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Title: Candid Chronicles
Date of first publication: 1925
Author: Hector Charlesworth (1872-1945)
Date first posted: July 24, 2013
Date last updated: July 24, 2013
Faded Page eBook #20130748

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                          CANDID CHRONICLES

                     [Illustration: Joshua Smith]




                                CANDID
                              CHRONICLES

                   _Leaves from the Note Book of a
                         Canadian Journalist_

                                  BY

                         HECTOR CHARLESWORTH

                  TORONTO: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY OF
                CANADA LIMITED, AT ST. MARTIN'S HOUSE

                                 1925




                     COPYRIGHT, CANADA, 1925
           BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY OF CANADA LIMITED

                   First printing, November, 1925.
                   Second printing, December, 1925.

                          PRINTED IN CANADA

                   T. H. BEST PRINTING CO., LIMITED
                            TORONTO, ONT.




                                 _To
                    KATHERINE (RYAN) CHARLESWORTH
               the dear companion of more than half my
                   earthly voyage, in which joy has
                       far outmeasured sorrow,
                              I dedicate
                             this Book._




                               FOREWORD


I suppose it may be taken for granted that if a man elects to write
memoirs he should begin before he is so old that he has forgotten
how to tell the truth: while his impressions of the persons he has
encountered and the things he has experienced are still vivid.
Therefore it is not as a "slippered pantaloon", ripe for epitaphs,
that I present these chronicles.

The problem which confronts a writer who essays such a task, before
he is well into his first chapter, is how far he shall go in
intimacy; how copious in presenting credentials. As an ardent reader
of memoirs, I have taken most pleasure in those volumes which are,
within reasonable limits, intimate; and which partake of the nature of
vivacious conversation. I may then plead for this book that, like the
young lady in a once popular ditty who averred "I'm not so homely as I
look", it is not so planless as it seems.

It is perhaps advisable that I should reveal the motive of the early
chapters, which deal with the more remote past; and which to some may
seem unduly personal. In them I have tried to make the past, as seen
through the eyes of relatives and connections long since in their
graves, live again: to evoke a suggestion of the cross-currents, great
and small, which influenced Canada's social and economic development.
In other words I have sought, in my own infirm way, to do what
Arnold Bennett did for a corner of industrial England in the early
chapters of "Clayhanger"; and what in a much more elaborate way the
German novelist, Thomas Mann, did for one of the Hanseatic cities in
"Buddenbrooks"; the difference being that the men and women of whom
I write had real identities. My early chapters will perhaps serve as
a reminder that not all who helped to bring into being the Canada
of to-day were, in the narrower conception of the term, "pioneers",
dependent alone on axe and rifle. Not all native sons of a hundred
years ago were "cradled in a sap-trough". The rank and file of the
uncelebrated makers of Canada, as of every young country, were men
of many callings, many aptitudes, and varied ambitions, as my early
chapters show.

I make no apology for the circumstance that the pivot around which
these chronicles centre is, in the main, the inland city of Toronto.
Electricity, radio, and various modern channels of communication have
robbed the epithet "provincial" of its former significance. Outside
the realm of commerce and industry, the interests of cities, great and
small, reveal a surprising uniformity. Toronto, however, has a claim
to distinction, in that it is the most cohesively British city to be
found outside Great Britain itself. Men of British name and lineage
still dominate its affairs to an extent unequalled in any other town
of large dimensions in North America. But the feature of its history
of which its people have most reason to be proud (whether they are
aware of it or not), is that their city has from its inception been in
some measure an intellectual centre. Almost the first thing decided
by the little group of British colonists and New England loyalists
who were its founders was that it should have an university. Amid a
network of streams, in an oasis on the edge of an almost unscarred
forest, this destiny was planned, and in the face of an unforeseen
commercial development the faith has been kept by their descendants.

This volume, I trust, will not be my last of its kind. Except in rare
instances, and then mainly for the purposes of allusion and parallel,
the incidents related do not occur later than 1905. In the chapters on
actors, a period has been set at 1900.

In writing this book I discovered a fact I did not realize at the
outset; namely, that the accumulations of a fairly tenacious memory
run far beyond the limits of a single volume; and I lay down my pen
with many tales untold.
                                                                 H. C.
  August 1st, 1925.




                               CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                                        PAGE

 I THE CANADA THAT WAS: MAINLY PERSONAL                             1

  An all-Canadian ancestry--Manitoba and the Selkirk
  Adventure--A forebear fights at Chateauguay--Early
  navigation on the St. Lawrence--Marriage
  customs in Old Quebec--My Grandmother's
  memories of Papineau's Rising--The
  American Civil War and Canada's youth--My
  uncle at Appomattox.

  II THE SIXTIES AND AFTER                                          14

  A transplanted Yorkshire yeoman--The movement
  to make Canada the Empire's granary--A
  memory of Waterloo--Port Hope in the old
  sailing days--Volney Ashford, the Canadian dictator
  of Hawaii--Stevenson and Father Damien--Trading
  methods of the Confederation era--The
  old rural horse fairs.

  III MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD                                         30

  An early fundamentalist--Windsor in the seventies,
  the New Orleans of Canada--Mrs. Fiske's
  father--The hazards of smuggling--The old village
  of Yorkville--Toronto University's bucolic
  surroundings--Victoria MacVicar, a woman of
  the Western Outposts--New light on Louis Riel.

  IV MAINLY ABOUT CLERGYMEN                                         46

  How the West was saved to Canada--The Bishop
  of Connecticut in the '85 Rebellion--Hon. S. H.
  Blake and Bishop Bethune--Bishop Sweatman's
  tolerant views--Orators of other days--Canon
  DuMoulin and William O'Brien's campaign
  against Lord Lansdowne--Riotous days--Missionary
  clergy.

  V MY BEGINNINGS AS A WRITER                                       60

  Deficiencies in education--My mother's literary
  tastes--Some teachers who helped--I become
  an accountant--The sordid side of business life--Tragedy
  of a clever man--E. E. Sheppard seeks
  out his anonymous contributor.

  VI WHEN JOURNALISTS WERE PICTURESQUE                              72

  Edmund E. Sheppard, a Bret Harte type--Entertaining
  a Premier--His career in sensational
  journalism--Louis P. Kribs, "The Crown Prince"--Paul
  Whiteman anticipated--The hoax of Sir
  John Macdonald's retirement--65th Battalion's
  famous slander action--Origin of _Saturday
  Night_--Sir Walter Cameron Nichol's early
  exploits--Jacobi the painter.

  VII POETS AND WOMEN WRITERS OF THE PAST                           87

  The forgotten poet, Duncan McKellar--His
  most famous lyric--Kate Westlake's dime novel--William
  Wilfred Campbell--False charges of
  plagiarism in connection with "The Mother"--Two
  brilliant Irish women, Lady Gay and Kit--Pauline
  Johnson, the Indian woman-poet--Her
  relationship to William Dean Howells--Her
  success in London--A visit to the Pagans.

  VIII TWO FAMOUS FIGURES: SIR JOHN A. MACDONALD
  AND GOLDWIN SMITH                                                105

  The gap John A. Macdonald left--His handling
  of the Jesuit Estates Bill--How the Orangemen
  served the Jesuits--The Farrer annexation
  pamphlet and the thieving printer--How Rider
  Haggard was defrauded by literary pirates--Goldwin
  Smith as an anonymous writer--His
  many peculiarities--A Farmer Leader at the
  Grange.

  IX LEARNING LIFE WITH A NOTE BOOK                                123

  The newspaper arena in the nineties--W. F.
  Maclean and _The World_--Maclean's advent to
  the House of Commons--His gift for choosing
  born newspaper aides--John A. Ewan, cosmopolitan
  correspondent--Walter J. Wilkinson, the
  instinctive news organizer--His story of Jumbo
  and the baby elephant--Scoop as to Sir John
  Thompson's illness that caused a national storm--"Ebor"
  the sermon-taster--The battle for Sunday
  street cars.

  X HOBBLED JOURNALISM                                             147

  My year on _The Empire_--A newspaper governed
  by a party machine--David Creighton's amiable
  peculiarities--Protection or Protestantism--A
  city editor with a Scottish conscience--Ideals of
  the "_Glasgae Herruld_"--Clan-na-Gael Murder
  of Dr. Cronin, and a reporter's hoax in connection
  therewith--How the Conservatives were
  bluffed out of their own newspaper--Laurier
  gets bouquets from unexpected source.

  XI POLITICS OF THE NINETIES                                      165

  Edward Blake's departure for the British House
  of Commons--Humours of the Annexation Movement--Sir
  Oliver Mowat's last campaign--Petty
  issues and tedious leadership--Sir William
  Meredith drops out--Arthur Sturgis Hardy--Whitney
  surprises everyone--Hardy forces
  Niagara power development.

  XII GREAT THINGS UNFORSEEN                                       178

  Policies born in the dawn of the century which
  changed the economic future of Canada--Great
  events obscured by electoral crimes--Sir George
  Ross and his contemporaries--Whitney's rise
  to power--W. J. Hanna, prince of politicians--Niagara
  development and Sir Adam Beck--Beginnings
  of Northern Ontario development.

  XIII LAURIER AND TUPPER                                          194

  Sir Wilfrid's rise to popularity and power--Blake's
  hard luck with indiscreet litterateurs--The
  famous song "Ontario, Ontario"--The campaign
  of 1896 and some unpublished political
  history--Laurier's only financial speech--His
  tact, distinction and wit--Tupper the stalwart
  fighting man--A stickler for political proprieties--Sir
  George Foster's suave way with interrupters--Rev.
  J. A. Macdonald's attempt to destroy
  him.

  XIV B. B. OSLER AND THE HYAMS CASE                               212

  Osler, easily first among Canadian pleaders--His
  brother, Sir William, and the "Oslerization"
  hoax--A lie that has lived--B. B. Osler's international
  fame in the Riel and Birchall cases--Ratclive,
  the hangman, gives his views--The
  Hyams case, Toronto's greatest newspaper
  scoop--Indictment for conspiracy and murder--Famous
  New York lawyer, Francis L. Wellman,
  engaged for defence--His misrepresentations--My
  experiences as a witness--Col. Foster, the
  Tammany jury-fixer.

  XV LAWYERS AND CAUSES                                            232

  Osler's mastery of the Socratic method--Sir John
  Gibson crushes Hon. S. H. Blake--Episode in
  Bank Robbery case--The Johnson-Osler rivalry--Hammond,
  the wife-murderer, the one man
  Osler was proud of having convicted--The great
  pleader's death--Dalton McCarthy's gifts of
  argument--Conan Doyle and the Westwood murder--Johnston's
  constructive defences--Last
  Fenian attempt on Canada--The biggest scoop
  I ever got single-handed.

  XVI KING GEORGE V. IN CANADA                                     253

  Royal Tour of Duke and Duchess of York in 1901--Previous
  visits of Royalty--"Lorne and Louise"--Looking
  for the royal ship, "Ophir"--Assassination
  of President McKinley causes gloomy
  reaction--Some untoward incidents--Feminine
  charm of the future Queen--Her vital interest in
  everything--Illness of His Royal Highness gives
  rise to slanders--An informal day in the woods
  of the Ottawa Valley--Picturesque episodes of
  Western trip--Governor Odell of New York State
  disappointed--Some cases of mistaken identity.

  XVII CORONETS AND CORRESPONDENTS                                 274

  Celebrities who came in the wake of Royalty--The
  Earl of Erne's tragic destiny--Mr. Jones of
  Sandringham, correspondent of the royal children--A
  group of famous journalists--Melton
  Prior, Moberly Bell, Martin Egan and others--Memories
  of the Boxer Rising--Quebec Tercentenary
  a noble spectacle--Lord Roberts in Canada--The
  late Duke of Norfolk--My meeting
  with the "Bald-Faced Kid".

  XVIII A SHEAF OF CELEBRITIES                                     291

  Oscar Wilde's Questionnaire--Henry Ward
  Beecher--T. DeWitt Talmadge--Robert Ingersoll,
  the "Atheist"--Mark Twain and the telephone--James
  Whitcomb Riley--Sir Edwin Arnold--Yankee
  showman's offers to Tennyson and Ibsen--Winston
  Churchill worsts Major Pond--James
  Keir Hardie--Jacob A. Riis--Two American Chief
  Justices--Bryan and the drama--Col. Henry
  Watterson--Rupert Brooke's _faux pas_--Shackleton
  and Amundsen--Li Hung Chang.

  XIX MUSICIANS AND PAINTERS                                       315

  Confessions of a double life--The _fin de siècle_
  period--Arthur Fisher, master of tactlessness--Dr.
  Torrington and Lilli Lehmann--Hans von
  Bülow in bad temper--Elliott Haslam, prince of
  companions--His tragic end--His nephew captivates
  James Gordon Bennett--A story of the
  De Reszkes--The Rise of A. S. Vogt--Some of
  the older Canadian painters--Berthon, Fowler,
  Cruikshank, Homer Watson, Horatio Walker, and
  others--Ernest Thompson-Seton's beginnings.

