You may find that some people will not like this play; they will say that it does not reflect the true Christmas Spirit. Tell them from me that if they think they can do better at short notice to go ahead.
Yours in the Yuletide Spirit,
S. Marchbanks.
*
To Amyas Pilgarlic, ESQ.
Dear Pil:
On Christmas Eve it is surely not indiscreet of me to confide the secrets of my Christmas List to you. As I told you earlier, I am giving Canadiana this year. Here is the list:
Uncle Fortunatus: an old drum, almost certainly used by troops in the 1837 rebellion. Both heads are gone, but can be easily replaced. All the decoration and regimental ornament have been worn, or rusted, away, but a skilful restorer could put them back again if we knew what they were. Spiteful people say it is an old cheese-box, but I have the true collector’s flair, and know it is a drum. Uncle will love it.
Brother Fairchild: an old Quebec heater, almost certainly the one around which the Fathers of Confederation sat when planning the future of this great Dominion. Who can say what historic spit may not cling to it? It is, in the truest sense, a shrine. As a stove, of course, it has seen its best days. Fairchild will be delighted.
Cousin Ghengis: A flag, used by a militia regiment which set out to quell the Riel Rebellion, but was detained in one of the bars in Toronto. It is a most interesting piece of work, which shows signs of having been an Orange Lodge banner before it was converted to its later purpose. It is rather stained with something which might be blood, though an analytical chemist says it still smells of whisky. Ghengis will be ecstatic.
Nephew Gobemouche: a stamp used by a Member of Parliament in mailing a letter from the Parliament Buildings. Such stamps are exceedingly rare, and a few philatelists deny that any genuine examples are in existence. I happen to know, however, that on September 12, 1896, the franking-machine was out of order for a few hours, and free stamps were given to members at the Parliamentary Post Office. Gobemouche will be tearful with pleasure.
Nephew Belial: a horn from Laura Secord’s famous cow. When blown it emits a musty smell but no sound. Belial will be livid.
And as for you, my dear friend—but no; you must wait until tomorrow to see what I have sent you.
A Merry Christmas!
Sam.
*
• REFLECTIONS •
IMPERFECT GROOMING / Met a man who, in casual conversation, referred to someone we both knew as “the sort of fellow who has never found out that you really can’t make a shirt do for more than one day.” This depressed me. I am always depressed in the presence of those who wear a clean shirt every day, bathe every day, never drop food on their fronts and always have their shoes shined and their trousers creased. I would fain be one of them. But alas, I never seem to be attending to what I am doing when I dress. Absent-mindedly I snatch whatever comes to hand; sometimes the effect is of a stunning elegance; more often it is not. If I bathe every day, especially in Winter, I develop a kind of all-over dandruff, and raw patches appear on my hide. I would love to be so clean that my presence was a reproach to lesser men, but I am not. I am not spectacularly dirty, either. I am just one of those people who has never completely convinced himself that a shirt will not do for more than one day. I comfort myself that in this I resemble Dr. Johnson, who only changed his shirt when his friends presented him with a petition; but alas, I have not the courage or determination to resemble him closely.
LET THE EAR JUDGE / Somebody in the States, I see, has conceived the notion of recording classics of literature on long-playing records. After listening to such a recording it would no longer be necessary to go through the fatigue of reading the Iliad, the Odyssey, Paradise Lost, the Divine Comedy, or any other exhausting work. It must be said for such a scheme that it would restore the ear as the first judge of poetry, and expose that false judge, the eye. But I doubt if many people would hear the great works often enough to get near the root of them.
CHRISTMAS CHEER / Finished my Christmas shopping. True, I finished it three weeks ago, but it is a job which I find requires finishing more than once. At the end of November I fought, bit and clawed my way through the shops, battling with savage women and bitten in the leg by cannibal children, and gathered enough assorted rubbish to fill, as I thought, my Christmas needs. But in the light of Christmas Week it has proved to be too little; my bosom is inflated, nigh to bursting, with Brotherly Love and eggnog, and today I sallied forth to shop again. The shops were almost empty, and although the clerks were a little vague and tended to hiccup when asked questions, I achieved my wishes in a short time and hurried home to decorate my tree. Preparatory to this task I nogged a couple of dozen eggs, and when visitors dropped in I was able to offer them a drink of the plushy, caressing fluid which does so much to take the bitterness out of Christmas.… I have made my own angel for the top of the Christmas tree. As a delineator of the female form I tend to express myself in unmistakable terms; I like even an angel to appear as if she had some fun in her. In consequence my angel looks a little like Diana of the Ephesians, what with eggnog and one thing and another.
