Samuel Marchbanks' Almanack
Yours nosily,
Samuel Marchbanks.
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To Amyas Pilgarlic, ESQ.
Dear Pil:
Last week I was bidden to a graduation banquet where a large number of students—after consuming the tomato soup, green peas and deliquescent ice cream which are obligatory at such orgies—listened to speeches of good advice from their elders, and made a few speeches themselves.
What particularly impressed me was that the elders who spoke all assured the young people that they were going out into a World of Chaos, and the young people all agreed with them.
This moved me to ponder that I was born into a world of chaos—the chaos of the moment being the First World War. My childhood was passed amidst the chaos of the Post War World, and then came the chaos of the Depression; this, in time, gave way to the chaos of the Second World War, and now I wallow in the chaos of the Atomic Age. This is a pretty good record for one life—chaos every minute.
In spite of all this chaos, however, most people seem to lead humdrum lives, and badly want livening up. Do you think we should organize a Chaos-of-the-Month Club, guaranteeing to supply all members with something really unnerving every thirty days? For I greatly fear that most of those students, rushing eagerly out into a world of chaos, are going to find that their particular part of it quickly becomes a deadly routine.
Yours for more varied chaos,
Sam.
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To Waghorn Wittol, ESQ.
Esteemed Wittol:
You write to ask me if I think that the smoking of a pipe would help you to bear your troubles more easily. You refer, I gather, to the unaccountable absences and occasional eccentricities of Mrs. Wittol. You mention the fact that Dr. Albert Einstein, in accepting a life membership in the Montreal Pipe Smokers Club said: “Pipe smoking contributes to a somewhat calm and objective judgement in all human affairs.” Far be it from me to contradict such a man, but I feel that I should warn you that pipe smoking brings its own troubles.
Of course, if you buy one pipe and smoke it until it threatens to asphyxiate you, using any kind of tobacco you can get cheap, you may have no difficulty. But if you aspire to be a gentleman pipe-smoker you are in for a rough time. You will be overwhelmed with advice from pipe-smoking friends about kinds of tobacco, how to stuff your pipe, how and when to clean it, and how to knock the ashes out of it. You will learn to be anxious about the “cake” inside the bowl, which must be kept precisely one-sixteenth of an inch thick—no more and no less. You will worry about making each pipeful burn evenly, and you will agonize if your bowl grows hot. You will find that you cannot talk when smoking, and that you cannot think about anything except your pipe. You will lust after pipes which are beyond your means, and you will despise people who smoke cheap pipes and ordinary tobacco. You will, in short, be about as calm and objective as a whirling dervish.
I smoke a pipe myself—a dirty little affair made, I think, of pitch-pine. I tried to be a gentleman smoker but it was beyond me. Why don’t you take snuff, which is much easier and will make your eyes water so much that you won’t notice what Mrs. Wittol is up to.
Yours without prejudice,
S. Marchbanks.
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To Chandos Fribble, ESQ.
My good Fribble:
You are a man of enquiring mind, and a psychologist of note. Can you explain the lamentable decline in the art of face-making among modern Canadian children? You will recall that when we were boys the making of faces was taken seriously; children devoted hours to the evolution of new and horrifying faces, and a certain distinction attached to the boy or girl who led his circle in this respect.
The child of today seems utterly dead to the delights of masterly mugging. Now and again they stick out their tongues in a lackadaisical fashion, but not far. I remember the days when tongues were tongues, and nothing under four inches of exposure was considered respectable. Gifted children could turn the tongue upward, touching the tip of the nose, and exposing the fraenulum, or blue string, which is one of the tongue’s special features. Dragging down the under lids of the eyes was carefully cultivated, so as to expose the maximum of wet red flesh beneath the eyeball. The nostrils were drawn upward with the fingers. The ears were violently wiggled. The combinations of these basic distortions were many and, in capable hands, produced brilliant effects. But all of this glory is departed. Why is it so, Fribble? Has some of the elasticity gone from youth?
