, which usually involves partial paralysis, is called a “seizure.” The final stage of the ailment is called a “stroke.” I was looking at my great-grandfather’s grave the other day, and the message on the headstone was: “Behold I shall take away the desire of thine eyes with a stroke.” And that is precisely how my great-grandfather died.
But the usual age for demise here is in the 90’s. It is an uncommonly healthy part of the world. The mountain air, I suppose.
Your obedient parishioner,
S. Marchbanks.
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• FROM MY NOTEBOOKS •
Samuel Marchbanks' Almanack Page 2