Another tract in this bunch—there were seven altogether—is called My Experience With The Tobacco Habit. It begins with this information: “I was a slave to tobacco for twenty years; Mother and Father used tobacco and I had the poison in my blood; Mother found me with her snuff box, when I was about eight years old.” Later he says that he would pick up used quids of chewing tobacco from the street and chew them.
The last woman I know of who took snuff was my great-grandmother, who was born in 1800 and who lived to be 87; she did not chew it; she sniffed it. As for chewing tobacco, the habit has completely vanished from all settlements where civilization has a firm hold. Obviously this tract was written not less than sixty years ago.
Is no strong, new generation of tract-writers coming up to continue the work? Or will this remarkable literary form continue to rely on its past glories? Here is a meaty subject for research, Fribble.
Your admirer and crony,
S. Marchbanks.
*
• A GARLAND OF MUSINGS •
PRECOCITY AT CARDS / Became involved in a game of Old Maid this afternoon, at the house of a friend who had preserved a wonderful set of cards, designed in the days of the Comic Valentine, and in the same convention of drawing. The characters were superb. Grocer Smallpound was there, and Harry Holdwire (who was talking on a telephone of the early, wall-instrument type). Fred Freversmoke wore a high collar and a derby hat, and was right out of the period when the smoking of cigarettes was a sign of a dashing character. Arthur Argumuch was obviously a lawyer, and Flossie Flirtsome carried me back to a day when a generalized amplitude of figure was a mark of beauty. Nora Newtogs was dressed in the height of fashion, probably by Miss Botchie Misfit, a dressmaker whose teeth, rather surprisingly, were marked “False” in large clear letters. Some children were playing, and I was astonished at their precocious gift for cards. One of them had so accurately memorized the creases and distinctive marks in the back of the Old Maid card that she was always able to avoid drawing it. That child will go far, but I hate to think where.
THE CURSE STRIKES / Awoke unable to move, for I had fallen victim to the Curse of the Marchbanks, which is Lumbago; it runs in our family as haemophilia runs among the Bourbons. My grandfather, who was a deeply religious man and a great student of Holy Writ, identified it as the third claw of the Beast described in Revelation. After much moaning, snorting and shrieking, and with the aid of three completely new oaths which came to me in flashes of inspiration, I rolled from my couch and huddled on my clothes. One of my legs appeared to have shortened by six inches, and my axis was eighteen degrees out of plumb, but I could walk, after a fashion, and in this pitiable state I went about my day’s work. To some I was an object of sly mockery; to others my condition was a matter for a deep and unnecessary concern, for Lumbago never killed anybody, though it has sometimes driven its victims to acts of violence. It is a treacherous and feline ill, for at times it seems to abate, and then returns with renewed malignity. Asked by a friend to describe it, I racked my brains, and then said that it felt like being stabbed in the small of the back with an old-fashioned carpet-stretcher.
… AND CONTINUES / The trouble with Lumbago (or, to be more accurate, one of the contributory troubles) is that it rouses incredulity in people. “You’ve never got Lumbago!” they say, just after you have told them precisely that. Then they either laugh, which is cruel, or put on an expression that conveys their thought that you are prematurely old, which is worse. But anybody can get Lumbago, if they go about it the right way. A baby in its cradle could have it, if it was in a draught, or a bit damp, which a baby may so easily be. Lumbago, like toothache, is one of the ailments that mankind refuses to take seriously in other people.… My worst moment today was when I tried to carry a large parcel through a revolving door; to do this, with Lumbago, is to experience every degree of alarm, confusion, sudden pain and gross indignity.