Yours reflectively,
S. Marchbanks.
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To Mrs. Kedijah Scissorbill.
Dear Mrs. Scissorbill:
It is useless to reproach me because I have publicly confessed that I am a regular reader of the comic strips. I have read them ever since I could read anything, and I am not likely to change now. Your concern about comics arises, I think, from the fact that you do not understand them. They are not as great an influence on the lives of their readers as you think. For instance, I read every day certain adventure strips, not because I like the characters but because I detest them. I sneer cruelly at their dreadful predicaments, their dangerous, overstrained lives, and at the tawdry charms of their women. I hope, in an idle sort of way, that they will at last get themselves into a fix so desperate that they will never escape. It troubles me not at all that they never do so.
There are certain strips, on the other hand, which are social comment. By reading them I can find out what millons of my fellow creatures believe and what they think.
And finally there are a few strips of great strength, of imagination, or of whimsical charm. I read them quite simply because I like them.
You may say that I might devote the ten minutes a day I give to the twenty comics I read to some better purpose. I reply that I doubt it. Hoping that the strain of policing your fellow citizens is not proving too much for you, I am
Yours unregenerately,
Samuel Marchbanks.
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To Samuel Marchbanks, ESQ.
Esteemed Sir:
The costs of pursuing your case against Richard Dandiprat, Esq., are mounting. As you know, there are many charges involved in legal proceedings apart from the charge brought in court. (Ha, ha: a legal jest, Mr. Marchbanks, and a great favourite with Mr. Mouseman, senior; pardon me for bringing it up but I could not help myself.) There is the cost, for instance, of having all the relevant documents copied in octuplicate. You may say that there were no relevant documents in your case, but you would be wrong; we have created several. That is part of the service a lawyer offers his client. And there are carrying charges, as well; these are the fees required to induce your lawyer to carry your case in his head; these are utterly indispensable. And there are incidental charges; for instance during the typing of some documents related to your case a typewriter ribbon frayed away to a juiceless shoe-string; there was nothing to be done but to replace it, the first time this has been necessary since the purchase of the machine in 1907.
We never plague our clients for money, but we suggest to you that we do not live upon air, though we have been known to live upon heirs. (I crave forgiveness, sir; another pleasantry of the elder Mr. Mouseman; it slipped out, somehow.) A little something to be going on with would be a lovely midsummer surprise for
Yours faithfully,
Mordecai Mouseman
(for Mouseman, Mouseman and Forcemeat).
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• FROM MY NOTEBOOKS •
OIL ODDITY / Had the pleasure today of viewing a beautiful indoor garden, owned by some very wealthy people, and marvelled foolishly because there were no weeds in it. Indeed, the earth had been topped with some black, velvety substance to set off the flowers which grew there. But what really made my eyes pop was a collection of ferns and decorative plants, the leaves of which had been lightly oiled in order to make them shine! This is gardening on a level undreamed of at Marchbanks Towers, where the only thing I ever oil is the head gardener (myself) when half an hour’s unbroken work has sapped his vital
ity. I apply a special oil inwardly. However, I am thinking of trying this treatment on my aspidistra, using what remains in a bottle of oil left at the Towers by a constipated visitor.
LAST ENCHANTMENTS OF THE MIDDLE AGE / To the movies, to see Ivanhoe, and enjoyed it thoroughly. It departs a good deal from the novel, but I am not one to complain of that, for Scott always put enough plot in a single book to last Hollywood for a year. Athelstane of Conningsburgh was cut out entirely, but I did not miss him; King Richard was trimmed to a mere sliver, but what remained was satisfactorily Lion-Hearted. The only change I deplored was in the death of Brian de Bois Guilbert; in the film he and Ivanhoe fought to the death with a Boppeur de la Tete (a chain with a spiky ball on the end) and a Hacqueur du Corps (a fire axe); my studies in mediaeval armoury enabled me to recognize these at once. But in the book Brian died in the most dramatic way possible; he simply exploded, a victim of the contending passions of love and hate, and died one of the most interesting psychological deaths in all literature. George Sanders is an excellent actor, with a vast repertory of sneers and leers, and he could have given us the biggest death-scene since Jumbo was hit by a train at St. Thomas. But Hollywood still fears these subtleties, and the final battle reminded me of one of my enraged assaults upon the furnace at the Towers.