  XX STARS OF OTHER DAYS                                           337

  The tradition of Adelaide Neilson--A stage door
  rich in associations--Denman Thompson's beginnings
  with "The Old Homestead"--The bewitching
  Lotta Crabtree--Maggie Mitchell and "Little
  Gladys"--The "Mikado" craze--My first criticism--The
  versatile Henry E. Dixey--Lillian
  Russell's perennial loveliness--A real Cinderella--Singing
  beauties of the nineties--Marie Tempest
  in tights.

  XXI THE ENGLISH INVASION                                         349

  The Bancroft School and its votaries--Rosina
  Vokes, unique comédienne--The coming of the
  Kendals--Mrs. Kendal's virtue unpopular--The
  Jersey Lily--Cora Brown-Potter and Kyrle Bellew--Olga
  Nethersole's lingering kiss--Edward
  S. Willard, great interpreter of modern roles--His
  failure in Shakespeare and decline to sentimentality--Sir
  John Hare, master of finesse--Irene
  Vanbrugh's youthful charm.

  XXII SHAKESPEARIANS OF THE NINETIES                              365

  Retirement of Booth--Thomas W. Keene--Margaret
  Mather--An actor of villains--Robert
  Burns Mantell--Beautiful Caroline Miskel--Lewis
  Morrison--James O'Neill--Richard Mansfield--The
  earlier Sothern--Younger Salvini, a romantic
  genius--Wilson Barrett--The brilliant
  Canadian, Franklin McLeay--Modjeska, Fanny
  Davenport, Rhea, Janauschek, and Marie Wainwright--Rose
  and Charles Coghlan--A. M.
  Palmer's great stock company--Ada Rehan and
  Augustin Daly--Rise of Julia Marlowe and Mrs.
  Fiske.

  XXIII MEMORIES OF IRVING                                         386

  A personality that suggested fatality--Lady
  Irving's hatred of the English and alleged
  jealousy of his success--Unfair attacks on
  Irving--Ellen Terry's radiance--Two Elaines
  from Canada--An interview on many themes--Estimate
  of Shakespeare, the man--Irving's
  enthusiasm for Ellen Terry's Beatrice--An
  estimate of Ibsen--Tennyson's ambition to be
  a real playwright--Irving's tribute to the Scottish
  race.




                          CANDID CHRONICLES




                              CHAPTER I

                 THE CANADA THAT WAS: MAINLY PERSONAL


The problem of Canadianizing the citizenship of this country is one on
which some of my friends like to speculate, but it is a subject with
which I have never been personally concerned. In my case the process
of Canadianization began many decades before I was born. So far as
anyone of British blood may claim to be a died-in-the-weave Canadian,
that am I; and it is not without pride that I speak of forebears who
played their part not only in the beginnings of British settlement
in Lower and Upper Canada but in the West itself--for one of my
grandfathers was born on the site of what is now Winnipeg before the
Battle of Waterloo was fought. The last of my progenitors to cross the
Atlantic for the purpose of making a home in the new world came nearly
a century ago, and others of them were in Canada long before.

Thus, with the exception of certain memories of a girlhood in
Yorkshire, which one of my grandmothers used to relate, all the
family lore and traditions which a listening child picks up and
unconsciously remembers were, in my case, Canadian. Though from
babyhood I have myself lived in or about cities, these traditions
reflected a life quite different from that which I have known--a life
of struggling scattered communities too busy in the task of creating
a new civilization in imitation of that which had been left behind,
to be quite conscious of themselves. I realize now that as a boy I
missed priceless opportunities to collect material for a book on the
earlier life of Canada. The truth of the matter is that until within
the present century, Canadians as a people were all too indifferent
toward the records of their social and political history. Like their
French predecessors, the Britishers who came to Canada during the
first seven or eight decades after the British conquest in 1759 were
by nature adventurous, else they would not have come at all. Like all
persons of adventurous temperament they were thinking of the present
and future rather than of the past. Thus experiences which viewed
from the standpoint of the present generation seem romantic and even
harrowing were to them affairs of no exceptional moment--part of the
routine. Since the dawn of the present century we have all suddenly
awakened to the importance of historical records and pioneer lore;
and systematic service has been rendered by men like my friend,
Prof. George M. Wrong, and many others in collecting the records and
presenting the epic of Canadian development. How recent this movement
is may be realized by the fact that Lord Minto, when he returned to
Canada as Governor-General in 1898, was astonished to find that steps
had never been taken to preserve the official records of Canadian
historical events, and that it was by his insistence, rather than
that of any Canadian statesman, that the Dominion Archives department
was established. The Canadian Battlefields Commission is of even more
recent origin. Public indifference to records was merely symptomatic
of the sentiment of Canadians as a whole toward their own traditions
and history during the period of my boyhood. They were too busy
getting on, and watching for the next turn of events, to bother about
them.

Now that a new spirit of enquiry has come over the land it is too late
for some of us to uncover the wealth of material that once was open
to us in the form of family recollections, and which, in the cant
of my trade, would have made "good copy". Yet intelligent children
listening to the talk of elderly relatives do unconsciously store
away in odd corners of the brain a good deal of lore. Personally
I am Saxon and Celt in almost equal proportions, and physically
almost always identified by Highland Scotsmen when I come into their
company as one of themselves--this despite the fact that I bear the
pure Saxon-Yorkshire name of Charlesworth. They even treat me as an
equal--which, as every Scotsman knows, is a concession. Since it
was the Celtic or maternal side of my ancestry that played the more
adventurous part in the early settlement of English-speaking Canada,
it is on that which I shall first touch. My great grandfather was a
Sutherlandshire Highlander of the name of McEachern, which means in
the Gaelic, McHector. The McEacherns in the old warlike days were a
sept of the great clan of the Macdonalds of Glencoe. He himself had
been a soldier and very probably his forebears were Jacobites. In 1811
he journeyed to Fort Garry via the Hudson's Bay route on some mission
in connection with Lord Selkirk's ill-fated plan of founding the Red
River Colony in what is now Manitoba. His wife was, I believe, a
MacVicar and he had connections who were Hudson's Bay Company officers.

At Fort Garry, shortly after his arrival, his wife bore him a son, who
was John McEachern, my maternal grandfather, one of the very first
white babies to be born west of Lake Superior. In other volumes,
those interested in the history of the Red River Settlement may
learn of the sad adventures of Lord Selkirk's party; how they became
involved in the fur trading war between the Hudson's Bay Company and
the younger Northwest Company--a commercial conflict that involved
bloodshed. This must have been a harrowing experience for a woman like
my great-grandmother, who had a young baby. Now that the Hudson's
Bay route is so much discussed in the West it is interesting to be
able to boast of ancestors whose advent to Canada was by that route.
Life in the vicinity of Fort Garry in 1812 was too exciting even for
a Highland Scotsman like my great-grandfather, and shortly with his
young wife and baby he made his way East to Montreal. How I should
like to have had the privilege of listening to the personal narrative
of the brave woman who with a nursing baby travelled by canoe over the
waterways of Northern Ontario, the route by which the furs of the West
were brought to the market centre on Beaver Hall Hill, Montreal.

Though my great-grandparents came to the East under these picturesque
circumstances, they left behind them relatives, especially the
MacVicar connection, who appear in all the lore attaching to the early
settlement not only of the Red River region, but of Fort William and
Port Arthur. Coming East to escape the perils and hardships of the
West, my great-grandparents were but falling from the frying pan into
the fire (though the chances for a young mother were better), for the
war of 1812 had commenced, and the whole Canadian border was menaced.
There was work for a soldier to do, and I learned quite recently
from W. D. Lighthall, LL.D., of Westmount, Quebec, who through
the McEachern connection is my cousin in several removes, that my
great-grandfather fought under Colonel de Salaberry at Chateauguay as
the comrade of French Canadians. The _Bonne Entente_, of which so much
has been said of late, was thus early established among my own people.
Liking and respect for the original white race of Canada's history was
taught me in earliest childhood.

All Canadian historians unite in emphasizing the significance of
the Battle of Chateauguay, not only because it was as important in
repelling invasion in Lower Canada as was the engagement of Queenston
Heights in Upper Canada, but because it furnished decisive proof
of the loyalty of French Canadians to British institutions, and of
their valour in defending that allegiance. I am proud to say that
it was mainly due to the efforts of a great-uncle of mine, the late
Lieut.-Col. Archibald McEachern, C.M.G., that the significance of the
battle was commemorated in the erection of the Chateauguay Monument,
forty years ago. The latter was a younger brother of my grandfather,
born at Lachine in 1819, where my great-grandparents had settled.
Subsequently they moved to Ormston, in the united counties of
Beauharnois and Huntingdon, and I have many distant cousins scattered
through that populous district.

John McEachern, my grandfather, never returned to the West where he
was born. In the early days of steam navigation on the St. Lawrence
he became a mariner, and two or three years ago I was gratified to
learn from an article on early navigation published in the _Huntingdon
Gleaner_ that his name was still remembered in the district south
of Montreal. He is credited with having invented certain devices
for navigating the Lachine rapids in the days before steam vessels
on inland waters had become as powerful as they are to-day, and was
associated in business with his connections, the DeWitts, who figure
prominently in the early history of Montreal navigation. It would
surprise many young people of to-day to know the relatively great part
which inland navigation played in the economic life of Canada eighty
years ago, compared with that of to-day, when railways run everywhere
and the science of bridge building has produced the engineering
marvels to link them up.

While endeavouring to avoid the tedium of such an author as Moses,
credited, perhaps unfairly, with the "begat" chapters of the _Old
Testament_, I cannot refrain from saying something of my maternal
grandmother, Charlotte Burrell, whose connection with Canada antedated
that of her husband, the young mariner, John McEachern. She was
a daughter of George Burrell, a Dublin Irishman, who through the
influence of a cousin, Sir Peter Burrell, for a short period in the
later Georgian era, Lord Chancellor, had obtained an appointment in
the British administration of Lower Canada. My sister possesses an
heirloom with the initials "G. & J. B." deeply engraved thereon, which
stands for George and Jennifer Burrell. The surname of this Jennifer,
who was my great-grandmother, I have forgotten if I was ever told it,
but I do recall that she was a native of the Province of Quebec, and
the name indicates Cornish origin. It is Cornish for Guinevere and has
rather a lively significance--for the carryings on of Queen Guinevere
with Sir Lancelot are not forgotten among the Cornish peasantry, and
the noun "jennifer" is sometimes used as a synonym for hussy. I have
never met the word elsewhere than in the Cornish heroine of George
Bernard Shaw's drama, _The Doctor's Dilemma_. The story of Jennifer
Burrell illustrates one of the early social customs of Eastern Canada,
which, according to Louisa M. Alcott, was also common to northern New
England--namely, early marriage--child-marriage almost. Critics are
given to questioning the text of Shakespeare's _Romeo and Juliet_
where the age of the girl for whom her parents are arranging marriage
is given as fourteen. But in Lower Canada and New England (_circa_
1800), fourteen was looked upon as the marriageable age of a girl, at
which time she began to prepare her linen and other details of the
wedding equipment. George Burrell was not Jennifer's first husband;
she had been married at fourteen and at sixteen was widowed, with a
child.

Of her four daughters, who bore the stately old-fashioned names of
Eleanor, Amelia, Harriet and Charlotte, the latter, my grandmother,
was the youngest. They were brought up in the Anglican faith of their
father, George Burrell, but since they were educated in a French
convent at Quebec they had a very kindly feeling for Roman Catholics,
and were social favourites among the educated French-Canadian youths
of the day. My great-aunt, Harriet, a tall and stately woman, used
to boast that they attributed to her a quality which the French term
"_je ne sais quoi_". In later life Aunt Harriet and my grandmother
both became ardent Methodists, but I never heard them speak in other
but kindly words of the Catholic associations in which they were
reared. Once when I was a little boy I heard my grandmother, though
in ordinary intercourse almost inhumanly gentle, sharply rebuke a
fellow Methodist for speaking slightingly of the Mother of Our Lord.
She lived long enough to attain second childhood; and, then, to the
dismay of her daughters, to whom she had neglected to teach French,
would converse only in that language, which she had used constantly
as a little girl. Facility in two languages is a great convenience
for domestic purposes. My mother often told of how aggravating it
was when her elders, becoming conscious of "little pitchers", would
turn suddenly to French and carry on long animated conversations on
subjects they did not wish the children to understand.

My grandmother, after her marriage to John McEachern, lived at
Chateauguay Basin, and vividly remembered the episodes of the
rebellion led by Louis Papineau in 1837. The rising in Upper Canada
under William Lyon Mackenzie was rather a joke in its way. I once
asked the late Thomas Anderson, of Eglinton, who had taken up arms
with Mackenzie, was imprisoned and made a sensational escape, what the
rebellion in Upper Canada was all about. His retort was, "Just some
of the boys raising hell, I guess". But in Lower Canada it was much
more than a joke. My grandmother, though the daughter of a British
official, was indignant at the reprisals which followed Papineau's
rising. She told me of fine young Frenchmen, whom she regarded as
merely thoughtless and impulsive, being taken from their homes and
shot. And I suspect that her husband with his Jacobite ancestry was
not sympathetic toward the severely punitive measures adopted.