*
• CHRISTMAS MERRYMAKING (a bonus for party-loving readers of the Almanack) •
NOTHING SERVES to break the ice at Christmas so effectively as a good-humoured hoax or imposture perpetrated by some quick-witted member of the company upon an unsuspecting fellow guest. You may play the coveted role of wit, and earn the gratitude of your hostess, by thoroughly mastering the following simple, but effective jests.
Showing him your fountain pen, induce a fellow-guest to wager that it will not write any colour he cares to name. When he says (for example) “Green,” reveal nothing by your countenance but write the letters g-r-e-e-n upon a sheet of paper. Then appeal to the company at large as to whether you have not won your wager. His stupefaction will be very laughable. (If you are a lady, of course, you will wager half-a-dozen pairs of gloves rather than a sum of money.)
Another eminently “practical” joke is this: say to a fellow-guest (whom you have previously ascertained to be a philatelist) “Pardon me, sir (or if you are acquainted with him, “Colonel A,” or “Judge B”) but is it true that you collect stamps?” When he says “Yes,” bring your right shoe smartly down upon his left instep (or vice versa if you happen to be left-handed), saying at the same time, “Capital! collect this one!” Whatever his feelings may be, the laughter of the company will certainly give him his cue to take this as a good joke upon himself, for no true gentleman wishes to be a spoilsport, embarrassing his hostess and clouding the delight of the company. (If a lady, be sure that you bring the heel of your shoe upon the instep of your “victim,” as you may otherwise turn your ankle and be forced to send for your carriage.)
*
• COMMUNIQUÉ (by ordinary surface mail but unstamped) •
To Big Chief Marchbanks.
How, Marchbanks:
This one hell country, Marchbanks. No place for honest man. Listen. Last week I no money. Christmas come. I good Indian, Marchbanks. Baptized lots of times. Want to do right by Gitche Manitou on he birthday. Want for buy case lilac hair juice for drink Gitche Manitou health on birthday. No money. Every place Christmas shopper. All spend. All sad face. All think selfs happy. So I think I sell Christmas trees. One place I see plenty little trees. All blue. I get hatchet and cut down four. Then woman come to door of house. She say what I do? I say cut Christmas trees. Thief, she say—awful loud voice, Marchbanks, for skinny woman—I call cops. You cut my blue spruce. I grab trees. I run. Soon cops come in white car. Hey you, say cops. What you do in white car, I say. Sell ice cream, maybe. Ha! Joke, Marchbanks. Cops mad. So mad they get out of car. That awful mad for cop, Marchbanks. Take me police court. Little fellow at desk he say I been drinking. How I drink, I say, with no money. Little fellow belch. He been drinking Marchbanks. I smell. Jail ten days he say, and belch again. I belch too, for show polite, Indian style. Another ten days for contempt, he
say. This one hell country, Marchbanks.
Osceola Thunderbelly,
Chief of the Crokinoles.
*
• CULLED FROM THE APOPHTHEGMS OF WIZARD MARCHBANKS •
To judge from the number of books on the subject, it is easy for us to achieve the spiritual grandeur of Orientals by adopting their postures and systems of breathing. Oddly enough, no Orientals appear to believe that they can develop our scientific and governmental skill by posturing and breathing like us.
