I have no doubt you think me a blackguard, to put it mildly, for
taking such a month of Sundays to answer your letter; Of course I
thought to myself as soon as I had finished it: Dash it! here goes.
I'll write him a "jaw." But "dash it" here didn't go. I wrote to
mother instead, and when I had finished that one I was so tired of
scribbling that I "smucked a cegar" and turned in. I was then
staying for the night at the Sherbrooke Hotel, on my way to
Montreal, after having stuck Henry in the mud, which is the polite
way of saying that I left him rapidly taking root in the soil of the
new country. I haven't heard from him since we parted, partly, I
have no doubt, because I have been knocking about so much that all
my letters have missed me. In fact, I haven't heard from a soul for
more than a fortnight. However, I am stationary at last, for a time
anyway. I have got a job as senior draughtsman in a patent
solicitor's office (don't tell anybody, but my only junior is a boy
with a face more astute in angles than in expression). It is a rum
sort of work that I have to do--mostly making drawings from models
in perspective; not too easy, especially as the drawings have to be
finished off "up to Dick," or they are not accepted at the Patent
Office. But there's not much in it after all. No designing, no
calculations, and in a great many instances no real scale even. In
fact, so long as the drawing is done quickly and immaculately got
up, it does not matter a rap whether a man is as big as a monkey or
not, so long as they are both good-looking. You see the main object
is to make the principle of the invention clear at a glance in one
view, that is why they generally are perspective. I have only been
at it a day and a half, so I can't tell you much about either the
boss or the work yet, but I think we shall get on very well
together. Hartley is his name, and this much is tolerably certain
concerning him, he is a rising man, his business is increasing, and,
as I said before, I am his senior draughtsman, therefore should he
"hum," I shall endeavour to hum too. Tell old Major that I can
whistle as loud and as long as I like, and that I can smoke all day
if I please. But I don't please; that's just the rummy part of it.
Now in Hawk's shanty they don't like whistling, and for the life of
me I couldn't keep quiet there. Also they object to the fumes of
tobacco, therefore they missed many a half hour of my time, which
was spent in sacrificing to the king of weeds. Here, in a free
country, I can do as I please, and yet, for some reason or another,
I don't do it. The office is on the fourth flat of the Victoria
Chambers--good height up you see. My lamp is going out--must shut up
for to-night.... Well,
I've just come down again from up a height, as they say in your part
of the world. I finished my first drawing to-day, was highly
commended, and gave it my junior to trace. My second job is a patent
saw-sharpening affair for circular saws. They want half-a-dozen
different plane views, and a perspective arrangement, to be worked
up from a few rough tracings, a rougher specification, and a
photograph with a man in it--the patentee, I believe--so if I
flatter him in the matter of unlikeness he is bound to be well
pleased. I don't know yet, though, if he has to go in or not. The
Patent Office is bound to keep a record, in pictures or models, of
the results of mens' brains, whether eccentric or otherwise, but not
of the general appearance of their possessors. More's the pity, I
think; for from what I have seen of the models in the Patent Office,
they would furnish specimens for the phrenological study of mental
imbecility for generations to come. I only had time just to run
through the model rooms, but here is the idea of a patent which
tickled me immensely. It was simply a lot of wooden geese fastened
at the end of long sticks all over and around a boat. They were
grouped together in most picturesque confusion, some standing on
their heads and some on their tails, and some, _I believe_, supposed
to be flying. The idea was that when real live geese saw this affair
like a mad Noah's ark on the water, they would recognise their
brethren and come flocking along to be shot by the other goose
inside with the gun. Perhaps being geese they would do just that,
but then what depravity on the part of the warlike one thus to take
advantage of the eccentricities of his fellows. I have never seen
the affair used. It does not seem to have made great progress in the
good opinion of the public. Perhaps, after all, the bloodthirsty
quacker, who offers to the irreverant eye this melancholy evidence
of insanity, had a cynically low opinion of his kind, causing him to
believe that geese were geese enough to be deceived by him, the
greatest goose of the lot. I must shut up, or I shall do something
flighty. I wish you'd come and punch my head, or do something of
that sort. Here have I been working all day, and now I'm writing all
night, or at least I've just written it. There's a fellow here feels
like punching somebody, but you see he's all alone, and he knows how
I might hurt himself. Besides, he's writing to my dear brother, so
he does not want to stop me, or else you know he'd never get the
letter. You understand, don't you? Of course you do. It's as clear
as mud. I'm writing with somebody else's ink, that's all. Between
you and me (there's plenty of room, old boy; chuck your elbows out,
and sp--t where you please), that's why he writes such rubbish. I'm
going to write now. You'll see the difference at once when I begin.