IGNORAMUS / To my dentist, and as I sit in his chair I look through a large window toward the spire of a church which is surmounted by a cross. This reminded me of the inscription on Strindberg’s tomb—Ave Crux Spes Unica. I know what this means, but it is hard to put it into English. “Hail Cross, You Unique Thing” does not sound right and “Hail the Cross, It’s The Only Thing” sounds like an advertisement for a patent medicine. But puzzling over this matter slightly distracted my mind while the dentist moved a small machine shop into my mouth and arranged things to suit his taste. Why such an old snorter as Strindberg chose such a pious inscription I cannot guess.…
Realized later, when the pain was going out of my jaw, that of course it meant “Hail, Cross, our sole Hope.” It is translation of this quality that made me the despair of many a Latin teacher. I am an impetuous, rather than a pedantic, translator.
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• COMMUNIQUÉ (wrapped ’round a stone and thrown through my window) •
To Big Chief Marchbanks.
How, Marchbanks:
I lucky Indian, Marchbanks. Why? I tell. Last week Chief Fishbone-in-Throat die. Young man, Marchbanks. Only 102. Once I nearly marry his daughter, Princess Blocked Drain. Now Fishbone dead, Ottawa want succession duties. They take wigwam, take wampum, take truss off corpse. Bury Fishbone all busted. Now Blocked Drain poor woman. Owe Ottawa money. She offer Ottawa corpse of Fishbone but Ottawa refused because of rupture. Only want fancy corpse. I lucky Indian, Marchbanks. If I married Blocked Drain might have to work too, now. Instead I got job on roads. Wave red flag. Authority, Marchbanks.
How, again!
Osceola Thunderbelly,
Chief of the Crokinoles.
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• CULLED FROM THE APOPHTHEGMS OF WIZARD MARCHBANKS •
Wisdom is a variable possession. Every man is wise when pursued by a mad dog; fewer when pursued by a mad woman; only the wisest survive when attacked by a mad notion.
(July 24 to August 23)
LEO IS the sign of the Lion. You who are born under it are born to rule, and to have your own way in everything, and therefore you should take special care never to be associated with persons born under Aries or Taurus, for they will dispute with you for top place. Avoid persons born under Gemini, for they may overthrow you by their subtlety. Have nothing to do with those born under Cancer, for their criticism may undermine you. The Leo-born have a tendency to show off; this should not be resisted for, contrary to opinions spread chiefly by those born under Cancer, it is impressive and strengthens the feeling that you should be allowed to do as you please. This is what is important; get your own way, and if any misfortunes result therefrom, you will probably not notice them, or will attribute them to some other cause.
• ENCHANTMENT-OF-THE-MONTH •
Lucky indeed are those born under Leo. Look at your fortunate colours—blood-red, orange, scarlet and yellow! Whee! And your lucky flowers—marigold and peony! And your lucky stones—diamond and ruby! If this doesn’t make you happy with your lot you are hard to please indeed. You will observe that red is lucky for you wherever it appears, but be sure you keep it for yourself. A Leo-born husband will be likely to think that his wife always looks best in a red dress; his Ideal Woman is dressed in red from top to toe, has red hair and a flaming makeup, and is sitting in a red chair eating red jelly. Try to moderate this passion. Do not force red meat upon your Cancer-born friends, when they are yearning for a bowl of blanc-mange. Get it through your head that red is for you to wear, and that it is not necessary for you to see red all the time.
