• HEALTH HINTS FOR THOSE BORN UNDER AQUARIUS •
Candour before everything: you must be on your guard against constipation. Don’t ask me why. Nobody has ever died of it, and the old wives’ tale about auto-intoxication (accepted as scientific fact for a few decades) has now been exploded. But there is a widespread belief that this tardy habit of body is harmful, and an astrologer is no man to fly in the face of old beliefs. Wizard Marchbanks is of the opinion that constipation of body is a trifle—a mere idiosyncrasy like double-jointedness or being able to wiggle your ears—but he warns against constipation of mind, which is a widespread and neglected illness. Costiveness of body afflicts no one but the person concerned: costiveness of mind afflicts everybody with whom the sufferer comes in contact. If he occupies a high place in the world (and the ailment is a positive recommendation in many professions) he may do more harm than a hundred men of normal mental processes can undo in a lifetime.
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• FROM MY NOTEBOOKS •
FRANKNESS DEPLORED / There are too many people in the world who think that frankness is an excuse for anything: so long as a man is frank and sincere, say they, he may talk as he likes. They also cling to the stupid and mistaken notion that people like and admire frankness and respond well to it. For instance, I was standing on a street-corner today, when a man in a windbreaker approached me and said: “Lookit, I’m goin’ to give you no bull; I wanta get a coupla beers; will you gimme the money?” I looked deep into his eyes, and in low, thrilling voice I said “No.” … Now if he had given me some bull—some richly-ornamented tale of poverty, of undeserved ill-fortune, of being robbed while on some errand of mercy—anything in fact which would have revealed a spark of imagination in him, I would have given him a small sum, knowing full well that it would be spent on beer. But to ask me, flatly and baldly, for money to buy beer—! Is that the way to appeal to a Welshman, a lover of the spoken word and the gem-encrusted lie? No, no. Let such ruffians beg beer-money from those who admire frankness. Anybody who wants a quarter from me must first produce a quarter’s worth of fascinating bull.
ARS CELARE ARTIS / Chatted with a lady who once saw the Russian Imperial Ballet in the Czar’s own theatre, in 1912. I asked her for a description: “Like being in Heaven,” said she. I asked for more detail: “Oh, just like Heaven!” she replied. I have often observed that people who have had some experience of this kind -have seen Irving, or heard Melba, or Chaliapin—are unable to give any satisfactory account of it. They remember only that they were uplifted; they do not know why or how. Perhaps it is best that this should be so. The aim of great art is to produce this sensation of ravishment, and not to explain its methods or reveal its secrets. The chief dancer on this occasion, the lady said, was the Czar’s “how do you say?—Favorita? What is favorita in English?” “Girl-friend?” suggested another guest. The lady’s face filled with distaste. “Oh no,” said she, “a favorita is much different. More—how do you say it—elegant.” So much for girl-friends.
FOOLISH CONTEMPORANEITY / In a news vendor’s today I noticed a pile of books with bright covers, which proved to be such titles as Dreiser’s Sister Carrie, and Romains’ Jean Christophe. Wondering idly how such long books were crammed into such a small space I picked one up and found that it was marked “abridged for the Modern Reader.” Laughed out loud, and a few people stared at me, as if I were mad. But I was delighted by the shoddy flattery of that word “modern.” It implied that the modern reader was a very busy fellow, who had no time to be bothered with the windy nonsense even of first-rate authors; he had to have everything boiled down for him, so that he could gulp the essence in an evening’s reading. The real fact of the matter is that many modern readers are pin-headed neurotics, who have not the staying power to read a great book at full length. They must have it cut so that they can read all the bits which describe how the heroine went to bed, and with whom, and any murders which may creep into the tale. Beyond that, they can’t understand and don’t care. Modern reader! Pah!
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• FROM MY FILES •
To Raymond Cataplasm, M.D., F.R.C.P.
Dear Dr. Cataplasm:
I am greatly worried, and I am worried because I am worried, for I read in several magazines with large circulations (which means that they must be good) that worry causes high blood pressure and ulcers, and that high blood pressure and the things which go with it kill more people than any other group of ailments. How can I stop worrying about worrying? If I could do that I could begin on the job of ceasing to worry altogether.