The room I now occupy as I pen these lines, belongs to the ancient
style of architecture known as the Five-dollar Boarding-house
Rectangular (he can't afford to go on writing like that, it's too
expensive). Excuse me, my dear sir, I must crave your permission to
condense slightly the style of my caligraphy. Her Majesty's
Postmaster has a prejudice against the carrying of letters which
exceed one ton in weight. I was, I believe, describing the beauties
of my apartment. To proceed at once to details, there is a
stove-pipe that comes in at the wall and goes out at the ceiling, a
peculiarity by no means uncommon in edifices of the before-mentioned
class--the object of the design being the economical warming of the
whole structure by means of one stove, generally of the
severely-dilapidated style. There is also, on the opposite side of
the room, an antique sofa, celebrated for having been too forcibly
sat upon, probably by some athletic hero on his return from victory.
However that may be, the sofa remains to this day tabooed to mortal
forms, though the present owner has informed me that "It reely is
goin' to be fixed up all noo like, when I gets a few more boarders."
From the mixed dialect observable in the form of which intimation I
gather that the original language of the aborigines is not
altogether lost to their posterity. There are also various other
specimens of that style of furniture, which is generally admitted to
be contemporary with the peculiar type of architecture of which I
write, but I am debarred by lack of space from giving them a full
description, or mentioning the legends connected with each. The
beautifully-carved cornices, of the sheep-skin and bees'-wax order,
the elaborate mural--. Oh, gammon! Many happy returns of the
twenty-sixth of last month to you, old boy. I quite forgot my own
birthday, so it could hardly be expected that I should remember
yours. People often do what they're not expected to, however, and I
did remember your birthday--after it was all over that is to say. I
remembered that yours was on the twenty-sixth by talking to somebody
about something or other that was going to happen somewhere about
that date, and then of course it came into my head that I had passed
mine over without observing the feast. Pot said in a letter he wrote
to me, that he hoped my birthday might be the day on which I should
hear of some good job, or do something which should turn out to be a
stroke of good fortune. Curiously enough, it was on the nineteenth
that I learned that a good opening had occurred for Henry, and that
if I liked to take a rather rough fanning job, I could get myself
stuck likewise. That part of the offer I did not accept, and I think
by what has since happened, that my refusal was judgematical.
Moreover, the very next day I heard of a more congenial matter in
the hammer-and-tongs department of my august profession. A village
blacksmith, a horny-handed son of toil, generously offered to feed
and lodge me for as long as I liked to stop, in return for my
services in his forge. The offer was the more magnanimous in that he
was not in any particular need of assistance, but was willing to
stretch a point (a proceeding that would stump Professor Euclid, by
the way,) considering that I was in particular need of a job. No
doubt, like all Yankees, he had an eye on the dollars' question, and
argued, with most praiseworthy perception, that being an engineer
and one who by his own representation had seen a good deal of forge
work, I might prove a very lucrative spec. But then he promised that
if he found that through my agency the money came in faster than it
did before, he would give me my fair share of the profits so
accruing. So I says to him says I, "See here, stranger, if I don't
get into a hole between now and this day fortnight, you'll see me
again. So leave the door open, will you?" He promised to do just
that; and, in fact, he said that I could come and start right away
whenever I pleased. So if this present exalted position of mine
should fail me--for, as I said before, it may only be a temporary
affair--why, slick I shall go away down to my particular friend the
village blacksmith. Well, I must wind up; it's getting late. If ever
you should be goaded by an uneasy conscience into writing me another
letter, just let me know what is going on "on the banks of the coaly
Tyne." Who is anybody, and where is he, etc. How is Bill Hawes, and
give him my love for himself and family. Remember me especially to
M. Moorshead, Esq. Tell him he missed a treat when I went away
without standing him a drink; it was the bitter(less)est! day of his
life. Is Edison still at the redoubtable No. 14? Reach your toe out
and kick him if he is, and tell him I don't love him. By-the-bye,
how's the canoe getting on? Is it finished? Has anybody been
drowned? If so, how many? And did I owe them anything? There's no
chance of its being the other way on. If you see any of the old club
fellows knocking about, tell them they can expect a lock of my hair
on receipt of P.O.O. for one dollar. In fact say boo to every goose
you meet.
Your loving Brother,
J. SETON COCKBURN.
Present Address:
202, Bank Street,
Ottawa, P.O.,
Canada.
_October 10th_, '84.
