Chapter 5

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.

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,

Your affectionate Brother, J. SETON COCKBURN.

202, Bank Street, Ottawa,

_October 22nd_, '84.

Dear Mother,

As I am also writing to Daddy by this post, I am afraid you will not get a very long letter. There's a confisticated great buzz-fly knocking about, and I can't kill him. I told you in my last letter I would give you some idea of what Ottawa was like, but now the time has arrove for the ordeal, I don't like it; descriptions of scenery are not my forte, and they're always uninteresting both to write and to read. By-the-bye, before I begin, how's old Frank's ear, poor old chap, I suppose he growled away by himself, till it was found out by accident by some of you. I hope it will soon be all right again, and that he will be able to let me know how he is getting on at the Works, though three words will probably describe the state of affairs to perfection, "same as usual." Still, I should like to know what Major says to him, and if he or any other members of that fossilized firm are beginning to wake up to a consciousness of his merits. You know, it's always been my idea, that they will find out that they have let the two best men they ever had slip through their fingers, namely, the two senior engineering members of this remarkable family, and that it will eventually occur to them that they had perhaps better hold on to the third. The fact of their giving him 22/- a week while they are sacking other men looks promising for my theory, and if only he can establish a claim to any particular qualification, he may yet succeed in drawing some sort of a prize, where I, and even Pot, have only succeeded in drawing blanks. I believe Frank does possess a special qualification, and that is a power of managing and organizing work. Drawing or designing, etc., is not his strong point, though he would often succeed in that, as the tortoise, where many a hare would fail; but give him an erecting job or anything of that sort, and he would so arrange that the work first wanted should be first ready. This does not sound very much to boast of, but it is a very useful knack to have. I certainly do not possess anything of it, and many a scrape I get into at the Works through forgetting to order certain things at the proper time. For instance, when I had a dredger to get ready for action, it was found, when it came to the scratch, that there was no scum cock for the boiler, no posts for the handrails, etc.. etc. I was more sinned against than sinning that time however, as the job was suddenly thrown on my hands, when Pot left the Works in a state of semi-completion, and I did not know, and in the hap-hazard way things were done there, I could not find out whether certain details had been ordered or not. I believe, had Frank been given that job and told the dredger was to be chiefly the same as number so-and-so, that every drawing would have been sent out in proper order, and every question as to alteration, etc., broached in proper time, so that, when the bosses came to see it tried, it would have worked well without delay.

That's a very long eulogium on the poor dear "smiler;" let's hope it will also turn out to be true of him. Do you ever hear from the old Coke? I suppose you do too, though it seems as if from London to Dawlish was so short a distance it was scarcely worth writing. How's he getting on, and which is he? A manager or a millionaire, or, peradventure, a clerk? Tell Pot to let me know as soon as he makes his first tanner from his invention, and I will stand myself a cigar in honour of the occasion. I ought to write him a jaw too, but in case I shouldn't be able to at present, just tell him, please, that even supposing he fails in getting the advantages of his machine recognised in England, he would stand quite as good, if not a better chance, of doing so here. This country, or better still as I believe, the States, is far more ready and willing to accept and make use of improvements than the old one, and he may possibly not know that an English patent does not hold good here, and vice-versa, though both countries are under English rule. Just to give you an instance of the go-ahead nature of the Works here, I can tell you that Hartley, my employer, has had sixteen patents to procure from one Works alone, in the space of six months. I believe it is a large saw mill, or any way there's a large saw mill connected with them, for the machine I am engaged upon now is for sharpening saws, and they light their Works by gas. "made from sawdust," which is another of their patents.