It was at Chateauguay Basin that my mother, also named Charlotte, was
born, but when she was a little girl her father, who had given up
navigation, removed to Hamilton, Ont., where, with her elder brothers
and sisters, she was reared, and where I myself was born. Ties with
the old Huntingdon district, however, were not broken; as a young girl
she made long visits there in the home of her uncle, Col. Archibald
McEachern, who in 1860 was appointed Collector of Inland Revenue.
This uncle, who was no stern pietist like my grandfather, lived the
life of a laird among the Scottish folk, at that time numerous in
Huntingdon and Beauharnois. In the Highland Scottish people there
exists an abnormal psychic faculty attested by many legends. Col.
McEachern was credited with peculiar psychic powers, and my mother,
who had no hereditary belief in the occult and was skeptical by
nature, has told me of occasions on which she knew him to summon
persons to his presence by mere mental effort. He would simply will
that some fellow-townsman should come and see him and he would come.
He commanded the Huntingdon Borderers, and when in 1870 the Fenians
projected an invasion on the Quebec border, to redeem the fiasco at
Fort Erie in 1866, he disposed his troops so well that the invaders
were afraid to cross the Trout River. For this timely service he
received the honour of "C.M.G." and it used to be a joke with my
mother that Uncle Archie had been honoured by Queen Victoria for
having never fired a shot. After all the best military tactics in such
a case was to scare away the enemy without injury to anyone. Unlike my
grandfather, "old Uncle Archie", as we used to call him to distinguish
him from a younger uncle of the same name, lived to a ripe old age.
He passed away in 1898 in his 79th year. One of the activities of
his old age was the organization of the Chateauguay Literary and
Historical Society to perpetuate the memory of those who won the
victory of Chateauguay. This organization succeeded in raising funds
for the Chateauguay Monument, and at its unveiling in October, 1885,
he presided.

The military enthusiasm which is inherent in many men of Highland
Scottish blood persisted in my mother's elder brother, my uncle John
McEachern. From him and from many others who have passed away I
learned of the disturbing effect of the American Civil War on Canadian
youth. It was very difficult to keep lads of adventurous spirit at
home. They knew little of what the war was about, but the influence
of American war songs which became popular throughout Canada, and
the accounts of battles in an uncensored press, inflamed the spirit
of adventure that lurks in all healthy youths. A great deal of
censorious rubbish has been written about Canada's attitude toward
the anti-slavery struggle. The fact is that the Washington Government
at the outset did everything that it conceivably could to alienate
Canadian sympathy from the Northern cause. Lincoln's chief adviser,
Ex-Governor Seward, of New York, had promulgated a plan to avert civil
war by uniting the whole American nation in a war for the annexation
of Canada and Mexico. This policy was favoured by many Republican
politicians. It was the old Russian plan of promoting wars abroad to
avert troubles at home, and with Canada situated as she was in 1860-5
warm sympathies with the North could hardly be expected. Sir John A.
Macdonald was indeed so alarmed at this covert menace to Canadian
security that he sent Sir Alexander Galt to Washington to ask Lincoln
a direct question as to whether he intended to make war on Canada.
The President gave his word in the negative and kept it. But there
were others around Lincoln who were not so magnanimously disposed.
On the other hand the South made every effort to cultivate British
and Canadian good-will. Under the circumstances then the attitude
of the Canadian people during the Civil war, so frequently censured
by historians, was only human. And the fact remains that something
like one hundred thousand Canadians, chiefly mere boys, served in the
armies of the North. A few of the more adventurous made their way to
the South and fought for the Confederacy. When in the latter stages of
the war Washington offered a bounty of $1,000 in gold to any Canadian
who would enlist, it was impossible to hold them. Of course some of
them were "bounty jumpers" who took the $1,000 and deserted at the
first opportunity, but the sentiment of the Canadian community was
against this dirty form of trickery, and most of those who enlisted
went through with it in a spirit of true adventure. My uncle, John
McEachern, was one of them. He ran away to Buffalo and enlisted under
the name of John McNair. He was only seventeen, but in the armies of
Grant he found many companions of his own age. He fought so bravely
that he had the distinction of being selected as one of the sixteen
privates to attend General Grant as a guard of honour at the signing
of the Peace of Appomattox.

The particular act of bravery which earned him the honour of being
present at this great historical event illustrates the folly of
certain military customs dating from the middle ages which still
persisted in the sixties. The Northern troops went into battle with
their colours borne in advance surrounded by a guard of seven--a
sure target for enemy marksmen. In one of the final engagements of
Grant's campaign the colour guard were all shot down, and a call for
volunteers was made. The Canadian lad, "alias John McNair", was the
first to volunteer, and this action led to his selection as one of
Grant's escort. Uncle John came through bloody battles unwounded, but
the hardships he endured left him a lifelong victim of asthma. He went
to Golden, Colorado, in the late sixties and enjoyed many adventures
in the pioneer days there. Naturally on his rare visits home he was
a hero to his nephew, for he had much to tell not only of soldiering
but of adventure in the West--all touched with drollery. The $1,000
bounty money, which he carried in his belt, was stolen from him. He
never could prove who took it, but he had his suspicions because one
of his comrades thereafter performed every menial service for him,
acted as his batman, so to speak, though he was but a private. And he
always thought this chap was trying to atone for the theft. He said
that the only time the horror of war really "got him" was one night
when a group of privates were sitting round a campfire. The idea was
abroad in the army that the South was crumpling up and that the war
would soon be over. One of the soldiers commenced to talk of the girl
whom he was going home to marry, and chanted her praises. As he talked
a chance bullet from an enemy sniper caught him through the mouth and
he fell over dead. His companions laid their heads on the ground and
wept. The tales of Uncle John, that I recall, show that in one respect
at least the boys who fought in the Great War of our time were better
off than those who fought in the Civil War. That was in the matter of
commissariat. Often in the lean and desolate tracts of the South, food
supplies would fail and the soldiers went hungry. Once starvation had
lasted for three days when the company discovered an old lean cow
in a swamp. She was speedily slain and apportioned, and most of the
soldiers were so hungry that they ate their rations raw.

In the light of mature consideration I cannot but think that the
more useful hero was my uncle Hector McEachern, who, while the other
brother John was soldiering abroad, stayed at home and worked manfully
to help support his younger brothers and sisters. He was on the staff
of the old Great Western Railway, which prior to its purchase by the
Grand Trunk had its headquarters at Hamilton; and his bosom chum and
companion was Samuel R. Callaway. The latter was deeply attached to
my mother, and Uncle Hector hoped that they would marry. If they had
I would not be writing a book of Canadian reminiscences, for Samuel
Callaway went to the United States, found favour with the Vanderbilt
interests, and became President of the New York Central Railroad
in succession to Chauncey Depew. While still a young man my Uncle
Hector succumbed to tuberculosis, a few weeks previous to my mother's
marriage to my father in 1871. He was my mother's idol, and I, who
was born a year after his death, not only bear his name, but in early
manhood resembled him so closely, that some old Hamiltonians regarded
me almost as a reincarnation of him.




                              CHAPTER II

                        THE SIXTIES AND AFTER


In _The Man of Property_, John Galsworthy, drawing a picture of the
massive Swithin Forsyte, speaks of "the unnumbered generations of his
yeoman ancestry"; and such was the condition of my grandfather Solomon
Charlesworth, who came to Port Hope in the year 1830 when it was
still known as Smith's Creek (or Crick, to give it the neighbourhood
pronunciation). Like himself his ancestors had been yeoman farmers
in the vicinity of Hatfield, Yorkshire, since Saxon times; and my
grandfather had through family tradition imbibed a great deal of sound
knowledge that is now taught as agricultural science. Hatfield is a
name which conveys little of historic or geographical significance
to anyone, but it is one of the few places that are named in the
most ancient maps of England; and the suffix "field" signifies that
at some time an important battle, probably between Danes and Saxons,
was fought there. I ran across a reference to it in a delightful
archæological volume, _Annals of a Yorkshire Parish_, in which it
was named as one of the villages conferred by a Plantagenet King on
the Earls of Warren for loyal services. Charlesworth, a purely Saxon
name, is rare enough in Canada now, and was extremely so when I was a
boy; but there were plenty of people of that name in the vicinity of
Hatfield a century ago.

Solomon, my grandfather, was the eldest of eleven sons, four of whom
came to Upper Canada and took up large allotments of land in various
parts of the colony. As I look back it is plain that among them,
with the seven brothers who stayed at home, there must have been a
considerable accumulation of capital; for the four who journeyed
across the Atlantic built substantial homes, and had ample means to
clear and stock their farms. In looking over the history of settlement
in Ontario it is plain that during the period between 1825 and 1850
this country enjoyed the finest accretion in the form of British
immigration, backed by capital sufficient to carry on systematic
development, that has ever fallen to its lot. If one traces the family
history of many of the public men of the last generation, one finds
that their forbears were men of this class. The movement which brought
so many solid men to Upper Canada was not haphazard. The vision of
Canada as the granary of the Empire is much older than many people
of the present century imagine, and was conceived long before the
wheat-producing possibilities of the great North West were known. It
was a direct result of the difficulties England had experienced in
obtaining adequate food supplies during the Napoleonic wars, and the
increase of population which ensued after Waterloo emphasized the
problem. More than one hundred years ago the statesman and economist
William Huskisson, who became Secretary of State for the Colonies in
1827, pointed out that the Empire could be made self-supporting in the
matter of corn supplies through the development of the agricultural
possibilities of Canada. It was preached as a patriotic duty to the
squirearchy and yeomanry of the British Isles, and it was, I assume,
this sane Imperialistic movement, as well as the fact that it was
necessary for some members of a family embracing eleven brothers to
scatter, that brought my grandfather to Canada. He was born in 1804,
and died in 1878, when I was but six years old. I remember him as a
vigorous bearded man with piercing eyes, and a very tender heart; for
tears would come into his eyes at any casual hurt to myself or my
younger brother and sister. I learned afterward that he was a man of
very impassioned temperament. Upon one occasion, in a rage, he had
accidentally killed his favourite horse. He was obliged at all times
to keep himself under very stern control. He brought with him from
Yorkshire many of the stern ideas of old-fashioned British parenthood;
thus, my father as a little lad was obliged to stand up at meals in
order to keep his back straight, like the unfortunate youngsters in
that lugubrious juvenile classic, _The Fairchild Family_! Though none
of his people had been Quakers, but on the contrary staunch Church of
England folk, he used "thee" and "thou" in intimate intercourse in the
Continental fashion, which I take to have been a survival of ancient
Saxon and Danish usages in lonely Yorkshire parishes.

My father used to read Tennyson's _North Country Farmer_ with constant
delight because the character who reveals himself therein reminded
him so much of his sire; not that my grandfather used the difficult
dialect in which Tennyson wrote the poem, but that those views on life
were so characteristic of him--scorn for neighbours "who never mended
a fence", and the like. Though nominally a devout Christian he was
a pagan in his inherent belief in what I may term the "personality"
of his land. To the end of his days he despised, more than anything
else on earth, a "bad farmer", whose fields and fences were shabby
and whose stock was poor and ill-fed. He was a strong believer in the
land's need of rest, just as a human being needs a rest, and always
at least one of his large fields was in "summer fallow", plowed and
tended and freed of weeds, but left idle to drink in refreshment
from the sun and rain. Another of his theories was that it was a
crime to sell straw. All straw must go back to the land in the form
of fertilizer; it was "owed" to the land as he put it; and if he had
lived to their time he would have deeply scorned the "wheat miners" of
the prairies, whose aim it is to get all that can be gotten out of the
land as quickly as possible and give nothing back.

The first house he built lay east of Port Hope, Ontario, on the old
"base line" which ran between that town and Cobourg, and it commanded
a view of the harbour and its lighthouse. It was there that my father,
Horatio George Charlesworth, was born in 1847. My grandfather's
knowledge of soils taught him that a little north of Port Hope there
was clay suitable for brick, and in addition to farming he established
an industry which provided the materials out of which many of the
older houses and stores in that quaint and charming town were built,
though the earliest are of limestone. Subsequently, about 1855, he
acquired five hundred acres of bush land about five miles north of
the town on either side of the gravel road which runs from Port Hope
to Millbrook and Peterborough. Clearing bush land on which there is a
large accumulation of dead leaves is like buying a pig in a poke. A
considerable part of his location turned out to be gravel, and would
be of immense value were it located near a big city to-day, but was
useless except for road-making in his time; but he bethought himself
to make this tract profitable by importing Leicester sheep, which
thrive on gravel land. Broken patches too stony for tillage he stocked
with Durham cattle. In primordial times the glaciers had been all too
prodigal in dumping boulders about, and many of the fields were fenced
with stone walls, laboriously put together in those days when labour
was cheap, and when a large farm was a small community.

If one stands on Ward's Hill, Port Hope, on the old roadway that used
to run back of Trinity College School, one may see straight away to
the north, across four miles of beautiful rolling country, the gables
of the farmstead my grandfather completed in 1859, set down among ten
acres of apple orchard. In blossoming time, when the apple trees, the
giant lilac bushes, and the locust or acacia trees were in bloom, the
sight and scents were thrilling in their loveliness. I have memories
of summer nights when the singing in the chapel of Trinity College
School could be heard across four miles of valley, and when as the
moon rose the whippoorwill would respond with plaintive cries.

A beautiful farmstead indeed, but, after labour-saving machinery did
away with the need of much farm labour, desperately lonely for the
women folk. I had an aunt, my father's sister, who made the garden a
dreamland of flowers, but who literally died of loneliness in the home
she loved too much to leave; for the old house lay half a mile away
from the main-travelled road; and the nearest highway, an old line
road dividing the township of Hope in Durham county from the township
of Hamilton in Northumberland county, though visible, was seldom used.

