Samuel Marchbanks' Almanack Page 3
A RIVAL ALMANACK / An almanac from a patent medicine company arrived in the mail this morning—a gaudy reminder of the immense tonnage of pills, the vast ocean of jalap, the heaped-up mountains of salts which are consumed by the Canadian public every year. Not that I have any prejudice against patent medicines. They are a relatively harmless indulgence and may even contribute to human well-being. It does a man good to take a few pills every day. It gives him a feeling that he is taking care of himself, and this persuades him that he is in good health—but only just. It is not advisable to feel too well. People who boast about their good health are apt to overtax it. They want to lift things which should be left on the ground; they insist upon walking when it would be much simpler to ride. Everybody should have some slight, not too obtrusive ailment, which he coddles. Nobody should be without some harmless medicine which he takes. These things enable him to husband his strength, harbour his resources, and live to a ripe old age. And, what is more, the patent medicine people, who are a good and useful social group upon the whole, must live.
LAUGHABLE NUDITY / This evening some worldly acquaintance took me to a nightclub, where I watched the floor-show with simple-minded wonder. One of the chief attractions was a blonde young woman, said to be Finnish, who danced in an Eastern costume that afforded her strategic but not complete protection. She was less graceful than supple, and when she had got her feet very dirty she showed us how she could waggle them over her shoulders. Then she turned herself into a wheel of irregular contour and rolled lumpily about the floor. Her abdomen was rubbery and less taut than many I have seen, and every time she fell on it there was an audible and rather comical Splat! which amused me greatly. However, I was frowned on for laughing. In Toronto, it appears, one may leer desirously at under-dressed girls, or gape at them with the costive expression of one who considers Nudity and Art to be synonymous terms, but one must not laugh. Which is unreasonable, considering that many people are even funnier stripped than clothed.
ILLUSION OF PROGRESS / A child showed me a comic book that sought to show how much better life is today than it was in the 18th century. It pointed out rather smugly that in those days there was no electricity, that many people could not read, and that life was somewhat inconvenient. So far as I am concerned life is still far from convenient, but pleasant for all that, and many people who can read do not seem to do so. Further, some things achieved a perfection in the 18th century which has never since been surpassed: we have never bettered their window-sashes, for instance; nor have we designed any chairs which combine beauty and comfort as theirs did; our glass and china-ware are not, on the whole, as good as theirs, nor are our textiles. In fact, in virtually every phase of architecture and industrial design, they beat the heads off us and we still copy them because we cannot do better. It is dishonest to give children the notion that we are cleverer than our ancestors in every respect. We make many things more easily than they, but not necessarily better.
AGREEMENT WITH SATAN / A lady writes to me, unreasonably angry because I have let it be known that I dwelt within myself and peeped out at the world. “I know the kind of man you are,” she writes; “you are the kind who would agree with the lines—
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.
And do you know who said that?” Yes, my dear madam, I know who said that: it was Satan, in Paradise Lost. And a remarkably intelligent and able fellow he was, too, and quite the best character Milton ever created.… But I make no such vast claims for myself; I can make a hell of heaven but the other trick is too much for me.
VICTIM OF SCIENTIFIC COMFORT / Woke feeling like a piece of pemmican; my electric blanket had dried me out during the night. Two years ago a kind friend gave me this luxury, and I owe many a snug night to it, but from time to time I curse its remorseless efficiency. If it is cold when I go to bed I push the controller on the blanket up as high as it will go, and compose myself for slumber with a smile, knowing that nothing short of a new Ice Age can harm me. But sometimes the temperature changes sharply in the night, and after dreams that I am lost in the desert, where my dromedary has dropped dead from thirst, I awaken to find that it is thawing outside, and that I am in danger of bursting into flames. I then drag myself to the bathroom, fill the tub with water, and leap into it. There is a sizzle and a suck, and all the water has disappeared, but I am back to my normal size and wetness, and feel much better. But one of these times I shall not wake, and the cinder which will comprise my mortal remains will be buried in a pillbox.
*
• CULLED FROM THE APOPHTHEGMS OF WIZARD MARCHBANKS •
Beware of an optimism founded on superficial judgements: otherwise you will dismiss Death as Nature’s bounty toward the undertaking industry.
(April 21 to May 21)
TAURUS IS the sign of the Bull and those born under it should be of a powerful physique; if this is not so in your case, you should consult your physician, or ascertain if you have not been deceived about the date of your birth. You are of a lovably violent disposition, but those who have won your confidence can lead you by the nose. You would do well to have your voice trained, for many of the most admired singers were born under this sign. You are fortunate, if not subtle, in affairs of the heart, and you have a tendency to be fickle. Women born under Taurus are of a placid and gentle disposition, massive in physique, profoundly maternal and untroubled by intellectual conflict. The digestion of Taurians of both sexes is admirable, but they should beware of diseases of the foot or the mouth, which may be serious. You are, upon the whole, earthy, and in the present state of literature you could hardly do better than to try your hand at authorship.