The notion that worry shortens the life-span is a new one to me, for my family are remarkably long-lived, and they are all master-worriers. And after they have passed the age of eighty they raise worry to the virtuoso level, worrying about things which cannot even be understood by less gifted people. But if worry is a shortener of life I must root out this ingrained ancestral habit, or I may drop off my perch at some disgracefully early age.
All the magazine advice to worriers stresses the need of relaxation. Apparently one ought to be as relaxed as possible all the time. Now when I relax completely, I fall down; I have to keep a tiny bit strung-up in order to get my work done, and to retain the respect of my colleagues. The only way for me to achieve complete relaxation is to go to bed in a darkened room. But that makes me fall asleep, and the magazine articles say that too much sleep is worse than too little. I can also relax after eating a very large meal, but over-eating is not only bad for the blood pressure, but a cause of ulcers, as well.
I am doing my best to live a healthy, relaxed, temperate, unworried life, but you doctors are making it very hard for me. In fact, you are worrying me, and you know what worry does.
Yours confusedly and miserably,
Samuel Marchbanks.
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To Haubergeon Hydra, ESQ.
Dear Mr. Hydra:
I see that Parliament is much concerned about the quality of modern Canadianism. Apparently it is not Canadian enough—there are still big lumps of British Influence and Colonial Inferiority Complex swimming around in it. May I make a suggestion to you as Deputy Assistant Sterilizer of Canadian Patriotism?
We need bigger and better Canadian heroes. We have the raw material, but we must work on it. You know how Canada hates anything raw. We have heroes, but we have not yet blown them up to full heroic stature.
Look at what has been done in the States with Washington, Lincoln, Barbara Frietchie and others. Unpromising material to begin with. Just men and women. But by the use of gas and mirrors they have been given heroic stature. Think what that story about the Cherry Tree has done for Washington! We couldn’t copy it, of course, for in Canada we still admire people who cut down trees, and could not see any particular nobility in admitting such an action. In Canada, a tree is still looked upon as a Big Weed, to be hoiked up or chopped down, or mutilated with impunity. But there are other stories which we could bend to our use, and I submit the following examples for your consideration.
SIR JOHN AND THE SPIDER
One day our Great National Hero, Sir John A. Macdonald, sat disconsolately in his lawyer’s office in Kingston. Try as he might, he could not get the Canadian provinces to confederate. They simply wouldn’t. As he sat, his eyes were attracted by a little spider which was trying to climb up a piece of string (or whatever that stuff is that spiders extrude so unpleasantly from their stomachs). He paid no attention, for spiders were then, as now, part of the standard furnishings of all lawyers’ offices in Canada.
Up the spider climbed, and down it fell. Sir John’s left eyelid twitched. Again the spider tried to climb the string, but again it fell with an arachnidal curse. And a third time it struggled up the string, and immediately set to work to gobble up a juicy fly.
Sir John was now fully awake. “By George!” he cried (referring to George Brown of the Toronto Globe, and thus uttering a terrible Conservative curse) “shall yonder foolish insect put me to shame? I too shall strive, and strive a
gain, until there is a Federal Government in Canada, gobbling up the richest flies the land affords!” And hastily taking a drink of soda water (of which he was inordinately fond) he rushed out and confederated Canada in a twinkling.
Moral: Never sweep your office.
LAURIER AND THE TEAKETTLE
One day Sir Wilfrid Laurier sat by the hearth in his parents’ home, musing and pondering in French (though being completely bilingual, he could just as easily have done it in English). Beside him, on the hob, the kettle bubbled. “Etre, ou non être?” mused Sir Wilfrid; “c’est la question.” (This splendid line was later incorporated into the film of Hamlet, but it lost a great deal in translation). “Blubbety-blub!” mused the kettle, in kettle-language. “Qu’est-ce que c’est que vous avez dit?” asked Sir Wilfrid. “Bloop!” said the kettle.
In that instant Sir Wilfrid conceived the whole theory of the steam-engine, and would have built a railway to the Yukon if the Senate had not vetoed the idea.
Moral: The Senate should be reformed so as to consist entirely of the Cabinet.