*
(December 23 to January 20)
CAPRICORN IS the sign of the Goat, but this is not as bad as it sounds. There always has to be a goat, and if the obvious goat plays his cards skilfully, popularity, promotion and success await him. The secret of being the goat lies in these words: Never deny and never protest. Anticipate blame. When something goes wrong and everyone else is trying to show that they could not possibly have been responsible for it, say coolly and frankly: “It’s my fault; I wasn’t here when it happened, but I should have foreseen it, and if anybody has to take the responsibility, let it be me.” This will work like magic, and those who have been trying to escape blame will experience an indefinable sense that you have out-generaled them. Follow this course always, and with special firmness when you are obviously not to blame. Little by little an impression will spread that you are unaffected, fearless, ruthlessly honest and devoted to your job rather than to personal advancement. For female Capricorns this is the secret of happiness in marriage. A wife who is always to blame is prized above rubies, as Wizard Solomon said.
• ENCHANTMENT-OF-THE-MONTH •
Bad luck for you in the matter of lucky colours; your only good one is purple, and the others are grey, green, black and brown; you will need a lot of imagination to present a festive appearance in those. Your lucky flowers are the poppy, flax and holly. Your lucky gems are the onyx, the garnet, the sapphire and the amethyst, but the best of them all is the lodestone. Unfortunately this is simply magnetic oxide of iron, and it is not easy to make it into a pleasing adornment; even the genius of Fabergé was stumped by it. When once the late Czar Nicholas commissioned the celebrated jeweller to create a suitable gift for an Imperial favourite who was a Capricornian, Fabergé was unable to produce anything handsomer than an ordinary magnet with a golden handle, for a lodestone is simply a magnet. However, there is luck in everything; you can do your shopping at the hardware store instead of at the jeweller’s, and a corsage of holly, held in place with a small magnet, will set you up for a big night of romance.
• HEALTH HINTS FOR THOSE BORN UNDER CAPRICORN •
You have no special point of weakness, and are supposedly gifted with an iron constitution. Remember, your astrological sign is that of the goat, and goats are not given to fits of the vapours (not in the Victorian acceptance of the word, that is to say) and have never been pernickety about their food. But there must be reason in everything. You must not push your goatishness too far. Even a goat can ruin its constitution, though I cannot tell you how this is done. Nobody has ever seen a nauseated goat, or a drunk goat, and three veterinarians of long experience have assured me on their solemn oath that they have never seen a dead goat. However, as goats are mortal, they must be the inheritors of some of the ills of flesh, and my personal belief is that these are so dreadful that goats cannot bring themselves to speak of them. There is a look in the eye of certain elderly goats which tells a vague but hideous story. It looks like Disillusion, but is probably thirty-third degree ulcers.
*
• FROM MY CHRISTMAS FILES •
To Samuel Marchbanks, ESQ.
(Written on a card bearing the message ‘A Merry Christmas and Good Wishes for 1949’: the date has been altered in pencil to the current year.)
Dear Nephew:
Thank you for your thoughtful present. I opened it, as you suggested, as soon as it arrived, and a prettier parcel of soap I have never seen. I shall distribute new cakes on Christmas morning to the whole household. Your notion of a cake of soap fashioned in the likeness of an Aberdeen terrier for your Uncle Gomeril will flatter his Scottish susceptibilities.
I already have quite a number of gifts to be returned and exchanged as soon as the shops open after Christmas. Someone has thoughtlessly sent your Uncle a dressing-gown in the tartan of a clan from which the Marchbanks have been estranged for over three hundred years. He very sensibly asks what need he has of even an acceptable dressing-gown? He never wears one, and goes to his bath lightly wrapped in an old copy of the Toronto Globe, the Scotsman’s friend.
Your affct. aunt,
Bathsheba Marchbanks.
*
To Samuel Marchbanks, ESQ.
(Written on an expensive but aesthetically reprehensible card which reveals a robin sitting on a bare branch, with a twig of holly in its beak; the bird’s eye is a black bead, and the holly berries are red beads, cleverly glued to the paper. Spelled out in twigs of holly and mistletoe is the message: ‘Just the Old, Old Wish.’)
Dear Mr. Marchbanks:
I had hoped that this seasonable greeting might come from Mrs. Wittol as well as myself, but she has been absent from home for several days. I have not heard from her, but last night a man’s voice on the phone made some very insulting remarks to me, and I thought I recognized her hiccup among the background noises.