• ENCHANTMENT-OF-THE-MONTH •
Your lucky colours for dress and household decoration are pale blue, indigo, lemon yellow, black, dark brown and leaden gray. I know that this is terrible, but you can’t be lucky and becomingly dressed at the same time, so you had better make your choice. Your flowers are not much better; they are the trailing arbutus, the violet, hyacinth, daisy, cowslip and jonquil. Your stones are the moonstone, the opal, beryl, carnelian, sapphire and chrysolite. If you insist upon being lucky, I suggest that you adopt some profession which permits you to do your work entirely naked; failing that, you might confine your lucky colours to your undergarments, and do the best you can without flowers. Of your lucky stones the sapphire is unquestionably the luckiest, and if you achieve a good one, you will be so lucky that you might tempt fate in the matter of colour.
• HEALTH HINTS FOR THOSE BORN UNDER TAURUS •
You are very strong, except for possible weakness of the throat. You can minimize this danger by keeping your mouth shut. Because of the Bull strain in your astrological makeup, nobody will take it amiss if you breathe somewhat forcibly through your nose; it may even be taken for a sign of strong character. Male Taurians are advised to wear high collars, preferably starched: female Taurians should lay in a supply of scarves and fur neckpieces. Your lucky fur is mink, but do not for this reason refuse even luckier furs, such as sable.
*
• MEDITATIONS AT RANDOM •
DR. SHAKESPEARE / Received a curious pamphlet from a doctor in West Virginia; it was a reprint of a speech he made before the Section on Diseases of the Chest at the 99th Session of the American Medical Association in 1950, and is called “Shakespeare’s Knowledge of Chest Diseases.” In this strange work the good physician proves that Shakespeare knew that people had lungs, because he mentions them nineteen times. He also knew that there was such a thing as consumption and asthma, and one of his heroines (Beatrice in Much Ado About Nothing) suffers from a cold in the head, so we must assume that Shakespeare knew that there was such a disease as a cold. All this seems to amaze the West Virginian doctor, and suggests to him that Shakespeare was a pretty smart fellow. But I can take this information calmly. Though I am no Shakespeare, I have long been acquainted with all these facts myself. People who are not poets are
often astonished to find that poets know anything at all; they seem to think that poets are born stupid, and get worse as they grow older. But I have long recognized the fact that true poets are among the very few sane people in a mad world.
A FORGOTTEN COMPOSER / Looking through a song-book in a friend’s house today I came upon a ballad which was a great favourite with contraltos in my childhood; it was Three Fishers by John Pyke Hullah, with words by the Rev. Charles Kingsley. The moaning of the harbour bar in the song was trifling compared with the moaning of the large, hollow-voiced women who sang it at church concerts and “musical evenings.” Hullah was an odd man, who thought that he could devise an easier way of putting music on paper than the usual system of notes. He also composed an opera for which Charles Dickens wrote the libretto, a work which seems to have disappeared completely. That would be a curiosity, indeed, if it could be found. Hullah was the composer of O That We Two Were Maying, another favourite of my childhood, usually sung as a duet by a slate-pencil soprano and a fog-horn contralto; the audience always concurred heartily in their wish to be elsewhere.
VICTIM OF THE WEED / I was in conversation with a merry fellow who knew many odd scraps of history and told me that William McKinley, 25th President of the USA, died of a tobacco heart. “Surely he was assassinated by the anarchist, Leon Czolgosz?” said I. “Czolgosz shot him,” said he, “but McKinley lingered for some time, and when he died several papers of strong moral tendency said that if his heart had not been weakened by tobacco smoking, he would have pulled through. I was alive then, and I recall it well; you can’t imagine how powerful the anti-tobacco faction was in 1901.” He also told me that the name of the killer was pronounced Cholguss, and many wits at the time said he had been driven to madness, and his rash act, by a lifetime of hearing it mispronounced.
*
• FROM MY ARCHIVES •
To Samuel Marchbanks, ESQ.
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 Samuel Marchbanks, ESQ.
Dear Mr. Marchbanks:
It occurs to me that now that you are in London you might look up some relatives of mine, the Mawworms. I have never met them myself, but in 1856 a half-sister of my grandmother, a Miss Eulalia Hawser, married Edmund Mawworm, who was considered to be a great catch. Since my family came to Canada, in 1888, the Hawsers and the Mawworms have rather lost touch, and I am anxious to renew the connection. I have a pair of gentlemen’s military brushes, upon the backs of which the Mawworm crest is engraved; unfortunately the bristles are quite worn away.
You will be able to find their address easily, I am sure, as they used to be very well-known people, and had a large house somewhere in London, or quite near. Do call on them and suggest that I would be most happy to write. I am sure they will be interested.
Yours expectantly,
Minerva Hawser.
P.S. All the Mawworms have dark hair and I believe one of them is titled. If you find them will you cable their address to me at once.
M.H.
*
To Amyas Pilgarlic, ESQ.
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, 28, who has lost one leg, seeks congenial gentleman friend with similar handicap. 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.
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.
You know, I really think that I shall have to have the law on Dandiprat.
Yours determinedly,
Sam.
*
To Mouseman, Mouseman and 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, ESQ.
Dear Mr. Hydra:
I have now reached Wales, from which country some of my forbears 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.
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, ESQ.
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 the odour in court I should use the phrase “burning old gym shoes.” At 100 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 in 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.