My grandmother, born Mary Pullen, was also a Hatfield girl, and one
of several sisters. She had become affianced to my grandfather before
he left Yorkshire, and in 1832, when his house on the "base line" was
ready for her reception, she came out with her stock of linens and
married him. Some of her sisters followed and married in this country;
and one became the mother of my second cousin, the late James Elliott,
of Montreal, for many years General Manager of the Molson's Bank of
Canada. My grandmother was a tall active woman who loved life. She
also loved her dairy, but beyond that indulged in few of the strenuous
labours of the pioneer farmer's wife. Her sharp tongue always reminded
me of that of Mrs. Poyser in George Eliot's novel _Adam Bede_, but
she was fairly well educated for a woman of her period, when feminine
education was regarded as a superfluity. She was a staunch Tory, and
every day read the _Mail_ after it was established in 1872 (the year
of my birth), from the first column to the last. My parents used to
laugh when they went to see her because she would allude to many
events in Toronto which had escaped their casual perusal. She was a
confirmed reader of newspapers and periodicals and her attic was full
of old copies of Godey's _The Lady's Book_, _Harper's Weekly_, and the
_Rural New Yorker_. It was a delightful place in which to while away a
rainy day. There as a little boy, I learned all about the iniquities
of the "Tweed Ring" in New York through the cartoons of Thomas Nast.

Her love of reading and of news she no doubt owed to a favourite
grandfather of hers, a certain William Moat, a noted schoolmaster,
whose house still stands in Hatfield and was visited by a relative
of mine since the war. From his name I take it that he was not a
Yorkshire man originally, but a Caithness man,--and the Caithness men
are not really Scotsmen at all, but are of Scandinavian origin. At any
rate he was a "character", a joyous person who had his special chair
in every public house in the district. He would come home singing, and
give his little grand-daughter a penny for pulling off his boots; and
sometimes he would take her to Doncaster Fair, then as now a great
event in Yorkshire. The most interesting fact my grandmother told me
of her childhood days was how the news of the triumph of Wellington
over Napoleon at Waterloo reached Hatfield. Readers of _The Dynasts_,
and other works by Thomas Hardy, will recall allusions to the measures
adopted to rouse England in case of the landing of the dreaded "Boney"
and his troops--a catastrophe long feared. Faggots were piled on every
hill top, to be lighted in case of a landing, so that within an hour
after a landing the news to rise and arm would be conveyed from south
to north, from east to west. When Napoleon was conquered there was
no further use for these, and on the night when news of Wellington's
victory reached Yorkshire the faggots on the hill-tops were lighted
for purposes of rejoicing, not alarm. My grandmother well remembered
the dancing and drinking and rejoicing and the beacons of victory
flaming on every hill top.

My father got his classical name, Horatio, from an uncle, a favourite
brother of my grandmother, who settled in Elmira, in western New
York, and became a noted free-thinker and speaker in the days when
Robert Ingersoll, whom he knew very well, was carrying on his campaign
against orthodoxy. I saw Horatio Pullen once, a charming man of
distinguished bearing and a great flow of conversation; but I think
he was regarded rather as a family skeleton because heterodoxy was
much more seriously regarded forty years ago than it is to-day. Yet
his name had no baneful influence on the nephew who bore it, for he
remained a staunch churchman who to the end of his days, recited the
Athanasian creed with the more fervour, because I, his elder son, was
inclined to laugh at its obscurantism from the time I began to think
for myself.

The higher education in Port Hope, as in most Upper Canadian towns in
my father's youth, largely consisted in reading at a Latin school.
This was conducted by one John Gordon. Boys were taught first to
cipher accurately, to speak grammatically, and to write clearly; but
Latin was the main thing. My father by the age of sixteen had gone
up as far as Sallust, the Roman historian, who no longer figures in
curricula. John Gordon used to knock Latin into his pupils in the good
old-fashioned way with a liberal use of the rod. At this school my
father knew as boyhood friends Col. Harry Ward, who represented Durham
in the House of Commons for a long period, and afterwards went on the
bench; Seth Smith, a noted lawyer and descendant of the fur-trader
John Smith, who founded the settlement; Charles Seymour, and other
noted men of the midland counties. His favourite among all the group
was Lt.-Col. Arthur Williams, M.P., member for Durham, and who died in
command of the Midland Battalion in the North West Rebellion of 1885.
Lt.-Col. Williams's statue, with drawn sword, the best work of the
sculptor, Hamilton McCarthy, stands in the old market square of the
town.

Of all my father's school chums the most interesting was Volney
Vallencourt Ashford, born on an adjoining farm on the "base line".
In the excitements of the American Civil War, Volney Ashford, whose
name indicates romantic leanings in his mother, ran away to the South
and fought in Mosby's guerilla cavalry, which refused to surrender
after Lee had signed the peace. Afterward he made his way to the
Sandwich Islands, and in later manhood obtained an ascendancy over the
late King Kalakua. In the late eighties he was almost dictator of
Hawaii as Commander of the Forces, and his younger brother, Clarence
W. Ashford, who had studied law, was Attorney General. After King
Kalakua's death, Ashford was suspected of trying to take personal
possession of the Sandwich Islands, by some scheme like the abortive
plan which forms a part of the action of Richard Walton Tully's
famous drama _The Bird of Paradise_. At the behest of the United
States Government the two Ashfords were deported to California; and
intervention finally resulted in the annexation of the Islands,
a step to which the Ashfords were strongly opposed. Volney died
in California, but Clarence Ashford in later years was permitted
to return to Honolulu. In 1912 my brother, L. C. Charlesworth, of
Edmonton, was strolling about the streets of Honolulu when he saw
the sign of "Clarence W. Ashford, Attorney-at-Law". He made his way
upstairs to a dingy law office and saw an old gentleman sitting at
his desk, to whom he gave his name. "From Durham county, Canada?" the
lawyer asked. "I am Horatio Charlesworth's son," said my brother, and
with that Mr. Ashford gave a shout, "Aloha" (the Hawaiian greeting),
that could be heard a block away. It turned out strangely enough that
he too had a son who, having left the Islands, had settled in the
Edmonton district.

Despite the fact that Volney Ashford never resided in Canada after
he left Port Hope during the American Civil War, he kept up a fairly
continuous correspondence with my father. I met him on one of his
visits home after an absence of a quarter of a century--a short
thick-set man with an immense military moustache, and the bearing of a
buccaneer. My father told me that as a boy he would "sooner fight than
eat". When he went back to Honolulu he sent me a complete unused set
of all the postage stamps that had been issued by the government of
the Sandwich Islands up to 1888, to augment my collection. When I was
eighteen stamp collecting seemed a childish pursuit to me, and I sold
my album for $10. I was told by an expert philatelist the other day
that if the set contained a 2-cent blue of a certain issue (which it
probably did) I had thrown away riches, for that particular stamp is
worth $12,000 at the current catalogue price.

Another treasure sent us in 1889 by Ashford, which would to-day have
much value for collectors, was a copy of the _Honolulu Gazette_,
containing the original text of Robert Louis Stevenson's open letter
to Rev. Dr. Hyde, of Honolulu, in defence of Father Damien, the
sainted missionary to the leper settlement of Molokai. It is perhaps
the finest and most powerful piece of prose that Stevenson ever
penned, but Stevenson in 1889 was not the famous figure that he has
since become. I do not think that Col. Ashford was interested in the
literary eminence of the author, but as a government official he knew
the value and sacrificial character of Damien's work among the lepers;
and he shared the general contempt which at that time prevailed in
the South Seas for missionaries of the comfort-loving type. I well
remember my father reading aloud to the family the ringing and mordant
sentences in which Stevenson contrasted the luxury and ease in which
Dr. Hyde lived at Honolulu with the conditions under which Father
Damien served the lepers. None of us had the slightest conception of
the value that copy of the _Honolulu Gazette_ would ultimately possess
for Stevenson collectors; but it was preserved for more than ten
years. Ultimately, as so many precious souvenirs do, it fell a victim
to the custom of spring house-cleaning.

In many respects Volney Vallencourt Ashford was the most interesting
man that Durham county ever produced, not excepting the late Sir
Sam Hughes--a man whom he in temperament much resembled--and it is
regrettable that he failed to write his memoirs before he died.

Among other boys of the old days in Port Hope was a certain
venturesome youth who in the days when Blondin, the high wire walker,
was an international sensation, set about to emulate him. Those who
knew the quaint old town are aware that its business centre lies in
a valley between hills through which Smith's Creek, now called the
Ganaraska River, meanders.

This lad strung a wire between two buildings on either side of the
stream, and in the presence of hundreds of assembled farmers and
townsmen repeated Blondin's feat. Subsequently he took an Italian
name, Signor Farini, and joined Dan Rice's circus. He later travelled
with the circuses of P. T. Barnum and Adam Forepaugh, saved his
money, and in old age was a man of substantial means. A year or so
after my father's death in 1910, I was in a Toronto hotel, and a
fine-looking, dapper stranger, hearing the clerk address me by name,
accosted me and asked me if I were a relative of H. G. Charlesworth.
On being told that I was his son, he asked whether I had ever heard
him mention Signor Farini, the wire walker, and revealed his identity
with that once famous being. His real name was William Hunt. He gave
the suggestion of a retired manufacturer rather than of one who had
thrilled thousands in many parts of the world by his feats "under the
big top".

I have alluded to the unsettling effect of the American Civil War on
Canadian youths of the early sixties; but indeed the whole period from
1850 to 1870 was one of many changes and excitements in Upper Canada.
In the mid-fifties the construction of the Grand Trunk Railway from
Montreal to Sarnia gradually revolutionized transportation, which up
to that time had been based on those traditional conveyances, ships
and wagons. It brought in its train much land speculation, inflation
of values, bank failures, and new avenues for trade. In assisting my
friend, Victor Ross, in the preparation of that vast work _The History
of the Canadian Bank of Commerce_ which, under Sir Edmund Walker's
initiative, became in reality a history of Canadian finance, I had
occasion to look into the social and economic changes brought about by
the coming of the railways; and the period was assuredly a stimulating
one for growing boys. When the long political turmoil in the United
States found its climax in civil war, Canada became a natural source
of supplies, and farmers and merchants made profits they had never
dreamed of as possible. Though in 1866 the markets of the United
States were closed to them by the denunciation of the Reciprocity
Treaty, the accumulations of that period of inflation lasted well
into the black days of the seventies.

It had been my grandfather's wish that my father should take a
University course and enter the medical profession. He had already
educated and sent to Oxford the youngest of the seven brothers he had
left at home, a youth who entered the Church and married well. By the
irony of things the two brothers, separated by an ocean and more than
twenty years in time, never set eyes on each other after the parting
in 1830. It was a bitter disappointment to my grandfather then, when
his own younger son, child of his middle age, refused to enter a
profession; but the pressure of the times was all against study for
an ambitious lad. The boy elected to go into business; and it is a
reflection of the conditions of the time that he first started with an
uncle who had become a ship's chandler in Port Hope. To-day to open a
ship's chandlery in any lake town would seem like establishing a snake
ranch in Ireland; but my father could remember when the old harbour
was at times a forest of masts. The carrying trade of the region of
the great lakes was long monopolized by sailing vessels; and there
were wild times in all lake ports when the sailors were ashore. Along
the shore, not only of Lake Ontario but of Lake Erie, are several
decayed towns which were important trade centres sixty years ago.

Ultimately (in 1870) my father went to Hamilton, which, as the chief
distributing centre for the rich settlements of the Niagara peninsula
and what is now Western Ontario, was a great trading point, at which
many commercial fortunes were founded. He had entered the firm of John
Garrett & Co., long one of the leading shoe-manufacturing concerns
of Upper Canada, or Canada West, as it was still called by older
residents, though Ontario had become the official name. Though the
railways were increasing in mileage, much of the business was still
carried on by salesmen travelling with horse and buggy, and deliveries
were made by wagon. The hotels in cross-roads settlements kept stables
of horses which the travellers hired, as relays. With horse and buggy
my father between 1870 and 1872 "grid-ironed" most of Western Ontario.
An expert horseman from childhood, a long distance drive he made
in 1871 was celebrated among the travelling brotherhood. He was at
Walkerton in Bruce county on a Friday night, and conceived a desire
to spend Sunday with my mother, to whom he was then affianced. The
nearest railway point at which he could take a train to Hamilton was
Guelph, ninety miles away by road. Selecting a fine team of horses,
he started at four in the morning from Walkerton, and by judiciously
resting his horses during the day and superintending their grooming
and feeding, arrived in Guelph in time to catch a train for Hamilton
at 8 p.m. It represented in all about ten hours of actual driving.
Ninety miles in ten hours with a single team over the roads of fifty
odd years ago was good travelling; and he left his beasts in such fine
condition that after a Sunday's rest at Guelph he found them in form
to resume the road.

