This small satire is intended to counteract any embarrassing amount of gratitude you may happen to feel for the small present I send herewith to charming Mrs. Lestock Cockburn, that is to be, or that is already, for aught I know to the contrary. The scarf-pin is for yourself; you have got a much better one I know, but not such a pretty one. I hesitated a long time whether to send it to you or to Frank; he having indulged in a birthday some time back, but I argued, with my customary logical powers, that birthdays were, as a rule, of more frequent occurrence in the life of man than weddings, and having fairly gotten the best of the controversy, my opponent being nowhere, I have acted up to my convictions in sending you a miniature pair of snow-shoes as a testimony of my warm affection. (Horrible, ain’t it?) Well, never mind. How goes the money-grubbing business in your department. Good word that. I got it in my dealings with the Government of these parts. What do you think? A man had the cheek to-day to ask me if I wanted any money! me, who’s got four hundred and fifty dollars somewhere, and fifty cents, in his pocket besides; think of that you old Camomile Pill, and hold a bucket to your mouth to catch the water. That man, Sir, was my esteemed employer, A. Hartley, Esquire, who solicits patents, and gets a good many of them too, and I told that man “no,” as became a gentleman of my own independent means, emphatically “no.” Ahem! not just at present. Ha, ha, says I to myself, says I, I laugh in my sleeve, this is my first week, and from being new to the work and out of practice anyway, I have’nt appeared to the best advantage. I’ll wait till next week, and then it’ll be a lot of money or two pistols, says I to myself says I (that’s a quotation you know.) Besides, I hope to benefit myself by this temporary abstinence in other ways. A sharp, enterprising chap, who is pushing his way upwards to business distinction as Hartley is, is better satisfied to have at his back a fellow who is evidently not hard up! and may be worth something, than to have a seedy looking dependent who must be paid on Saturday or sleep on a doorstep. Of course, supposing both to possess the same ability, it induces a feeling of respect too, which in its turn brings it about, that in the event of anything going wrong in any way, the more fortunate gentleman is not blown up, until the why and the wherefore of the mishap has been ascertained, when it frequently transpires that he is not in the wrong; whereas the seedy dependent, who generally walks in reluctantly at 9 o’clock and goes out with the air of a dook at five ditto sharp, gets it pretty hot in any case, in the same way that a man will swear at a common pipe for breaking, but will swear at himself for breaking an expensive one. I believe that illustrates my theory somehow, but I forgot my original idea before I had got half through with the simile. However, the plain fact is easy enough of comprehension. I have gone in for impressing my boss with an idea of my importance. You see I closed with this gentleman on the clear understanding that the job would possibly be only a temporary one, but if I can only get him to perceive my manifold merits I shall be kept on through the winter, and somebody else will have to bunk, that is supposing anybody has to. Take it altogether I have made a very good beginning; Hartley talks to me more confidentially every day, and this evening told me I had done very well, which does not look as though he were going to be niggardly in the matter of screw, for that is not a settled point yet. I notice that my writing is nearly as variable as my ideas. You might think this had been written by two different people, or by one man in two different years instead of all at one sitting, bar the last few words, which are a Sunday production. It’s all done by a turn of the wrist, something like the handle in a New York printing machine. How can I go on? A slavey, one pre-eminently of the boarding house description, is kicking up a row. I don’t exactly know what sort of a row, unless—. Yes, by jove, I have it, she’s singing. I don’t know whether Messrs. Moody and Sankey would be shocked at her for desecration of the Sabbath or praise her for singing one of their tunes. Probably they would split the difference and tell her she was a good girl, with a hint tacked on that a little went a long way. Well, this is a confounded lot of rubbish I’ve been writing, but I make it a point never to send an unfilled sheet across the Atlantic, and there is absolutely nothing to write about in all these places. You talk of Dawlish being a dead-and-alive hole, but it’s a fool to Ottawa in this respect. It may be a go-ahead country, but the towns stand perfectly still. The prevailing sounds on Sunday afternoon are an occasional lumbering kind of tramp along the wooden pavements, the squalling of stray children, and the bark of stray dogs. Love to everybody (there’s philanthropy for you).
Your loving Brother,
J. Seton Cockburn.
P.S.—(Monday night). There is nothing more to say except that I always feel as reluctant to close a letter as to begin one.
J. S. C.
202, Bank Street,
Ottawa,
October 22nd, ’84.
My Dear Old Daddy,
You wrote to me under the expectation of getting a reply from me, so here you are. Before I proceed further, let me wish you joy, as I suppose you are married by this time. May God bless you both, and may your patients have all the faith in your skill as a doctor, and your honour as a man, that you deserve. I don’t know whether to address to you at Hope Cottage or not, as nobody has told me exactly when you are to be married, or where you are going when you’ve been and gone and done it. Well, by Jove! I know you’re a cautious sort of chap as regards the L.S.D., and that you generally seem to know about how much coin you ought to have, but if I had your incipient fortune, I would swear by my own ghost and set up a blacksmith’s shop alongside the Houses of Parliament. I would call myself a dooke, nothing less. Why it’s magnificent. You’ll soon be sporting a donkey cart or a balloon to pay your morning calls in. I would’nt have horses on any account if I were you, they’re vulgar, and then if you should have to ride anywhere you would make a much greater sensation on a high mettled donkey with half the attendant personal danger.
No time for more at present, old chap. Give my love to your wife, and believe me,