I have just received your letter, dated the—wait a minute till I look—the 17th Sept. Long while ago, isn’t it? Do you remember what you wrote about? I never do; and it seems most extraordinary in reading your letters referring to ones I have written about a month ago, that though I know you are answering them, I don’t understand what you are talking about the least in the world. I don’t want to discourage you, you know. Your letters are rather enhanced in value by their riddle-like quotations. They make me wonder what on earth I can have been writing about. I do not even remember, unless you tell me, whether they were long or short; and, except for my consciousness of never having written in a strain of trifling or levity, or otherwise than in a manner calculated to elevate and improve the minds of everyone but my hearers, I should be almost led to think I had been guilty of excesses in the way of toast-water or gruel previous to writing them (tea-totaller you see). Put it to yourself now. Wouldn’t you feel riled if somebody said, in a long commendatory sort of letter to yourself, that your description of so and so was very funny? or that somebody else laughed very much at your whole letter, when you felt certain that the letter in question must have been a well thought out essay on the subject. “Did Socrates ever stand on his head? and if so, upon which end of him did it grow?” Wouldn’t it be matter for despair to feed his remorseless eye teeth upon, to find that the highest flights of your intellect were capable only of a jocular interpretation? But I feel certain there must be a mistake somewhere. As I said before, I am fortified with the comfortable assurance of the integrity of my heart in wishing to write only what will feed the hungry mind. By-the-bye, if Socrates ever did stand on the upside down end, he had excellent authority in justification of his action, for Pot, the Patentee, has been known to do likewise. I’ve only had two pipes to-day, mother; or three, is it—I forget; call it two. Justice, tempered with mercy, &c., which means that I’ll have another now. That’s the thing for ideas! Oh, certainly. Picture to yourself an editor writing like mad. He indulges in a pipe to soothe his rampant brain, and while lighting it he leans back for a complacent yawn. When he gets up again, his dominant idea is that the back of his chair must have been suffering from a diseased spine. Isn’t that a striking picture? The earth hitting a poor man on the back of his head, eh? Well, it’s quite a true one, and the incidents it portrays are also of recent occurrence. The weary editor represents me; the earth represents—hooray—a feather bed, which heroically interposes its devoted body between me and the belligerent planet. Every detail you can con (I don’t know how to spell conjure) up will represent the scene true to the life in everything save the attitude and gestures of the falling literary warrior. Nothing you could imagine would adequately portray the elegance—the dignity of my descent. Daddy was, I believe, the fortunate witness of my native grace of movement under similar trying circumstances. I allude to an incident which occurred during a small festive gathering held in our Denmark Street domain, on the occasion of his last visit to Gateshead. None of the furniture, I am happy to say, suffered very severely during the encounter. The table, under which my booted feet were disposed happened somehow to have a rather violent oscillation imparted to it, disarranging direfully what was already in direful disarray. The lamp, standing alone in the midst of confusion, suffered a partial eclipse; and my favourite Dublin meerschaum successfully resisted the dilapidating effect of a fall of several feet. So much for tableaux vivants in real life. Now I will just see if there is anything in your letter requiring an answer. First and foremost, I am very much obliged to the Miss Bruces for their kind message, to which please return them for answer a like message from me. As to Kemp I don’t think you need be at all uneasy concerning him. Even supposing he had any “foul plots” with regard to either of us, he is done with now; but I am perfectly certain he conspired only to our benefit. It is due entirely to him that a place was found for Henry, while we were galivanting about in Montreal, and I firmly believe a good place too; better any way, as far as I can see, than old Crabtree, who was a baccy chewing old son of a sea-cook.
All I have ever heard against Hardy is that he is not a man to pay ten dollars for what is only worth five—which means in point of fact that Henry will not get very big wages. Still he gets his keep—and good keep too, as I can testify—and will soon get something else besides; and meantime he is in a clean house, among a fairly civilized and certainly good-natured set of people, and with a very comfortable room to himself. When he is two or three years older, he will be able to see his own interests clearly, and to know his own worth, and then if he could benefit himself by a change, let him do so. Henry is at present very young for his years, and has a good many ways and ideas which time will moderate. On an old fossil like Crabtree these youthful vagaries would jar continually, that is, I think, they might; while on Hardy they had just the opposite effect. He seemed to be a good deal amused with Henry—not at all satirically. He seemed to think he was rather good company, and his laugh is so peculiar that he has only to show an incipient inclination to grin, and Henry is ready to join him at once. I had a sort of message from him (Henry) to-day. Your letter was sent to Eton Corner, and Henry sent it on to me enclosed in a note, to the effect that he liked the work immensely, and would write on Sunday. Just received two more letters from you. I was awfully sorry to hear about poor Uncle James. My god-father, wasn’t he? Poor fellow! He was always honour itself, and would spend his last dollar in paying a lawyer to give his property to somebody else if he thought it belonged to them, in moral justice. Well, I am very sorry to hear about it, and that’s about all I can say. I never saw very much of him; but what I have seen was nothing but what was good—generosity, kindness, honour, and a certain grim good-nature—all his own.