My father was indeed a type of whom the old adage held: "Give a
Yorkshireman a halter and he will find a horse." When he was a boy his
father gave him a horse that seemed to be a "crock". He nursed it back
to health and sleekness and in a year or so by clever trading--horse
trading was a popular sport among the country lads of those days--he
had a team of fast roadsters with buggy and harness, all developed
from the original "crock". He told me many good yarns about the
horse-trading fairs of the midland counties in the sixties. Once he
drove to a fair (at Millbrook, I think) and traded horses sixteen
times in the course of the day. Returning in the darkness he stopped
at a toll-gate on the "gravel road". Another youth drove up alongside,
and by the light of the toll keeper's lantern his turn-out looked a
tidy one. He offered a trade "unsight unseen". The offer was accepted,
and the lads changed from one rig to the other. My father was very
sleepy, and waking up from a doze was astonished to find his new
acquisition standing patiently at the gate leading to his home. When
he got to the barn he found that horse and rig were identically the
same as those with which he had started out in the morning.

In truth, though he spent over forty of the sixty-three years of
his life in business, my father was never happy except when he was
farming, making two blades grow where one grew before, and breeding
all kinds of fancy stock, Jersey cattle, of which he was one of the
pioneer importers, roadster horses, cocker spaniels, rare poultry;
and his hobbies left him continually "hard up". His agricultural
enthusiasm made his life one of slavery, though no doubt he was happy
in his bondage to growing things. In Toronto, as the city grew, he was
constantly moving to spots on the outskirts where he could have space
for gardening and at one time in his life, when financial reverses
forced him to live in a very small home in a thickly populated street,
he literally farmed a 20 × 20 back yard and made the roof of the
woodshed a bower of bloom. He died happy in the possession of a large
garden at Toronto and a farm at Port Hope stocked with his favourite
Jerseys. One day in the late autumn of 1910, he slaved all afternoon
planting hundreds of bulbs of the lovely pheasant-eye narcissus; and
coming in exhausted said: "I shall not live to see them bloom." He
was apparently in normal health, but in February he was taken, the
victim of an obscure malignant malady, undoubtedly intensified by a
lifetime of overwork--voluntary overwork born of his intoxicating love
for growing things. He never neglected business, though he never had
much luck therein; but his inborn passion, a heritage of 'unnumbered
generations of his yeoman ancestry', robbed him of all his leisure
and, finally, of his life.




                             CHAPTER III

                        MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD


It is perhaps an ironical circumstance that I, who have for much of
my life been identified with the theatre and other fields of art, and
have with my pen consistently assailed the restrictive tendencies
of evangelical religionists, should have been born in a Methodist
parsonage. It came about in this wise. I have spoken of one of
my great aunts, Harriet Burrell, who became an ardent Methodist.
She married an eminent divine of that persuasion, the Rev. Thomas
Campbell, D.D., who in later life was for a few years professor (of
Exegetics, I assume) at Victoria College, while it was still at
Cobourg. I was very young when he died, but I am told that he devoted
a great deal of unrewarded energy to trying to prove that this world
was created in six days of twenty-four hours. In other words, he was
a scholarly fundamentalist--now an extinct species. There are still
many fundamentalists but they are not scholars. His son, the Rev.
Thomas Campbell, afterwards left Methodism and became Bishop of the
Reformed Episcopal Church of the United States. My own recollection
of the father was that he was a kind little man, who let me play with
the fossils he had accumulated to prove his theories of creation. My
father and mother had married in 1871, and in September 1872, when I
was expected to arrive on this earth, Dr. Campbell was a Methodist
minister at Hamilton. My father was preparing to leave Hamilton and
establish a business at Windsor, Ont., so my parents were boarding;
and my great aunt Harriet was good enough to offer my mother the ample
accommodations of the parsonage for the great event of her young
life. So to this day I do not like to hear people speak savagely of
Methodists though I must confess that they are often an irritant.

My earliest consciousness of the little boy that was I, is of looking
through the gap in a fence at two women with long dark robes and large
white head-dresses who were busy among a wilderness of vines cutting
great clusters of purple grapes, and chatting in a strange language.
One looked up and smiled at me; and after a laughing word to the
other, brought me a bunch of grapes, and tried to make me talk. I
know now that they were sisters of a French convent near our home in
Windsor. The time must have been the autumn of 1875 when I was three
years old.

Windsor in the early seventies was by all accounts a lively and
picturesque community--not unlike New Orleans in social complexity.
It had a considerable negro population of escaped slaves, who had
come to Canada by the famous "underground railway" conducted in the
fifties by abolitionists. French Canadians, the earliest settlers,
were numerous, as they still are; and there was an active and
numerous English-speaking commercial class who had made a great deal
of money during the Civil War. I recall being terrified of negroes,
but delighted with the French boy "Evareece" (Evariste) who was my
father's factotum--always merry and a great hand with children.
Associated with these early memories is constant sense of moving
water. This was, of course, the Detroit River, where my mother used
to take her three babies for an airing on the ferries. I also recall
a jolly gentleman with red whiskers, who lived next door and used to
look over the fence at me and say, "Bless his little heart and body!"
This early acquaintance was destined to have important developments
for me; for the rosy gentleman who loved children was Tom Davey, the
leading theatrical manager of Detroit, a noted figure in his time and
father of a still more noted daughter, Minnie Maddern Fiske (born
Davey). Twenty years later, I told Mrs. Fiske, who had become a noted
star, of my early memory of her father, and it cemented a friendship
that has lasted through three decades. Minnie Maddern, whose mother
was an actress, was even then on the stage, and my mother in after
years told me of how Tom Davey took her to Detroit to see his little
girl, then a child of tender years, play Arthur to the King John of
the famous tragedian, John McCullough.

The friendship of Tom Davey was worth possessing, apart from his own
charming personality, for my father and mother were at all times
welcome in his theatre, where all the renowned actors played. At that
time every prominent merchant in Windsor maintained a neatly equipped
room for the convenience of shoppers who came over from Detroit and
to avoid customs duties disposed their purchases about their persons.
My father dealt in fine shoes and had a factory for the manufacture
of special orders; and Davey used to bring many an actor and actress
across the river to deal with him. This special order business,
conducted for the most part on a smuggling basis, was my father's
undoing as will presently be disclosed. Among the celebrities whom
Davey brought to procure long boots suitable for Shakespearian roles
was Lawrence Barrett, the tragedian; and there were dealings with many
lesser lights. Thus the country youth who had never seen a really
fine play until he was twenty became, before he was thirty, a devotee
and habitué of the playhouse. I picked up incidentally from Davey a
knowledge of the technique of acting which he imparted to me when I
as a very young man took up dramatic criticism. Another of my friends
in Windsor was Col. Arthur Rankin, whose son McKee Rankin was already
becoming famous as an actor. Col. Rankin, who had represented Essex
in the old Legislature of Canada, was credited with having fought six
duels, and once sent a challenge to Sir John Macdonald, which was
ignored. He was one of the early advocates of game preservation and
a great sportsman, as indeed were all the well-to-do Windsorites,
for wild turkey and quail were at that time abundant in the Essex
peninsula, especially on the tract that has since been set apart as
Rondeau Park.

Though my father arrived in Windsor only at the end of 1872, he threw
himself headlong into politics, which were at that time in a fevered
condition owing to the famous "Pacific Scandal", which seems a trivial
affair enough in the light of immensely greater scandals which have
since occurred in Ottawa politics. He was an ardent supporter of Sir
John A. Macdonald, the statesman chiefly assailed. In the legislative
elections of 1875, he was one of those who succeeded in electing the
Conservative John C. Patterson, afterwards Lieutenant-Governor of
Manitoba, for the riding of North Essex. It was a hotly contested
battle, and though the Conservatives triumphed in Essex, the party
went down to defeat in the country as a whole, and the five years
of the Alexander Mackenzie régime began. My father's ardour led to
his selection as President of the Windsor Conservative Association.
He also entered Windsor Council for an electoral district in which
many of the voters were ex-slaves. Those were the days of open voting
and when the negroes when asked how they wished to vote, "Massa
Chollesworth" was the usual answer. But political partizanship is
always a hazardous thing for a business man.

I have spoken of the special-order phase of my father's shoe business.
He was not a practical shoemaker, but merely a salesman and organizer.
He had picked up an expert to run his little factory; and when an
order came for a pair of actor's boots lined with peach-colored silk,
or to be made of some special kind of leather not obtainable in
Windsor, this foreman would cross the river to Detroit and buy the
necessary materials. No one ever thought of declaring small purchases
of that kind. As time went on this foreman, though a valuable
mechanic, took to liquor and became exceedingly truculent. One day
in 1876 my father incautiously dismissed him, and the fellow at once
reported to the Customs Department that my father had been engaged in
smuggling for three years. It was technically true, though the items
were mere bagatelles; but my father was a marked man because he was
an active Conservative and the Mackenzie régime was rabidly Reform.
The Customs Collector was himself one of my father's closest personal
friends; and it was with tears in his eyes that he broke the news to
him that he had been instructed to seize and confiscate his business.
There was no redress, but on the Collector's representations my father
was allowed $500 cash for the enterprise in which he had sunk all he
had, and the energy of three of the best years of his life. It is
hardly to be wondered at that all his life the word "Grit" was more or
less anathema to him; and that later when he was teaching me to ride
he would point to some man who looked especially awkward and ill at
ease in the saddle and say: "Look at that fellow; anyone could tell
from the way he sits that he's a Grit."

Luck came his way, however, for at Toronto an enterprising
manufacturer had decided to establish one of the earliest Canadian
experiments in chain stores in order to market his product. My father
was appointed manager of the new enterprise. It was his duty to select
the points at which it was advisable to open new stores or acquire
existing business establishments. The chain store system, though
it looks very profitable on the surface, has always been extremely
hazardous both in Canada and the United States. At all times it
requires sufficient capital to provide amply for each individual
enterprise, and much depends on the efficiency and honesty of the
local manager. It can only be successfully operated under the modern
system of a quick cash turnover; whereas fifty years ago all Canadian
retail business was conducted on the credit system. The profits in
one town were absorbed by the losses in another; and under the credit
system cash did not come in quickly enough to meet the expenses of
the parent manufacturing plant at Toronto. This was, I think, the
invariable experience of men who experimented with the chain store
idea prior to the adoption of the cash system. The originator of this
project carried on as long as he could, and finally threw up the
sponge and fled to Australia. The retail stores were disposed of and
the manufacturing plant was carried on by others until, finally in the
early eighties, my father obtained sufficient backing to take it over
in his own name.

I remember vividly my first arrival in Toronto one bright autumn day
in 1876, when I had just turned four years old. It was in the old,
domed train-shed, which still forms part of the Union Station, and I
have still the picture of my father, a tall, slender, boyish-looking
man of twenty-nine running along the platform to help my mother down
with her babies. It was so far as I know the occasion of my first ride
in a hack; and the vehicle drew up in front of a little house on the
south side of a hot road on which the yellow sand lay deeply rutted.
This was on Bloor Street East on the northern fringe of what was then
the city of Toronto. It seemed strange to me to be told that while
I stayed in my own front yard I was in Toronto, but that if I broke
rules and crossed the road I would be in another place, Yorkville, one
of the many villages which have gone to make up the modern Toronto.

Not long after we moved across the road into Yorkville to occupy what
seemed to my childish eyes then a very large, square, roughcast house,
surrounded by shade trees and nearly opposite Church Street. It was
subsequently removed when the late Robert Simpson decided to build
a home there. Next door was the home of John O. Heward, member of a
well-known family. A little further along toward Yonge Street, was the
home of Senator McMaster (now Moulton College), and the old Hubertus
home. To the east across a delightful lane, where ragged lady and
golden rod bloomed, was the residence of Sir Frank Smith, and beyond
that the residence of Robert Wilkes, the leading wholesale jeweller of
the time, who was almost as prominent in the counsels of the Reform
party as was Sir Frank in those of the Tories.

It was in connection with Mr. Wilkes that I have my first
recollections of tragedy. The Wilkes children were many, and were the
playmates of the Charlesworth brood. One summer holiday my father
had taken my brother and myself to Port Hope to see our grandmother.
Returning on the night train we saw several of the Wilkes children
come aboard at Whitby Junction. We spoke to them but they seemed dazed
and looked as though they had been crying. To our dismay they passed
on down the aisle without answering our greeting. As my father was
paying the hackman who drove us home to Yorkville, the latter said:
"That was pretty sad about Mr. Wilkes down at Sturgeon Point to-day,"
and then we learned that he had been drowned together with his only
son and one of his daughters. It had been a chain of calamities: the
boy had gotten beyond his depth; and his sister had rushed to his
rescue and found herself helpless; then the father went to their aid,
and all three perished. The drowning of Robert Wilkes caused very
widespread grief, for he was very eminent, not merely as a business
man and a Liberal politician, but as a leader of Methodism; and I
still recall the picture of the mute grief-stricken little girls on
the train who had been the eye-witnesses of the tragedy.

The corners of Bloor and Yonge Streets are now for the most part of
the day the busiest traffic intersection in Toronto and probably in
Canada, but in my childhood they were very quaint. The Hon. Frank
Smith's little horse-cars used to come up Yonge Street to that point,
and there the horses would be changed to the other end for the down
trip. In winter the heating was provided by pea-straw strewn on the
floor. Just north of Bloor Street was an old inn with a courtyard,
very like the pictures in some of Dickens's novels. It was called the
"Red Lion", and it had a swinging sign with a fiery red animal painted
thereon, supposed to represent the King of Beasts. Yorkville was
indeed a single parish in which nearly all the leading residents knew
each other.

