SIR,--Will you grant me the hospitality of your columns for the exposure
of a grievance? The rest of the Press, which until recent mouths have
welcomed my communications, seem to have become indifferent to matters
affecting the health and comfort of the intellectual classes.
I am a professional man. For the past five-and-twenty years, with only
one exception (the year following the Diamond Jubilee of the late QUEEN
VICTORIA), I have fallen a victim during the first days of November to
an attack of bronchial catarrh. In this distressing complaint, as you
may be aware, an early symptom is a fit of sneezing, with other manifest
discomfort which I need not here particularise.
For the past twenty-five years (with the one exception to which I have
alluded) my first sneeze has been the signal for alarm among the
women-folk of my household. My elder sister goes quietly upstairs for
the bottle of ammoniated quinine; my younger sister explores the
recesses of a cupboard for the piece of red flannel to which I have been
accustomed; and Emily, the maid, without being instructed, puts the
kettle on the gas-stove. Any lady visitor there may be in the house is
ready with suggestions of alternative remedies, recalling numerous
interesting and instructive examples. Light and nourishing dishes are
prepared for my dinner; a hot-water bottle is placed in my bed; and in
the bedroom a fire is lit. I retire to rest at 9.30, and, having
disrobed and covered myself with an augmented supply of blankets, I am
brought a glass of hot milk by one of my sisters, who gently places my
dressing-gown round my shoulders while I drink it. Afterwards I lie down
to sleep, with the bell-push within reach. A tap at the door wakes me
next morning. "May I bring in a cup of tea, dear Septimus?" asks my
other sister. I am implored to remain in bed for the day, and swift
arrangements are made with the butcher, when he calls, to telephone a
message to the office. Emily refrains from singing while washing up, and
wears felt slippers during her duties about the house.
Such, Sir, has been the routine attending this practically annual event
for the past five-and-twenty years. But I regret to inform you that a
secret and sinister change has been at work in our domestic relations.
The first sneeze of this year's attack took place last evening. My once
attentive sisters, immersed in wool and flannel of all shades, took no
notice; Miss Annistay, an old family friend, alone remarked upon my
condition, stating that colds were very prevalent, and adding somewhat
irrelevantly that it must be terrible in the trenches this weather. For
dinner I had nothing more sustaining than our customary fare, and when I
asked for hot milk at bedtime my sisters inquired, "Whatever for,
Septimus?" I sought my chamber, only to find, on enquiry, that my
dressing-gown, my extra blankets and my hot-water bottle had
disappeared--gone, I understand, to a local hospital. And, far from
remaining in bed to-day, I am writing this from my office, an
exceedingly draughty apartment.
Yours cordially,
SEPTIMUS CODDELL.
P.S.--Of course I thoroughly approve of the idea that we must all make
sacrifices in time of war; but, as I tell my household, these sacrifices
should be personal and not vicarious.
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