A. C.
dead at a pig fair” in certain articles of attire. Why a pig fair? Why dead? Why everything? Martin’s elucidation of the pig fair problem appeared in the Spectator, included in a letter from the inquirer, “G.,” and is as follows:
“I have never given a necktie to a male friend, or even enemy; but a necktie was once given to me. I showed it to a person whose opinion on such matters I revere. He said at once, ‘I would not be seen dead in it at a pig-fair.’ The matter of the tie ended there; to use the valuable expression of the wife of the male friend, (in connection with a toy that might possibly prove injurious to her young,) I ‘gradually threw it away.’ That was my first experience of the pig-fair trope, and I have never ceased to find comfort in it, nor ever questioned its completeness. I am aware that nothing, presumably, will matter to me when I am dead, yet, casting my mind forward, I do not wish the beholder of my remains, casting his eye backward, to be scandalised by my taste in ties, or other accompaniments, while I was alive. I do not myself greatly care about being alive at a pig-fair, neither is it an advantage, socially or otherwise, to be dead there. Yet this odium might be enhanced, could even be transcended, in the eye of the beholder, by the infamy of my necktie. To this point I have treated the beholder as a person able to appreciate the discredit, not only of my necktie, but also of being dead at a pig-fair. There remains, however, and in a highly intensive manner, the pig-fair itself. We trust and believe the pig-jobber is critical about pigs; but we do not expect from him fastidiousness in artistic and social affairs. He will not, we hope, realise the discredit of being dead at a pig-fair, but there can be neckties at which he will draw the line. Considering, therefore, the disapprobation of the pig-jobber, joined to that of the other beholders, and finding that fore-knowledge of the callousness of death could not allay my sense of these ignominies, I gradually threw away the necktie.”
I trust “G.” will permit me to quote also the following from his letter.
“As reference has been made to the ‘R.M.’ your readers will be amused to hear that a French sportsman who had asked the name of a good sporting novel, and had been recommended the work in question, said with some surprise, ‘But I did not think such things existed in Ireland.’ He imagined the title to be ‘Some Reminiscences of an Irish Harem.’
A leading place among the communications and appreciations that we received about our books was taken by what we were accustomed to call Medical Testimonials. The number of quinzies and cases of tonsilitis that Major Yeates has cured, violently, it is true, but effectually, the cases of prostration after influenza, in which we were assured he alone had power to rouse and cheer the sufferer, cannot possibly be enumerated. We have sometimes been flattered into the hope that we were beginning to rival the Ross “Fluit-player” of whom it was said, “A man in deep concumption From death he would revive.”
We had but one complaint, and that was from a cousin, who said it had reduced her to “Disabling laughter,” which, “remembering the awful warning, ‘laugh, and grow F——!’” she had tried her utmost to restrain.
The envelopes of press cuttings became more and more congested as the months went on, and the “R.M.” continued his course round the world; and, thanks to his being, on the whole, an inoffensive person, he was received with more kindness than we had ever dared to hope for. There were, as far as I can remember, but few rose leaves with crumples in them, and even they had their compensations, as, I think, the following sample crumple will sufficiently indicate. I am far from wishing to hold this pronouncement up to derision. There was a great deal more of it than appears here, which, unfortunately, I have not space to quote. We found many of its strictures instructive and bracing, and the suffering that pulses in the final paragraph bears the traces of a genuine emotion.
“The stories were originally published in a magazine, and would be less monotonous and painful, no doubt, if read separately, and in small doses.... The picture they give of Irish life is ... so depressingly squalid and hopeless.... The food is appallingly bad, and the cooking and service, if possible, worse. No one in the book, high or low, does a stroke of work, unless shady horse-selling and keeping dirty public houses can be said to be doing work.... On the whole, the horses and hounds are far more important than the human beings, and the stables and kennels are only a degree less dilapidated and disgusting than the houses. Not a trace of romance, seriousness, or tenderness, disturbs the uniform tone of the book.