DELUSIONS OF AMIABILITY / Attended a reunion at my old school, and met a lot of fellows I had not seen for a quarter of a century. I was astonished at the ravages which time had inflicted upon them in body, but even more by the tricks it had played with their memories. It was not a teetotal affair, and as the evening wore on dozens of them suffered acutely from Delusions of Amiability; that is to say, they remembered that I had been on much more intimate terms with them in the past than was ever really the case. I am cursed with a memory like an elephant, and I am particularly certain that I know who have been my friends and who—to put it mildly—have not; no amount of the genial juice of the grain can disturb my accuracy in such matters. Some of them obviously thought I was somebody else, some very dear old friend whom they had loved as a brother; others knew who I was, but had forgotten that I was a cantankerous and mocking wretch; some had lost all grasp of reality, and were not sure who they were themselves, but knew that they had only one true friend, and he was Marchbanks. A fascinating, revealing, uproarious evening, any way I choose to think about it.
*
• COMMUNIQUÉ (left by an Indian Runner) •
To Big Chief Marchbanks.
How, Marchbanks!
In Ottawa now, Marchbanks. Got business with government. I see by papers some Quebec Indian want government to give freedom back to Indians. No good. Indians got too much sense. Who wants to be free and work for government, anyway? Every place I look here I see sad face. Glasses. Bald spots. Government no job for happy man.
Indian here I used to know on reserve. He get ambition. Go to school. Everybody say smart Indian, give him chance. He work. And work. Now he got place in Government. Work like devil. Got black hat. Got briefcase for carry sandwiches. On reserve his name Joe Halfwit. Now he called Mr. J. Frontal Lobotomy. Sad sight, Marchbanks.
How again!
Osceola Thunderbelly,
Chief of the Crokinoles.
*
• CULLED FROM THE APOPHTHEGMS OF WIZARD MARCHBANKS •
Be discreet in your loyalties, or your dwelling will not only be the home of lost causes, but the refuge of impossible people.
(June 22 to July 23)
CANCER IS the sign of the Crab, and you who are born under it are remarkable for your tenacity, and also for an acerbity of disposition which makes you particularly successful as critics of the arts. Your weakness is for liquids and unless you impose some discipline upon yourself you may find that you are drinking like a Pisces. In argument you who are born under this sign are extremely hard to budge, holding to a point long after others have wearied of it. Beware that this characteristic does not spread to other realms of your life, and particularly your ventures into wit, as it will serve you ill. Beware of retiring from life into your shell.
• ENCHANTMENT-OF-THE-MONTH •
Your planetary colours I am sorry to say, are violet, pale yellow, pale green, silver and white. Your flowers are the moonflower, and the wallflower. Your gems are moonstone, crystal, opal and any stone which is dull white or pale green. It is useless to protest; these matters were settled by astrologers hundreds of year ago, and Wizard Marchbanks accepts no responsibility for them. If these colours do not go with your complexion, blame your parents; it is axiomatic nowadays that your parents are to blame for everything that is wrong with you, anyhow. But my advice to you is that you look intently into your own soul and see whether or not the stars are right about you. Perhaps, contrary to your personal belief, you really are a palely fascinating creature. Ask your friends to give you their frank opinion. There is a bleak satisfaction to be achieved by reconciling ourselves to the inevitable.
• HEALTH HINTS FOR THOSE BORN UNDER CANCER •
Astrologers agree that you are apt to suffer from gastric disorders, and that you ought to drink sparingly, if at all. Bad news, for if you are typical of those born under your sign you are interested in the pleasures of the table and inclined to be a gourmet and a connoisseur of wines. Wizard Marchbanks urges you, of all people, to pay special heed to the counsel given under your Enchantment-of-the-Month; yo
ur role, in romance as in life, is that of the passive person, the acted-upon rather than the actor, the Desired One rather than the Pursuer. If you feel inclined to rebel against this fate, give it least one good try. Slip on that filmy negligee in shades of violet and green; tuck that large moonstone into your navel in such a way that it traps the light from your boudoir candles; lie down on a white sofa and sniff a few wallflowers. Sip a glass of milk. Now, with every planetary influence auspicious, you may find that Mr. Right will steal upon you unawares, or that some hearty, protective girl with a good job may beg you to be her mate.