• HEALTH HINTS FOR THOSE BORN UNDER LEO •
You have wonderful health, but you must be careful of your heart and back. This will not be easy, for you are the kind of fellow who tries to move the piano single-handed, and delights in being anchor-man when tug o’ war is played. If something goes wrong with your heart, don’t tell people about it. Remember, your character is founded upon that of the Lion, and a hang-dog Lion is not a pretty sight. A Lion nobly inactive, however, is just as impressive as a Lion on the rampage. If you have perfect health, which is highly probable, don’t tell people less fortunate that they could be like you if only they would try. It is not true and they might give you a saucy and disconcerting answer.
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• MEDITATIONS AT RANDOM •
BIBLE CONUNDRUM / A small child begged me to tell her about Adam and Eve, which I did. I then scored a great success by asking her a Bible riddle which was a favourite of my childhood: “What eight men in the Bible milked a bear?” The answer, to be found in Genesis 22:23, is Huz, Buz, Kemuel, Chesed, Hazo, Pildash, Jidlaph and Bethuel, the eight sons of Abraham’s brother Nahor, by his wife Milcah; the Hebrew reads—“these eight did Milcah bear to Nahor, Abraham’s brother.” I am full of hallowed jocosity of this sort.
INFORMATION SCORNED / To the movies and sat first of all behind a small boy whose hair had obviously been cut at home; the poor child looked as though an Indian had begun to scalp him, but had been called out on strike when half done. Behind me sat a woman with a package of sticky popcorn; I did not much mind her noisy champings, but it bothered me that she dropped a lot of the goodies on the floor, and they rolled down under my feet and gave me a sense of treading on broken eggs. So I moved, and found myself behind two girls, both at the very pinnacle of romantic yearning. The film, however, seemed to be beyond their modest intellectual grasp; it was about a period of history before the advent of the combustion engine, and everybody went everywhere on horses or behind horses. At one point a lady entered a room and said that she must stay a while because a shoe had been lost. The girls whispered busily between them, and then agreed that she must be crazy, as she was wearing both her shoes, as any fool could plainly see. I leaned forward helpfully, “Her horse lost a shoe, poppets,” I said. They viewed me with the scorn of youth. “Drop dead, Gramp,” said one of them; “since when did horses wear shoes?” Since when, indeed?
UNEARNED INCOME / Have been looking over the questions the census-taker will ask me. One of them is an enquiry as to how much money I earned last year. The answer to this will be, “about $125.” Of course I had more money than this, but I didn’t earn it. The Government itself says that I didn’t. For I get my living as a writer, and the Government makes it very clear in its Income Tax forms that what a writer gets is Investment Income, comparable to the guilty gold which the Idle Rich derive from their holdings in Stocks and Shares. The census-taker will stare about him in amazement, his eye straying from the rich tapestries upon my walls to the priceless products of old Persian looms beneath his feet; as I scratch a match upon a rare piece of cloisonné, and scissor a chunk out of an early Picasso in order to mend a hole
in my shoe, he will scratch his head and wonder how I came by such Byzantine luxury without earning it. But if my Government says that I do not earn my money, I am not the kind of saucy fellow who will suggest that they do my job, and see if it feels like work. No, no! I am behind my Government one hundred per cent, and when it says my labour is idleness, I knock my head upon the floor and cry Selah!
REVIVING A LOST ART / Had occasion to look at a display of wallpaper. Fastening decorative paper to walls is an old trick, which came into favour when it became too expensive to use decorative cloth. The decorative cloth fastened tight to the wall followed the painted cloths which the people of Tudor days hung loose upon their walls, and these in their turn were substitutes for tapestries. Personally I think it might be interesting to return to tapestries, for in these days of labour-saving household devices women have plenty of leisure time for tapestry work. Modern tapestries, of course, would have to have modern themes. A really loving wife might work for ten or twelve years to create a tapestry showing how her husband had worked up from the lowly post of office boy to be vice-president in charge of the mail-order department, along the lines of the Bayeux Tapestry. As a substitute for wallpaper this might take rather a long time to prepare, but it would have a personal touch and, after the husband had been fired or demoted, a pleasingly nostalgic quality.
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