On leaving Windsor my father promised my mother to give up active
participation in politics, and he kept his word; though he always
remained an enthusiastic Tory. My own earliest recollection of a
political campaign is of the election of September, 1878, when
the N. P. (National Policy) was the issue, and Macdonald defeated
Mackenzie. I was confused over the distinction between the letters
"N.P." and "M.P." which I heard on all sides. Yorkville was in the
Prime Minister's (Mackenzie's) constituency, and politics naturally
seethed there. My father came in at dinner time on election day
jubilant because Alfred Boultbee, the Conservative candidate had
carried Yorkville against Mackenzie, but subsequent returns showed
that Mackenzie had defeated him in the rural districts. This was his
only consolation, for he had gone down to defeat in the country, and
his subsequent treatment by his own party proved one of the shabbiest
episodes in Canadian politics. He had been in the habit of saying on
the platform that the Tories were by nature deceitful and incurably
"wicked", but he soon learned that, however deceitful and wicked,
they could outshine opponents in the rare virtue of gratitude. Twenty
years later I used frequently to see the former Prime Minister on the
streets, and no man ever wore a more mournful countenance.

I never learned why my father and mother, in selecting an Anglican
Church to ally themselves with, chose the Church of the Redeemer,
then a frame building on the north side of Bloor Street, set in what
had been the "Potters Field" or pauper burying ground, instead of
St. Paul's, the pretty little stone church which lay just across the
street. It may have been that since we resided on the north side
of the street we properly belonged to the parish of the Church of
the Redeemer as a Yorkville institution; and that St. Paul's lying
in Toronto, over the way, had the right to the south side as its
territory. But I rather think the explanation lay in the fact that
Canon Givens of St. Paul's was aging, whereas the Rev. Septimus Jones
of the Church of the Redeemer was an active, vigorous man, with a
family of whom everyone was taught from childhood to be a parish
worker. At any rate the Rev. Mr. Jones and his family became our very
first friends; and James Edmund Jones, K.C., Police Magistrate of
Toronto, is my very oldest surviving male acquaintance.

The Rev. Septimus Jones was a man of distinguished personality,
whose rare business ability was always strongly manifested in
the deliberations of the Synod. He was one of the leaders of the
Evangelical or Low Church wing, though his utterances were always
moderate. He was a devotee of music, and liked to lock himself in his
study and play the violin; and he had been one of the choristers of
the Philharmonic Society as re-organized under Dr. Torrington in 1873.
When the safety bicycle came he took to its use, and actually rode to
Hamilton one day when in his seventieth year. He had a dry, pungent
wit, which was never used to hurt anybody's feelings. At Sunday school
it used to delight the children when he would tell of having seen,
as a little boy in England seated on the shoulder of his father, the
coronation of Queen Victoria; and of the cloaked gentleman with a
large arched nose who rode beside the carriage of the young Queen,
and seemed in very truth her guardian. This was the great Duke of
Wellington.

It was through Mr. Jones's efforts that the stone edifice now known as
the Church of the Redeemer at the corner of Bloor Street and Avenue
Road was erected; and presently we moved into that vicinity to be near
it. More than ever we were in the heart of a parish for almost every
second person thereabout attended the church and all were pleasant,
agreeable neighbours. Within a very few years, owing to the growth of
Toronto and the movement of its people northward, the Church of the
Redeemer became the leading evangelical church of the diocese, holding
a very close connection with Wycliffe College as a training ground
for divinity students. Naturally as a child I heard much of the great
battle between High Church and Low Church, then at its height, and saw
something of its leading figures.

The environs of the University of Toronto, when we moved to the
neighbourhood of Avenue Road in 1880, were very different from now.
A large tract now covered by the buildings of Victoria College,
Annesley Hall, and the Domestic Science edifice was rented out by the
bursar of the University as a cow pasture; for many residents in the
vicinity kept their own cows, which was considered the safer course
for families with young children, in those days when typhoid fever was
rife. As a boy of nine or ten it was my duty to bring our cow home
with me on my way from school. When I lost the key of the pasture, I
had to go trembling to the bursar's office to procure a new one. I
wonder how the present business staff of the University would take
it if their duties included the conduct of a cow pasture. Below the
knoll where Victoria College stands was a marshy patch where dragon
flies of myriad hues were to be seen on summer days. The Torontonians
of to-day are little aware of how much of the city is built on marsh
land, once traversed by many small streams. A military map of 1828
shows a veritable network of them, and building contractors laying
the foundations of large buildings often discover this disagreeable
fact. A stream once ran under what are now the foundations of Massey
Hall, though this was long before my time. I distinctly remember as a
little boy in the seventies a stagnant pond which submerged the valley
in which Hart House stands in its chaste beauty. It was a disgusting
place, but was drained before 1880; long after, a stream ran through
the valley beside the present site of the Royal Ontario Museum, and
dispersed itself I know not where. I am not very old, but the city of
to-day except for a few landmarks would be quite unrecognizable to a
returning stranger who revisited it after forty years' absence.

The quiet parochial life of Yorkville and the college district was
even then shot through with the spirit of growth, and there were
prophets seemingly rash who predicted that Toronto would some day be a
city of 200,000. But to most people this seemed ridiculous commercial
optimism. Whenever I read one of Booth Tarkington's later novels
like _The Magnificent Ambersons_ and _The Midlander_, which have as
their underlying _motif_ the growth and mutability of cities, I am
reminded of the processes which have taken place in Toronto within my
own experience; and which have extinguished the old professional and
academic aristocracy of my boyhood.

To our own household, glimpses of a wilder and less parochial life
came to us from a woman still celebrated in the annals of Winnipeg,
Fort William, and Port Arthur,--the late Victoria MacVicar. I have
spoken of the relatives of my great grandfather left behind in the
West when with his wife and baby son he made his way from the Red
River Settlement to Montreal. The parents of Victoria MacVicar were
among these. She was my grandfather's first cousin, though many years
younger. Her elder brother, John MacVicar, is said to have been the
first white child born within the Arctic circle, at some Hudson's Bay
Company post the name of which I have forgotten. Subsequently the
MacVicars settled at Prince Arthur's Landing, now Port Arthur, and
owned the land on the waterfront which is now occupied by the Canadian
Pacific Railway, and Victoria became the business woman of the family.

On her many visits to Toronto "Vic" MacVicar, as my mother called
her, was always welcome to make our home her own; she was a wonderful
hand with children. The tales she had to tell of Indians, and of her
childhood in Fort Garry and other Western outposts, were fascinating.
One of her stories of a narrow escape from the Sioux, then on the
warpath, made the chills run down our spines. Mother used to say,
"Vic keeps the family tree"; and in one way or another she seemed to
be connected with almost everybody in the Canadian West. We heard
much from her of her friend Donald Smith, afterwards Lord Strathcona,
and of Major Boulton of Boulton's Scouts, whose life she had helped
to save in 1870. I think her stories of a wonderful chain of
relationships must have been true. Two or three years ago my friend W.
J. Healy, Provincial Librarian of Manitoba, collected the narratives
of the older survivors of early days in the West for his book _Women
of Red River_, and several of his informants mention Victoria MacVicar
as a relative.

She came into especial prominence in connection with Louis Riel's
first rising in 1870. The picture she gave us of Riel was quite
different from the villainous conception we all had of him in the East
after his second rising in 1885, for which he was tried and hanged.
They had been boy and girl together, and at one time Riel was in love
with her. She spoke of him as a dreamy, handsome, clever youth, half
mad with ambition. I think history bears out this view. Riel seems to
have gotten an idea of creating a kingdom of his own in the Canadian
West similar to that which Aaron Burr failed to establish in the
region of the Southern Mississippi. At any rate, Victoria MacVicar
had a great deal of influence over Riel; and when he started his
rebellion in 1870 she was sent for to come from Fort William and see
what she could do with him. She found that he had imprisoned a large
number of white residents of Fort Garry and was threatening them with
death as a reprisal for the accidental killing of a crazy follower of
his. After several interviews she did finally induce Riel to release
all but Thomas Scott, whom to his own misfortune, he ordered to be
shot. It was memory of the murder of Scott that closed the door to a
reprieve for him in 1885 after his second rising, when Blake, Laurier,
and other prominent statesmen of the East were demanding it. Riel was
at first adamant in the case of Major Boulton. She regarded Boulton
as doomed, and as a last recourse sent for a woman whose son had been
killed. The latter's persuasion, added to her own, won the day.

Victoria MacVicar told us that after the release had been arranged,
Riel said, "Victoria, I want you to stay and breakfast with me."
Whereat she rushed from the room with the words, "I will never break
bread with a rebel." If true it seems to me a tasteless and indiscreet
outburst, though characteristically feminine. But Riel was gentleman
enough to keep his word, and she honoured him for that. Probably he
knew that she was an intense loyalist who from childhood had taken
very seriously the fact that she was named after Princess Victoria,
while the latter was heiress apparent.

Victoria MacVicar's visits to us were frequent during the whole
period of the second Riel affair, which with the trial and subsequent
agitation lasted long. It troubled her that this friend of childhood
was to be hanged. She was an ardent spiritualist, like so many persons
who have lived in the wilds; and related a singular story of psychic
occurrences on the occasion in the autumn of 1885 when he was executed
at Regina. She was at that time visiting Chicago, and early on the
morning of the fatal day visited a medium to learn whether he was
really to hang or whether a reprieve had arrived at the last moment.
While the interview was in progress, she avowed that the face of
the medium, who had gone into a trance as part of the usual ritual,
changed horribly. Then she heard a sound like the pulling of a bolt,
and the medium said, "Your friend has passed into the beyond." But
she did not get a message from Riel, which I assume was what she
sought. My mother warned us children that this was all nonsense, the
work of Victoria's too vivid imagination. But it was blood-curdling to
hear her relate it with absolute conviction. She was a tall raw-boned
Scotswoman with a weather-beaten countenance, roughened by Western
winds. But she had grey piercing eyes and a fine voice that made any
tale of hers astonishingly graphic.

With all her mysticism she was a wonderfully competent woman of
affairs. The mission which brought her so frequently to Toronto was
a three-cornered dispute over the expropriation by the C.P.R. of her
holdings at Prince Arthur's Landing--a dispute in which the Ontario
Ministry of Crown Lands was also involved, in the matter of water-lot
rights. Single-handed she battled with officials of both railway
and government, and was, if I remember rightly, her own lawyer in
most of the negotiations. And she finally got a cash settlement of
$90,000. Her end was rather sad. After she obtained this settlement,
she commissioned my father to choose for her a matched team of black
roadster horses. They were beautiful animals, but too spirited for a
woman driver. One day while she was driving on the waterfront of Port
Arthur they ran away, and she never fully recovered from the injuries
she then sustained--a tragedy for so active and vital a being.




                              CHAPTER IV

                        MAINLY ABOUT CLERGYMEN


Certain "progressives" in Canada are busily engaged in an agitation
for measures which they imagine will eliminate from the minds of boys
a taste for military parade. It is a good deal like the wisdom of
those who thought that a taste which has existed in every section of
the human race since the beginning of recorded time, and long before
that, could be eliminated by statutes like the Volstead Act and the
Ontario Temperance Act. In my school days there was no cadet training
on the systematic method that prevails to-day, but the boys were very
keen about military affairs for all that. And it should be added that
if their elder brothers had not been equally keen we should to-day
have no Western Canada at all for "progressives" to represent in
Parliament. In 1885 the Canadian Northwest was saved for the Dominion
in the main by youths from the offices, factories, and universities
of Montreal, Toronto, and Winnipeg, despatched to the scene of Riel's
activities without any preliminary training to speak of, at the
very worst season of the year, for travel in a wild and undeveloped
country. I am glad that in John Buchan's _Life of Lord Minto_, who as
Lord Melgund was Chief of Staff under Gen. Middleton in that campaign,
due credit is given for what these untrained levies accomplished.

Vividly I recall the thrill and excitement when, on a slushy Saturday
morning in March, the call to arms came, and orders were given that
the Queen's Own Rifles and the Royal Grenadiers of Toronto must
entrain before noon on Monday en route for the Northwest Territories.
It was a much more difficult expedition than it would be to-day,
for the Canadian Pacific Railway was not yet completed, and there
were gaps in the wilds of New Ontario which could only be bridged
by marching over frozen lakes. Later the Queen's Own Rifles, mostly
clerks out of offices, made the long march to Battleford over the snow
and slush of a prairie in spring. In the winter of 1915 when I read of
the complaints made by the first Canadian Expeditionary Force about
the hardships of wintering on Salisbury Plain, I could not but think
of what the lads of 1885 went through with no preliminary training.

My father was one of many merchants and manufacturers called together
by the City Council on that exciting Saturday of March, 1885, to help
solve the problems of supply and equipment. A primary necessity for
the marching in New Ontario which lay before the men, was lumbermen's
shoe-packs, a combination of moccasin and top boot, and he as a
shoe-man was instructed to get hold of all he could. Through Quebec
trade connections he had shipments rushed to Toronto in time for
debarkation on Monday and in co-operation with his rivals in the trade
located supplies elsewhere. Altogether the despatch of the Toronto
regiments in forty-eight hours was a fine achievement in military and
civil co-ordination.