I know I missed a mail in writing to you, but I could not help it. It was the time I went to Eton Corner with Henry, and not being at all aware of the posting difficulties connected with these out of-the-way places, I found when I got there that it took almost as long for a letter to get from Eton Corner to Quebec as from Quebec half-way across the Atlantic. I was knocking about from pillar to post there, and I had to write when and where I could; but I will not miss-fire again if I can help it. Talking about missing fire reminds me that it’s all gammon about not being allowed to carry cartridges or combustibles on board a steamer, or on board the “Montreal” any way. Nobody took the trouble to find out even if we had any infernal machines in our bags or not, and everybody carried matches—ship’s officers and all—generally wax ones. From not being supplied with these necessaries, I was constantly having to “cadge” a light for my pipe from somebody else, for as I believe I told you I was not always too bad to smoke. In fact, I believe it was due to the sneaking way in which I knocked the ashes out of my Friday morning pipe, that I got seedy at all. You see—well, never mind, we won’t talk any more blarney in this letter, out of respect to the memory of poor Uncle James. I can’t help remarking though, that you are just a wee peckle Irish in your lamentations concerning my remissness in writing. You say in a letter to me, “There is no note from you this week, except one from Henry.” In view of what you say about the Howels and Audleys I think I shall write to them both.—To Mrs. Howel, to explain why I didn’t call when I was in Montreal, and to Mrs. Audley, to thank her for the introduction I never received; and besides, I may just as well let them know where I am. I don’t think it costs Allen anything to forward my letters. They always come with only the English stamp on them, and his address scratched out and mine put on, generally with the word “re-directed” written above. It’s only fair after all. You pay the Post Office to send the letters to where I am, not to where I was. I must shut up now. It’s time to turn in, though I expect I’ll have time to add something besides my signature before I mail this to-morrow. Friday night.—I have only got a very little time before post, and only a very little to say. I don’t know if I have fairly answered all the subjects in your letter that I wish to speak about, and I haven’t time to read it over again. However, I suppose you get a letter pretty well every week by the time this comes to hand. The weather here is every bit as changeable as it ever was in Dawlish. Sometimes I have felt it decidedly chilly, even with my great-coat on; and at others it’s warm enough to cruise about à la dook, without a great coat and “all flying.”’ The woods away over the other side of the river look something like the colour of an exaggerated orange. In fact, the country just now is pretty, to say the least of it. I don’t think I have ever told you what this part of it is like, but I will reserve that subject for a future effort. By-the-bye, who won the tournament at Dawlish? You see I left just in the thick of it, so it naturally interests me, though of course it is quite an affair of the past with you. Did Ethel Beaumont win anything? Remember me to her as warmly as Charlie Wrottesley would permit, also to Mrs. B——. By-the-bye again, I told Daddy I was going to send him a present. So I am. It’s coming; but it has’nt gone yet. There is a difficulty concerning the packing for such a long postage journey. Don’t be alarmed on the score of my extravagance—there’s no ground for it I assure you. I would tell you what the damage was; for I don’t believe in keeping the cost of presents a secret. But the truth is, I don’t exactly remember it. I think it was something over two, and under three, dollars, for the lot. The brooch is of course for Muriel, with my love. I suppose I may say that—shan’t scratch it out anyway. Why, I haven’t told you what the brooch is. Time’s short; but it’s a pair of snow shoes, crossed with a little affair at the top. I got them because they are characteristic of the country they come from, and I knew you would like to see them both dressed alike, though of course there will be something else besides. Love to everybody,
Your loving Son,
F. Seton Cockburn.
202, Bank Street,
Ottawa, P.O.
October 17th, ’84.
“Bold Old Daddy,”
Mercurial Retailer of Caustic and Squills,
Leaches and Rhubarb and Camomile Pills.
Take a run and jump at yourself, and see if you can’t hit upon the answer to that riddle.