*
• MEDITATIONS AT RANDOM •
AN ALIEN WORLD / Sometimes I have the sensation of one who has survived from an earlier age into a strange and uncanny era. Rode down town today with a lady whose small child was in the back seat. Suddenly the moppet set up a great hullabaloo, and cried “Look! Look!” (In cold fact it cried “Yook! Yook!” but I have no intention of falling into baby talk.) What had excited it so much was the appearance of a horse—an ordinary draught-horse—on the street. Horses were as strange to that child as elephants. Its mother told me that the child was being taken to see—a camelopard? a unicorn? a hippogriff?—no, none of these things, but a Jersey cow which has become a celebrity, and travels around to collect money for charity. What kind of a world do I inhabit, in which horses and cows are exotic rarities, and the combustion engine, that uncanny and devilish device, is taken for granted by the smallest child? I do not greatly like animals, but I like to see them about, for I am an animal myself; the horse is my brother and the cow my sister. But by the Beard of the Prophet, the combustion engine is no relative of mine, and a world where it is supreme will not tolerate me for long.
THE ENEMY WITHIN / Agreed with a man with whom I fell into conversation that it is, upon the whole, a bad thing to keep your temper at all times. Psychologists talk a good deal nowadays about something which they call “repressed hostility,” but which an old psychologist who used to do washing for my mother called “bottled-up mad.” She had a great deal of mad herself, which she rarely troubled to bottle, but when she did make the effort the vile substance could be seen mounting inside her, like mercury in a thermometer. It was said of Mary, Queen of Scots, that when she drank wine it could be seen bubbling down her lovely, transparent throat, like suds in a sink; the washerwoman’s mad worked the other way, rising from her bosom, up her neck, and rushing to the top of her head. Then she would unbottle some of it, at the top of her voice. But my friend and I decided that repressed hostility created tension, which led to ugly illnesses. It is better to beat your wife, or strike your little ones with a chair, than run such a risk. Bottled-up mad is probably at the root of many of the world’s baffling diseases.
NO NO / Was talking to a man today who spent a good deal of time in Madagascar during the war. He tells me that the Malagasy language spoken there contains no word for “no” and none for “virginity,” which may be regarded as a natural consequence. When a native of Madagascar wishes to express dissent or denial, he grins, trembles and shakes his head, which is of course a very unsatisfactory way of resisting anything. He learned this curious fact while seeking eggs to be devoured by his regiment. “Atoordi?” he would shout at any likely-looking native, and after a time he discovered that their embarrassed contortions meant that they had no eggs to sell. Eggs, he told me, are of great importance to an army, which quickly wearies of canned food and army meat. I had not realized that soldiers were interested in eggs, but a little reflection showed me how imperceptive I had been. Without eggs, the range of possible foods is reduced by at least one-third.
THE WEAKER SEX / Read an article in a woman’s magazine today called How to Keep Your Husband From Dying of Heart Failure. It was a sensible, well-written piece, pointing out that women are far less prone to heart injuries than men, and that women therefore should take on any heavy physical work that has to be done around a house, such as moving the furnace from one side of the cellar to another, or putting the car up on blocks for the winter. It included many anecdotes of poor, overdriven men who had been literally pushed into the Great Void by women who were afraid of such trifling tasks as carrying barrels of apples upstairs, or changing a tire on a truck. This strengthens a belief which I have long cherished, that in a few centuries women will be the larger, stronger sex, admired for their biceps and superfluous hair, and that men will be their toys and domestic comforters, exciting tenderness in the female breast by their small feet, pretty soft hands, and general helplessness. I do not think I have a heart, for I have never been able to locate my pulse, or any other symptom of a circulatory system, but I am willing to share any of the benefits of male delicacy.
*
• FROM MY CORRESPONDENCE •
To Amyas Pilgarlic, ESQ.