To a boy of twelve it was a thrilling sight to see the young soldiers
in uniform scattered through the church on that anxious Sunday. As
it turned out they all came back, but no one knew just what they had
to face, for there were many rumours of American intervention, and of
Fenian battalions in formation at Chicago and other Western cities to
go to the assistance of Riel. The superintendent of the Church of the
Redeemer Sunday School was Edward Campion Acheson, a young student of
Wycliffe College, now the Rt. Rev. Dr. Acheson, Bishop of Connecticut,
and at that time a junior chaplain of the Queen's Own Rifles. He was
one of the handsomest of men, fair and of pure classical type, with
aquiline nose and all. I remember his presiding over the Sunday School
devotions in his uniform, and later he wrote letters to be read to the
pupils, intimately describing the experiences of his campaign. One
description of how the soldiers spent Easter Sunday of 1885, marching
over a frozen northern lake near Jackfish, Lake Superior, and singing
"Onward Christian Soldiers", has always lingered in my memory. The
Bishop of Connecticut retained his military enthusiasm, for he was
perhaps the most eminent of chaplains of the U.S. Army in the Great
War.

The return of the troops in the early summer of 1885, a burning hot
day, was a gala occasion; to each bayonet was attached a bouquet,
and the rigours of the campaign were apparent in their uniforms. The
red tunics of the Grenadiers had faded to streaky neutral tints, and
the dark green of the Queen's Own Rifles were similarly despoiled by
rain and sun. The better known officers of the expedition, like Col.
(now General Sir William) Otter and Major (afterwards General) James
Mason, got their individual ovations, but to most of the throng the
centre of attraction was Capt. Howard of the U.S.A. Army and his
Gatling gun. The Gatling, one of the early models of the machine gun,
has long since been superseded, but forty years ago its facility in
rapid fire was regarded as miraculous, and it was first tried out
in active service in the Northwest Rebellion. Howard was sent to
the North West to demonstrate its use and was permitted to wear his
American uniform. He made a striking picture in blue, riding ahead of
his famous arm, the terrors of which had been celebrated by all the
newspaper correspondents--and scores of boys and men ran along beside
it, enthralled by its brass barrel burnished for the occasion.

The Sunday School of which I have spoken was more or less of an
adjunct to Wycliffe College, and not only Mr. Acheson but others of
the students served as teachers. They used to invite the boys of Bible
class age to tea in the college refectory very frequently, so that
while I myself never entered the University of Toronto I have been
familiar with its environs and its history for forty years. The old
feud between High Church and Low Church has since died down, though
the ancient rivalry between Trinity and Wycliffe cropped up at the
last election for a Bishop of the Diocese of Toronto. But when I was a
youngster the quarrel was almost as much discussed in Anglican circles
as Church Union among certain other communions to-day. The very
foundation of Wycliffe College, as a centre of evangelical thought,
had been opposed by the Bishop of Toronto, the Rt. Rev. Dr. Bethune;
certain evangelicals like the Hon. Sam Blake, whose father, William
Hume Blake, had been chiefly instrumental in establishing it, brought
a great deal of bitterness into the struggle.

In after years when I had become a newspaper reporter I was present
at the celebration of an anniversary of the opening of the college,
when the Hon. Sam Blake, telling of Wycliffe's history, lost control
of his emotions--as he was apt to do in moments of excitement. He
told of the many obstacles that had arisen at the outset and how the
original founders had met each obstacle with prayer--prayer which had
been answered. After retailing several incidents which he regarded
as direct answers to prayer, he dealt with what he termed "the final
obstacle", the threat of Bishop Bethune that he would refuse to ordain
graduates of Wycliffe. "Well," said Mr. Blake, "we had overcome many
obstacles with prayer, but this seemed most formidable of all, and
so we prayed once more that this cup should pass from us, and prayed
fervently, and again it pleased God to answer our prayers--_for
shortly afterward Bishop Bethune died_."

Mere type cannot do justice to the mordant fire of Mr. Blake's tones.
His voice was naturally biting and vibrant, and it was clear that
in the rapture of triumphant recollection he had become oblivious
to the diabolical implication of his words. Among the officials of
Wycliffe College were men of very sweet and gentle piety, like Dr. N.
W. Hoyles, K.C., and the first Principal, the Rev. Dr. Sheraton, who
were appalled at Mr. Blake's speech. And afterwards Dr. Sheraton came
to the reporters almost with tears in his eyes and implored them to
suppress the allusion to Bishop Bethune. It was a bitter pill to have
to cut out the very liveliest part of a rather uninteresting report,
but so finely did Dr. Sheraton plead the case of his College, and the
irreparable harm that might be done by the widespread publication of
what might be twisted into a charge that the evangelicals had prayed
for the death of their bishop, that the reporters did what they have
done in thousands of instances,--took the kindly course and struck
out the utterance. Most of them knew that, for all his uncontrollable
bitterness of tongue, "Sam" Blake, as he was universally known, had
a great and kindly heart; much warmer it was believed than that of
his eminent brother, the Hon. Edward Blake, who was not emotional and
apparently took very little interest in the controversy of the "Highs"
and "Lows".

Bishop Bethune's successor, the Rt. Rev. Arthur Sweatman, D.D., was
a man of peace. As those familiar with the old controversy of the
seventies are aware, he was a "compromise" candidate after the long
deadlock in the Synod had become a public scandal. He was a very
tall and distinguished man with a mincing accent, born, I think, of
some inherent disability of speech, which he had painfully overcome.
When I was a very little boy my home was not far from where he
lived, and his love for children was known to every youngster in the
neighbourhood. He would stop and pat one's head in an absent-minded
way, and say something quite inconsequential but very endearing; and
it was considered quite an honour to be caressed by the new bishop.
Despite the hesitation of his utterance I never heard a speaker who
carried with him a finer atmosphere of philosophic dignity, or gave a
more complete suggestion of sincerity and refinement. And he could on
occasion exercise authority with almost electrical effect. Once, when
reporting the Synod, I heard him silence a prominent lay delegate who
had indulged in unchristian utterances. The quickness with which he
rose in his vestments and lawn sleeves; and the rapier-like swiftness
with which he said, "Sit down sir, you forget yourself," utterly cowed
the truculent speaker. He delivered a short address on the occasion
when I was confirmed, in which he explained the "grace" or divine
effluence that should come with the laying on of hands; it was one
of the most beautiful imaginable and really seemed to bring down
blessings from the skies.

Though no ecclesiastic ever filled the episcopal office with more
essential dignity than Bishop Sweatman, he was no lover of canonical
dress for its own sake. He liked to don a blue serge suit and sail
with the young boys on Toronto Island where he lived in summer; and
his breadth of view rendered him more or less suspect by the more
extreme evangelicals of the Anglican Church. Into the Toronto Club, of
which he was a member he never carried his office, and though a most
temperate man, had no hesitation in ordering a whiskey-and-soda when
he thought it would do him good. In 1893, when I was a junior on the
staff of the Toronto _World_, which was carrying on single-handed a
fight for Sunday street cars, I went to see him with a request that
he sign a petition asking for their introduction. We had already
learned from Prof. William Clark of Trinity University, their ardent
and scholarly advocate, that the Bishop personally favoured the
innovation, but nevertheless I was rather timid in approaching him.
He was most genial about it, and did not disguise his hope that
our campaign would be victorious. "But," he said, "I speak as Dr.
Sweatman, the private citizen, and I must ask you in honour not to
publish his views. You come to me as Dr. Sweatman, the Bishop of
Toronto, and I have many in my flock, laymen as well as clergy, who do
not share my views, and to whom an expression of them in my official
capacity would be an embarrassment. Therefore I must refuse, but good
luck to you."

In my youth I came to like Anglican clergymen of all shades of
thought; and indeed I am disposed to think that in all churches, the
majority of the clergy are fine, self-sacrificing men, much maligned
because of the actions of a few truculent bigots and marplots, who
sometimes get the public ear and whose tirades are unendurable to all
tolerant men. Though Dr. Sweatman was not an orator, the Anglican
Church in Canada boasted many fine speakers forty years ago. Finest
of all, I think, was the Rt. Rev. Edward Sullivan, D.D., Bishop of
Algoma, who on his retirement from the terrific ardours of that
diocese, as it was in his day, became Rector of St. James' Cathedral.
He had a rich Dublin accent, the most graciously virile and musical
that I have ever heard, and he preached the doctrines of the simple
heart. The sanity and sincerity of his utterances did much to redeem
the pulpit in my eyes, for the critical faculty developed early in me,
though I was careful to keep my opinions to myself. In the eighties,
Bishop Sullivan, Canon DuMoulin (afterwards Bishop of Niagara),
and Dean Carmichael of Montreal, who had been fellow students at
Trinity University, Dublin, and who had come to Canada together, were
regarded as the three great orators of the Church. Dean Carmichael
I never heard, but Canon DuMoulin was much sought as a speaker for
all occasions. His voice had not the music of Dr. Sullivan's,--there
are indeed many types of Irish accent, and his was peculiarly flat
and unattractive. But when he spoke his phraseology was so racy,
thoughtful, and vital that he was at all times fascinating.

I remember an occasion when the swiftness and raciness of Canon
DuMoulin's wit was publicly manifest. In the spring of 1887 the Irish
Nationalist Party sent the notorious political gad-fly, William
O'Brien, M.P., and a minor Irish land-owner, Richard Kilbride, to
Canada to attack the then Governor-General, Lord Lansdowne, who was
accused of evicting tenants on his Irish estates. Their purpose
was to secure a demand by the people of Canada for his recall, and
so injure his public career. Needless to say the effort failed
completely,--Canadians refused to formulate such a demand, and Lord
Lansdowne lived to enjoy one of the most varied and notable careers
in the history of Great Britain. But O'Brien's visit did much to let
loose the tide of bigotry, and was injurious to the status of Irishmen
in Canadian public life. O'Brien and Kilbride were scheduled to speak
at a public meeting in Queen's Park, Toronto, on a certain Monday
afternoon in June. On the preceding Saturday, a great meeting of
loyalists was announced for the same place. I was early on the scene
and wiggled my way into a good place at both meetings. I have never
seen Queen's Park so full of people since--except on one occasion, the
open-air reception of the Rt. Hon. A. J. Balfour in 1917.

As I recall them the speeches at the loyalist meeting were mostly
"tosh" of the familiar flag-waving order--the exceptions being those
of the Rev. Principal Caven of Knox College, whose high-keyed Gaelic
accents were difficult to hear, and the Rev. Canon DuMoulin. The
latter as a native Irishman conversant with the situation from the
Unionist standpoint had the other speakers somewhat at a disadvantage
and his voice had wonderful carrying power. It was his task to put
the resolution affirming good-will toward Lord Lansdowne, and when
he asked for the "Ayes" a forest of hands went up. He then rather
superfluously asked for the "Nays", and presently his voice rang out,
"I see but wan hand,--and (with a dramatic pause) it looks as though
it should be taken home and wa-ashed." Of course there was a great
roar but I have since reflected what splendid courage the possessor
of that single unwashed hand must have possessed to brave such a mob.
Canon DuMoulin's sally, however, left everyone in such good humour
that no harm came to him.

The O'Brien meeting two days later was a more riotous affair. It was
called for late in the afternoon so as to insure a large attendance. I
was carrying home from school a large Union Jack which we had lent for
a celebration there, and I remember that as I hurried toward Queen's
Park a kindly stranger told me I had better hide it if I wished to
avoid trouble,--advice which I took. But though I again wiggled my way
near to the platform and was within good hearing distance, I did not
catch a word,--such was the din raised by the loyalist part of the
throng, including many of the university students waving the bull-dog
sticks then an indispensible part of a student's outfit. I can still
see the spectacled William O'Brien, who with his pointed beard bore
a resemblance to Bernard Shaw, standing on his toes and screaming at
the throng without avail. Kilbride with his heavy ruddy countenance
fared no better. He was a well-to-do man, owner of a celebrated race
horse "Campaigner", and had refused to pay rent for land he had under
lease from Lord Lansdowne. So he was greeted with a chorus of "Pay
Your Rent". Among the sights I saw was that of an aged Irish woman
trying to thrash a student with her umbrella amid the laughter of
his comrades. There was one moment when matters looked serious. The
northern part of the site of the meeting was flanked by great piles
of brick for the foundations of the new Ontario Parliament Buildings
then in course of construction. The Chief of Police had taken the
precaution to place a long line of constables to guard this ready
ammunition. Once the crowd broke and rushed toward them and the police
drew their clubs ready for rough work. But in reality the crowd was
merely fleeing from another body of police who were clubbing their way
through the crowd to arrest a group of men engaged in fighting.

In connection with the visit of William O'Brien, there was one man
who kept his head, the late Edward F. Clarke, editor of the _Orange
Sentinel_ and afterwards Member for West Toronto in the House of
Commons. Though a prominent Orangeman Mr. Clarke was tolerant by
temperament, and he suggested that O'Brien be offered the Orange Hall
to say what he had to say and then ignored. It was sane advice, but it
brought on Mr. Clarke considerable criticism. My father had a singular
experience in connection with the visit of O'Brien and Kilbride. It
chanced that he had business in Montreal and Quebec on the very dates
they were to speak there. Curiously his goings and comings by train
and steamer in both cities coincided with those of the Irish party,
and he stayed in the same hotels. For three full days he could not
escape them. O'Brien was attended by some American sympathizers who
came to the conclusion that my father must be a spy. Finally in St.
Lawrence Hall at Montreal one of these henchman approached and with
meaning in his eye informed him of what the Irish did to "informers".
It chanced that my father was in company with the late William
Mullarky of Montreal, a strong supporter of the Irish cause; and the
vocabulary the latter let loose on the interloper, convinced him of
his error.