Yours regretfully,
Waghorn Wittol.
*
To Samuel Marchbanks, ESQ.
(Written upon a card which bears a portrait of Santa Claus, wearing an expression possible only to one drunk, or mad; realism has been added to the picture by a feather, glued on to represent the Saint’s beard.)
At this gladsome tide I and Lambie-Pie hasten to freely offer yet once again the right hand of fellowship which you have so often spurned. As the angel’s message of Peace on Earth, Goodwill Toward Men rings round the sad old world I beseech you to drop your legal action against me for hiding a skunk in your car, and as Ye Goode Shippe NEW YEAR sets forth into uncharted seas of Time let the olive branch, symbol of neighbourly amity, wave freely from the poop.
Your repentant neighbour,
Dick Dandiprat.
*
To Raymond Cataplasm, M.D., F.R.C.P.
(On a Greetings Telegram)
HAVE BEGUN FESTIVITIES EARLIER THAN EXPECTED STOP HASTEN WITH STOMACH PUMP STOP THINK SELF POISONED THREE DINNERS STILL TO GO STOP MERRY CHRISTMAS STOP
MARCHBANKS
*
To Genghis Marchbanks, ESQ.
My Dear Cousin:
I really think your terms are ungenerous, considering the season of the year. If, as you suggest, I bring all the unwanted Christmas presents I receive to your pawnshop, I shall expect more than a mere one-third of their ordinary retail price. I hate to say it, Genghis, but I do not consider that you are showing the Christmas Spirit. You can skin the public, if you like, but you ought to draw the line at skinning a relative.
Yours reproachfully,
S. M.
*
To Samuel Marchbanks, ESQ.
My very dear Mr. Marchbanks:
It has never been the custom of Mouseman, Mouseman and Forcemeat to send out greeting cards at the Festive Season; to a firm as old as ours such conduct would seem flashy. We do, however, send letters bearing good wishes to our more valued clients, of whom you, my dear sir, are not the least.
All of the firm are, I am happy to say, well. The life of our senior partner, Mr. Jabez Mouseman, has been considerably brightened since he began—through what scientific accident we know not—to receive television programs on his hearing-aid. When reception is particularly strong phantoms of charming young women in low-cut evening gowns may be seen to move gracefully across his shirt-bosom; at first Mr. Jabez thought himself beset by evil spirits, but now he spends many hours each day happily regarding himself in the mirror.
Mr. Cicero Forcemeat is, as always, in rude health and his powerful voice—that boon of the successful advocate�
�is, if anything, stronger than before. His peroration in a divorce case last week cracked a chandelier in the court-room.
I am as always in good health and beg to subscribe myself, dear Mr. Marchbanks, with no legal qualification whatever, your servant and sincere well-wisher,
Mordecai Mouseman
(for Mouseman, Mouseman and Forcemeat).
*
To Samuel Marchbanks, ESQ.
Dear Sir:
This department finds that in computing your Income Tax for 1963 you neglected to mention that when you addressed the Ladies Arts and Letters Club of Pelvis, Sask., in that year you were treated by the committee to a dinner which cost $1.25. This constitutes hidden income, and you must pay tax amounting to 67 cents, plus extra tax for late payment, amounting to 9 cents, making 76 cents in all, within ten days or we shall pursue you with the full rigour of the law.
This Department has received a card from you bearing Christmas Greetings. We are returning the card which is the wrong size for our files, and enclose herewith proper forms for the expression of this wish, to be completed in triplicate, and returned at once.
Yours, but not as much as you are ours,
Haubergeon Hydra.
*
To Samuel Marchbanks, ESQ.
(A greeting card, obviously home made, to which has been glued a snapshot of a stringy female of cheerful aspect, nursing what looks like a very old floor mop.)
Yuletide Greetings from self and dearest Fido.
Minerva Hawser.
*
To Big Chief Marchbanks.
(An exceedingly dirty and crumpled picture of an ample lady of brilliant complexion, showing a lot of leg, and smoking a cigar.)
Samuel Marchbanks' Almanack Page 19