Dear Pil:
I was at a concert a few nights ago where a young woman sang Annie Laurie very well. I could not help wondering what impression she would have made on her hearers if she had sung the original version of the song. You know that it is always attributed to Lady Scott, who describes Annie thus:
Her brow is like the snaw-drift,
Her neck is like the swan;
Her cheeks they are the fairest
That e’er the sun shone on;
That e’er the sun shone on,
And dark blue is her ee …
And for this pleasing and rather delicate young party the singer declares himself ready to lay him doon and dee, which is an extreme measure, even for a Scotchman.
But I discovered quite recently that Lady Scott merely tidied up and watered down the poem of Annie Laurie. The original was written by William Douglas of Fingland in 1680, and he describes Annie in these words:
She’s backit like a peacock,
She’s breastit like the swan,
She’s jimp aboot the middle,
Her waist ye weel micht span;
Her waist ye weel micht span,
And she hath a rolling ee …
This is a very different girl, and one much more to my personal taste. This earlier and more interesting Annie might be glad to know that her lover would lay him doon and dee for her if need be, but a girl with a rolling ee can usually think of better ways of passing the time.
I am all for reviving the earlier Annie.
Yours,
Sam.
*
To Haubergeon Hydra, ESQ.
Dear Mr. Hydra:
I observe with interest that the government has signified its approval of a Union of the Unemployed, which will take care of the interests of unemployed persons and do its best to assure them of a square deal. May I entreat you, as Deputy Co-ordinator of Millenial Projects, to use what influence you have to carry this a step forward, and gain approval also for a Union of the Unemployable, which I am now organizing.
It is not generally realized by capitalists and even by labour unions that there are great numbers of people who are really unsuited for work of any kind. There is nothing reprehensible in this. The same Providence which makes one man a genius makes another a stumblebum. To lay any responsibility upon the man himself is out of key with all modern thought on such matters. But it is obvious that Society—meaning those who are happily in a position to pay taxes—has a duty to the unemployable, a duty which goes far beyond the provision of workhouses. For the unemployable are by no means deficient in ability; they are all good at attending meetings, and many of them are surprisingly eloquent. If their condition were ameliorated—that is to say, if they could be assured of the fruits of labour without any necessity to perform the labour—our country would be tapping an entirely new and untried source of intellectual energy.
Under an aristocratic system of government countries supported a class which did no work and probably could not work, and that class in turn fostered the arts and sciences and brought great credit upon their native lands. A Union of the Unemployable would, in the course of time, probably do the same. The time is ripe for th
is daring advance in social legislation, and Canada can be first in the field. The taxpayers will howl, of course, but they are a chronically disgruntled lot, and may safely be disregarded.
Yours in hope of a favourable reply,
Samuel Marchbanks.
*
To Chandos Fribble, ESQ.
Dear Fribble:
It is already rather late in the year to be thinking about the summer tourist business, and such reflection immediately turns my mind toward monsters. Canada, I assert, is wretchedly under-monstered. Tourists come up here to see what? Architecture? Ha, ha! Large objects, such as cities, buildings or slum areas? They have them much bigger at home. Natural beauties? They will quickly tell you that they live in the most beautiful country in the world. No, Fribble, they come here to see strange and improbable things, and not, as is sometimes said, to enjoy the voluptuous idleness of our Canadian Way of Life.
Some parts of Canada have awakened to this fact, and have taken the proper measures. British Columbia has two splendid monsters—“Caddy” the sea-serpent, and the “Ogopogo” which is to be seen in the Okanagan Lake. Saskatchewan has a half-alligator, half-calf. In Manitoba there is a moose so large that it crosses lakes by walking along the bottom.
In this type of tourist enterprise our part of Canada is laggard. Tourists coming here are habitually underwhelmed, and if we hope to overwhelm them we must have some monsters at once. We need a genuine, eye-filling monster and it must be clearly recognizable as such, so there is no use sending me a list of names of politicians, none of whom look nearly as monstrous as they are.
Samuel Marchbanks' Almanack Page 8