LAURA’S JEWELS
The constant companions of the great and good Laura Secord were her cows. Indeed, it was a cow which overheard the American officers planning their wicked attack upon Colonel Fitzgibbon’s troops, and warned Laura. The story that she herself listened at the keyhole is a vicious canard. Being immovably upright, she could not stoop to a keyhole.
One day she was entertaining a purse-proud friend who boasted immoderately of her riches and her articles of personal adornment. “And will you not show me your jewels, Mrs. Secord?” said she.
Smiling enigmatically Laura called her cows to her. She put her arms around each brown neck, drawing the wet noses close to her own. “These are my jewels,” said she, with well-nigh unbearable simplicity.
Moral: The cream of the cream can get along without diamonds, even of the first water.
There you have it Mr. Hydra. Fill our children up with that sort of thing, and in no time their patriotism will have surpassed even our most unreasonable expectations.
Yours for an aggressively Canadian Canada,
Samuel Marchbanks.
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To Samuel Marchbanks, ESQ.
Honoured Sir:
On behalf of our client, Mr. Richard Dandiprat, we write to ask if it would not be possible to settle your difference with him in some amicable way which does not involve court procedure. Lawsuits among neighbours are to be avoided whenever possible, as we are sure you will agree. We learn to our amazement and chagrin that Mr. Dandiprat has written letters to you in which he virtually confesses that it was he who imprisoned a skunk in your car while you were abroad. This was indiscreet, but Mr. Dandiprat is a man of lovable and open nature and concealment is distasteful to him.
We venture to suggest that if you care to pay some small sum—we suggest $2,500—to Mr. Dandiprat as recompense for all the mental distress which your threatened lawsuit has cost him, the matter can be closed with good will on both sides.
Yours in a spirit of neighbourly forgiveness,
Jasper Raven
(for Raven and Craven, Solicitors).
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To Raven and Craven.
Sirs:
So, you are crawling, are you? Whining for mercy, eh? No, no, gentlemen, I intend to roast your client, Dandiprat, before the fire of enraged public opinion. To your roost, Raven! To your lair, Craven, lest you perish with Dandiprat in the whirlwind of my wrath!
Yours in triumph,
Samuel Marchbanks.
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To Samuel Marchbanks, ESQ.
Honoured, Esteemed—nay, Beloved Sir:
Oh, Mr. Marchbanks, what a bitter tale I have to tell! Last Autumn, with Hallowe’en approaching, we sent two or three of our secretarial staff into the cellar to bring up the base-burner which heats our office in the Winter months. Hallowe’en is, as you know, a festival dear to the hearts of lawyers, and Mr. Jabez Mouseman loves to see the flames flickering behind the little mica windows in the stove when the great day dawns. The girls got the stove into the office, and with some difficulty they set it up, and fitted the stovepipes into the wall. But when it came time to light the fire, ah, then—. You know how impatient the old are, Mr. Marchbanks. My dear father, Mr. Jabez Mouseman, seized what he imagined to be some valueless material from a filing cabinet, and lit the fire. Unlucky fate guided his hand. It was your file, and all the evidence, so carefully piled up, and all the incriminating letters from Dandiprat are gone.
But the law is not without resource, sir. We shall rewrite all the documents, from memory, as soon as possible. We shall even provide facsimiles of the signatures. In the end the evidence will be better than ever. But for a law-term or two we shall be wise to allow the case to drift along without too much activity.
Yours in sorrow,
Mordecai Mouseman
(for Mouseman, Mouseman and Forcemeat).
P.S.: The cost of restoring the evidence will add considerably to your legal expenditures, but Let Right Be Done is the motto of our firm.
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To the Rev. Simon Goaste, B.D.
Dear Pastor Goaste:
In the course of your theological studies, did you ever run across anything which would give you a clue to the exact temperature of Hell? I find that among my friends there is a widespread notion that Hell will be hot. My own conviction is that it will be cold.
Frankly, if I had the management of Hell I should arrange for it to be a place where everybody had to sit on kitchen chairs, in a bad light, at a temperature of about 45 degrees Fahrenheit, reading the Canada Gazette. A few aeons of that would show sinners what was what.
Yours reflectively,
Samuel Marchbanks.
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To Samuel Marchbanks, ESQ.