My Dearest Mother,
I have only two hours from now till when the mail closes, so I must
make the best of my time. I have not called upon Mrs. Howel, because
I could not get at them. It was not worth while making a pretty long
journey just to deliver one introduction, and I believe someone told
me they were not in Montreal. By-the-bye, talking of people whom I
did not see, I must tell you that I also missed Cousin Maynard. He
had gone away somewhere, and left no address that I could hear of,
either at the offices of the British Association or elsewhere. I was
very sorry not to have seen him, but it could not be helped. You say
that Henry told you I was seedy. I think he must have been suffering
under the same delusion as he was that day he came home from a
yachting cruise, and said that "everybody had been awfully
sea-sick," meaning that he himself had been the principal sufferer.
I don't mean that he has been particularly seedy either, certainly
nothing beyond an unmentionable ache. We were both a little bit
churned up for a day or two, and I believe it was owing to
ice-cream. In the hot weather it was most tempting, and they give
you a great plateful for 10 cents., none of the rascally little
thimblefulls you get in England for twice that amount. But you can
make yourself perfectly easy, we are both so far as I know,
perfectly well, not even a mentionable ache, and I tell you
candidly, though I am afraid it is a dreadful confession, I have'nt
felt wretched by any means since I left home. Poor old Daddy! I'm
sorry he was bothered about such a trivial thing as a marriage
settlement; perhaps it is that he wants twopence-halfpenny to square
his accounts. Pump him, will you, and if it should be this that's
preying on his mind, you may tell him he can draw on me for the
amount, and I'll toss him double or quits when I come home. I
suppose he's pretty nearly spliced by this time. Concerning the
passage in my letter which seems to have puzzled you; it seems clear
enough to me, naturally it would, but that don't count. To the best
of my recollection I was writing from Aylmer Street, and I think I
said as much in my letter, if so, here is the explanation of the
obscurity. "I think with the _prospect_ of his (Henry's) being
shortly settled _there_ (Crabtree's), you might write, etc., if we
are not _here_ (the diggings) they can forward the letter." I can't
see the muddiness "if we are not here," means in other words "if we
should have gone away (of course it does), before your answer
arrives," and "they can forward the letter," means naturally that
the people we have left behind can send after us. If I had meant
Crabtree to forward the letter, I must have said "if we are not
_there_." Of course, if I did not tell you that I was writing from
Aylmer Street, I was a great coon, and that would explain the need
of explanation. Well, I suppose you know Henry's true and permanent
address by this time, so his letters are all right. But what would
have been the use of sending one to Crabtree, we should have been
more likely to leave our address at our diggings any way, and there
was only a _prospect_ of his going to C.'s. Should his letter have
gone there, however, he will no doubt get it in the end, though it
will probably be a very long end. We didn't leave our address with
him because he said he would let his friend Kemp (who introduced us)
know what decision he arrived at, and he (Kemp) would write to us;
for all we knew the old chap himself could'nt write his own name.
Poor old fossil! If you send him a note you'll make him scratch all
his hair off, and he has'nt got much. I would'nt send any of my
letters to Mrs. Hall if I were you, you don't know how she is off
for thatch, and it will take a power of thinking for any old lady
unacquainted with Algebra to find out an unknown quantity. You might
address them now to the Post Office, Ottawa, P.O. If I should go
elsewhere I will leave instructions at the P.O. to forward my
letters.
This is a truly dreadful scrawl, but never mind, quantity wins the
day, quality nowhere. You see I am taking the subjects of your letter
and answering them as I go along. So far from having had to dip into
my money for Henry, I left him with fifty odd clear dollars in his
pocket; this came from his second £10. He had pretty near come to the
end of the ten he had in his belt when he started, when he got the
job. I had already come to the end of mine--extraordinary, was'nt
it?--and now I have got at this present moment $459 75c.; quite a
fortune, is'nt it? I'm sorry I have'nt time to write you a longer
letter my dearest mamma, but those nasty wicked people at the Post
Office said they would not stop that big ship for a day or two on any
account. This is such a beast of a pen. I would put it in the envelope
and send it to you if I did not think it would find its way out before
it reached you, just to show you what an immoderate amount of patience
I have got. I've tried to cross all these t's half-a-dozen times, and
pretty vigorously too. It must be awful good paper to withstand the
amount of friction necessary. Now I've pretty well filled up the
sheet. That's all I've been trying to do lately as you can no doubt
see.
With best love to all friends, relations, and acquaintances, believe
me,
Ever your loving Son,
J. SETON COCKBURN.
202, Bank Street,
Ottawa,
_October 15th_, '84.
My Dearest Mother,
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.