Dear Mr. Marchbanks:
Could you, offhand, name the most wronged group of men in Canada today? No, of course you couldn’t, but I, as Perpetual President of the Indignant Females (Canadian Division) will name it for you. Policemen!
Almost every word which is applied to the police in everyday life is a term of derision. Take “flatfoot” for instance. It is a patent misnomer. The Indignant Females have taken plaster impressions of the feet of over two thousand Canadian police, and a majority of them have feet which are slightly rounded on the sole; the completely flat foot, shaped like a brick, was found in little more than nine hundred cases. Nor is it true that policemen have unusually big feet; our investigations reveal that postmen have bigger feet, and that policemen compare favourably with bill collectors in this respect.
Yours indignantly,
(Mrs.) Kedijah Scissorbill.
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To Amyas Pilgarlic, ESQ.
Dear Pil:
A man I know has been boasting in the public prints recently about the difficulties which he has encountered in opening oysters. I can only conclude that he has never acquired this knack. The way to open an oyster is to insert a chisel, or perhaps a small poker, into the imperceptible cranny at the sharp end of the oyster, and heave. With not much more trouble than would be found in opening the main vault of the Bank of England, the upper shell will stir a little, and it is at this point that your assistants should push heavy wooden wedges (oak, for choice) between the shells. Then blow cigarette smoke into the cracks and the oyster will sneeze, neatly blowing its top. No trick at all, once you are used to it, and in this way half a dozen oysters may be opened in an hour.
Lincoln said that he who cuts his own wood warms himself twice. Marchbanks says that he who opens his own oysters gives himself an appetite.
Did you know, by the way, that the great singer Adelina Patti (1843–1919) loved oysters, and used to sing so exquisitely after eating them that she would cause the most torpid audience to leap to its feet? This ability on her part suggested the name for that elegant confection, the Hoister Patti.
Yours,
Sam.
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To Chandos Fribble,
ESQ.
Learned Fribble:
I have been reading a good deal of Canadian Poetry lately, and it has disturbed me. But last Sunday I attempted to go for a country walk, and by the time I had reached home again I knew what was wrong with Canadian Poetry.
Canadian poets are not allowed to come into contact with Nature. The great English poets have, in most cases, refreshed themselves continually by spells of country life, or by excursions into the country. Canadian poets cannot do this. I walked about two miles in the country and although I did not count them I estimated that roughly 300 cars passed me in that time. I had no time for Nature; I was perpetually on the jump. So I decided to walk across country. A farmer chased me, and told me not to tramp on his Fall wheat, which I was not doing. However, I left his land and struck into the bush. This was a mistake, for a big dog came and pointed his nose at me, and did his best to look like a bronze dog on a book-end. Soon two men with guns came crashing through the undergrowth, and seemed astonished when they saw me. “Say, what’s that bird doing here?” cried one, and I knew at once that they had mistaken me for a partridge. But as they seemed about to blast my tailfeathers off I had the presence of mind to shout “I’m a game-warden!” and they made off as fast as their legs would carry them. The dog was still pointing, and as stiff as a mackerel, so they snatched it up in one piece and bore it away with them.
That is what Nature means in Canada. Cars, grouchy landowners, people with guns. No wonder our poetry is of nervous, urban, over-bred elegance.
Yours for a less cluttered countryside,
Samuel Marchbanks.
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• MUSINGS AT EVENTIDE •
THE RULING PASSION / I was introduced to a lady this evening who said, “Well, and do you still do any writing on the side?” I simpered and said, “Oh, a little, you know,” for I was so thunderstruck that I could not collect my wits in time to make a proper rejoinder. But I made a speech to her in my head, afterward, which ran thus: “Woman, for almost all of my adult life I have lived by the pen, with some assistance from the typewriter and the printing press. I do not write ‘on the side’ as you insultingly suggest. I write morning, noon and night. When I am not actually engaged in the physical act of writing I am thinking about writing—my own and other people’s. Writing is my business and my pleasure, my cross and my salvation, my joy and my sorrow.” But it would have been foolish to say this aloud. There are many millions of people who think that writing, and painting, and music are things which their practitioners pick up in an idle hour; they have no conception of the demands which these apparently trivial pastimes make upon those who are committed to them. Such people live in a world which is as strange to me as the Mountains of the Moon.