Dickens, when he first visited Toronto, obtained the impression
recorded in _American Notes_ that it was a riotous city. And as I
recollect it in the eighties the charge was still true. O'Brien
during his visit was struck from behind by a coward while taking a
quiet stroll. In the east end of the city Orange Young Britons out on
parade thought nothing of rushing into the homes of Catholic families
just to frighten them. In those days the city perhaps really deserved
the epithet, "the Belfast of Canada," which I have always thought a
disgusting and insulting accusation when employed of recent years.
Among the many episodes which I heard of, but did not witness, was the
man-handling of the Fenian leader, O'Donovan Rossa, which he had done
much to provoke. An early street car strike which roused the forces of
bigotry because the President, Sir Frank Smith, was a Roman Catholic
was the occasion of much rioting, quelled by Col. Denison personally
with his mounted Body Guards. The character of the little horse cars,
not unlike the "Toonerville Trolley", which ran in the eighties may
be judged from an incident I witnessed during that strike. The cars
had not run for days when to my surprise I saw one coming up a main
thoroughfare. Presently half a dozen men ran out from the sidewalk,
ordered the conductor and driver out, unhitched the horses and with a
slap of the lines sent them galloping up the street. Then with ease
they shoved the car off the tracks over into the ditch. Reflect how
many men it would take to ditch a modern street car.

Rioting came to a climax when in the late eighties Archbishop
Walsh, a most kindly man who had been well liked by Protestants and
Catholics alike at London, Ont., during his incumbency as Bishop of
that Diocese, was stoned on his arrival in Toronto to assume the
archiepiscopal office. Decent citizens hung their heads for shame, and
the newspapers which had been encouraging brawling of this character
were subjected to popular pressure to mend their ways. The fact that
Dr. Walsh was a very close personal friend of the Conservative leader,
William Ralph Meredith, perhaps tended to emphasize the brutality
of the incident in the minds of some. At any rate a healthy public
sentiment in favour of decency was aroused, and though there has at
times been a recrudescence of the latent riotous impulse, nothing so
disgraceful has occurred since.

The allusion to Canon DuMoulin's racy humour has carried me rather
far afield. I recur to the old group of Anglicans to mention another
orator of impressive personality, the Rt. Rev. Maurice Baldwin, Bishop
of Huron, also of Irish descent, though purely a Canadian product.
He had a vigour, intensity, and beauty of language that brought his
hearers an authentic thrill. But for a boy at least I recall no more
interesting preacher than the Rev. J. Goff Brick, a homely little
weather-beaten Englishman, one of the early missionaries to the Peace
River country. He had a marked cockney accent, but the tales he told
of the far away wilderness in which he laboured were fascinating
in a rare degree and he invariably succeeded in imparting his own
enthusiasm to his hearers. Both Bishop Sullivan and Mr. Brick were
insistent on the fine qualities of their Indian wards in districts
where they have not been contaminated by association with white
whiskey-peddlers and railway construction gangs. The days of the old
missionary clergy of the East were passing in the eighties. I knew two
who in the early days of Upper Canada had laboured under conditions
such as their successors encounter in the Northern outposts. One
was the Rev. Canon O'Meara of Port Hope, who to my childish mind
was astonishingly like a turkey-gobbler, but who was greatly loved
and esteemed. Later I also knew very well the late Canon Henry Bath
Osler of York Mills, who prepared me for confirmation, and who was
as devoted and indefatigable a country parson as ever lived, driving
many miles to offer consolation at sick beds and to bury the dead,--a
bright cheery little man who literally diffused human kindness. Both
he and his brother, Canon Featherstone Osler, father of four famous
sons, were originally missionaries, and in youth had encountered
hardships in what is now rich pastoral country.

In my youth I think I had rather too much of church, enough at any
rate to last a good many years; but I have never lost my love for
that compendium of beautiful literature, the Book of Common Prayer.
Teachers of literature, perhaps for politic reasons, in dealing with
the treasures of the Tudor period, are apt to ignore its pure, fresh,
sonorous prose. But I have long felt that if there is any distinction
in my literary style I owe much to the fact that as a boy I was
perforce in constant contact with the noble prose of the Prayer Book.




                              CHAPTER V

                      MY BEGINNINGS AS A WRITER


For the tasks I have since set myself as a writer, I was singularly
ill-equipped in the matter of education; and I have never quite solved
the question in my mind of how and why I chanced to become one. But I
have noted the saying somewhere that the writer invariably educates
himself; by something like animal instinct he picks up here and there
what he needs for his mental nourishment. That is for the most part
true of most of the writers who graduate from newspaper offices,
or win distinction in the trade of journalism. What I have learned
has been very largely through association. I have always been an
omnivorous reader, interested in almost everything, but never a very
greedy one. I do not suppose that I have read more than 2,500 books
in the fifty odd years of life; but they have all been books that I
wanted to read and the contents of which I, often quite unconsciously,
remembered.

Such education as I had in boyhood was excellent, but ceased before I
was fifteen years old. There were good books at home, but we had no
literary friends. My mother had an excellent and discerning literary
taste, as evidenced by the fact that she chose as her favourite
novelist Anthony Trollope, whose greatness as an interpreter of human
life has only lately come into full recognition. This was at a time
when Trollope was not deemed worthy of an equal place with Thackeray
and Dickens. To-day, though his pages never attained the living power
of many of those of Dickens, I think that he is generally recognized
as equal to or perhaps greater than Thackeray. But Trollope is a
writer best appreciated by men and women of mature years. My mother,
as a young girl in Hamilton, had been the friend of two very noted
newspaper writers of their day, John Tyner, and William Wallace
Breckenridge. I still possess an early collected edition of Tennyson,
given her by Breckenridge; and she would go about her household duties
laughingly reciting passages from Shakespeare. She used to half
frighten me with her satirical and lugubrious recitation of the potion
scene from _Romeo and Juliet_, and would sometimes burlesque passages
from _Hamlet_. She was a delightful woman, who, without beautiful
features, gave an impression of beauty, by the delicate hues of her
complexion, the warm tints of her auburn hair, and above all by the
sweetness of her expression. She has been dead for more than a quarter
of a century; but old men still speak almost with tears in their eyes
of her loveliness when they first saw her with her three babies so
nearly of an age. It was, as I have tried to say, a loveliness more
of atmosphere than of actual definition, yet it left undying memories
with all who knew her.

When she discovered my aspirations she was very ambitious for me that
I excel as a writer and never deviate from standards of taste, once my
course was fixed; and from her I inherit a sense of humour that has
been my salvation on many occasions. But neither she nor I dreamed of
the course that was my destiny, when in my fifteenth year my father
decided that I should leave school to become equipped for a business
career. An active man, of conflicting interests and expansive ideas,
he felt his inefficiency as an office executive, and willed that I be
trained to supply his deficiency in the business that then seemed to
promise large results. And so one night when we were riding together
in the long shadows before sunset, he asked me how I should like to
be articled for three years with an English accountant who had come
to Canada, and was regarded as the most expert man of his profession
in this part of Canada. It was with a good deal of pride in the
responsibilities that were to be mine that I consented. Thus for three
years I became a slave to ledgers and figures and learned to hate them
heartily.

In the preceding years I had had some good schoolmasters and several
inefficient ones. Most of my education was obtained at the largest
public school in the city of that day--Wellesley school--presided over
by a renowned Scottish dominie, Adam Fergus Macdonald, whose memory
is still green. "Mac" used the rod sparingly because he did not need
to. He could frighten a culprit almost into nervous prostration by a
glance from his piercing eyes and a growl from his deep voice. I think
he regarded it as a mark of physical degeneracy that Canadian lads in
that day did not wear kilts; and in the drill company, the best in the
city schools, every boy had to wear a Scottish cap. When he discovered
that I was in part of Highland ancestry my fortunes with him were
made. He was a great moral force, who not only kept his subordinates
up to the mark but somehow or other kept the minds of three hundred
boys tolerably clean,--a rare achievement.

From Adam Fergus Macdonald's principality I passed on to another,
that of Archibald MacMurchy, father of a distinguished family, at
what he loved to term "The Old Grammar School". It was more vulgarly
known as Jarvis St. Collegiate Institute, but Dr. MacMurchy never
employed that modern appellation; and he was proud of the fact that
from its portals youths had been going forth to battle with life in
a new world since 1805. I never knew a teacher who spoke so little.
He had brought gesture in discourse to its fullest development; and
after gazing sorrowfully and intently at a misdemeanant would simply
point to the "imposition" book and say, "Two hundred lines", and jot
down a memo to see that the task was not forgotten. When I entered the
"Old Grammar School" the older boys were full of tales of a teacher of
English literature who had retired at the end of the preceding term;
of the order he kept; of the way he scarified the conceited; of his
rough and ready methods of sex education, where he thought admonition
necessary. The ways of "Sam" Hughes were an ever-popular theme; and
the boys could not understand why he should want to go away and be a
country editor. Needless to say, this hero was destined to fame as
General Sir Sam Hughes. He was not then so eminent in military circles
as his chum, the chief instructor in mathematics, Major Fred Manley
of the Royal Grenadiers, who had had a fine record for efficiency
in the Northwest Rebellion. Major Manley or "Fred", as he was known
behind his back, was a capital teacher, with a humorous twinkling eye,
who kept perfect order by making fun of any boy who became "fresh".
Good teachers never need to use the cane, and Major Manley was one of
these; but there were teachers more nervous and less efficient whose
weaknesses were known to all the boys, and whose lives they made a
torment. The most serious speech I ever heard Manley make was one
impressing on them the cruelty of such tactics. And indeed the boys
did in the end torment some of these less efficient teachers out of
their positions. One, a man of high scholastic attainments and a
Master of Arts, afterwards ended his days, untimely, as keeper of
a small grocery store. It was for this man and another that Manley
pleaded mercy among the boys he could influence, but the cruelty of
youth is incorrigible.

The dearest memories of my schoolboy days, however, centre around
the successor of Sam Hughes as chief instructor in English and
Literature, William Huston, M.A. Huston, a native of Whitby, would
have been recognized as Canada's greatest teacher. He was then
(1886-7) but twenty-four or twenty-five, but appeared much older;
with bristling eye-brows and eyes that twinkled with good humour
behind heavy glasses. Tall and raw-boned, he looked as if his clothes
had been blown on to him in a windstorm, but his magnetism was of a
most compelling quality. Despite his youth, his career had already
been most distinguished. He had come within one mark of winning the
Gilchrist Scholarship of the University of London, a most coveted
honour, and had been Principal of the old Quaker college at Pickering.
A year or so after I left school he was appointed Principal of
Woodstock College, where he was rapidly winning fame when his career
was cut short by death at the age of thirty.

Huston was able to fascinate boys with the intricacies and
irregularities of English grammar; and he opened a new world to me,
and I have no doubt to many others, by his power of literary criticism
and exposition. Though it was not directly under his department,
he touched on the classic origins of all imaginative literature: he
would tell the story of Ulysses and other classic romances and pull
the curtain aside to reveal far vistas of beauty in the whole realm
of poetry. His tastes were by no means antiquated. He expounded the
metrical beauties of Swinburne's _Forsaken Garden_, and it was from
him I first learned of Robert Louis Stevenson, when he told us to
advise our parents to buy the new novel, _Kidnapped_.

Looking back, it seems marvellous how much he taught us in the single
hour of each day that we enjoyed his society; and to me the year I
spent under him was priceless. Under Huston I took in and stored away
a host of impressions and enthusiasms, which were presently to burst
into active impulses and shape the course of my future life.

I cannot tell just when in those adolescent years, while I was toiling
over ledgers in the laborious but not always tedious business of
learning to be an auditor, the feeling was borne in on me that I must
become a writer. I found I was woefully ignorant. All of a sudden as
it were, I found myself possessed of a desire to acquire familiarity
with all literatures and all arts, and in time to become one of the
great company of letters. There is a phrase which I encountered many
years later, but which has ever since haunted me, because it perfectly
embodies feelings which have been mine since my seventeenth year. It
is to be found in the essay on Mazzini by that great modern but little
known master of the English tongue, Frederick Myers, in which he says
(without slightly difficult application) that anyone who does not feel
such aspirations is but "the empty-handed heir of the ages",--and this
has been the gospel of my inner life.

Almost the first thing that I did when the realization of the
inadequacy of my knowledge and of the countless untrodden paths of
beauty that lay before me, was to procure a copy of John Locke's
_Essay on the Human Understanding_ and read it carefully, and I think
understandingly. It was a tough task for a lad in his seventeenth
year, who had never been studious and had very little leisure. Locke's
close reasoning and precision of style, remarkable for an English
writer of the pre-Addisonian epoch, is no doubt simple enough for the
average student, but there was nothing in my experience to prepare me
for metaphysical and philosophic discourse, save a certain schoolboy
aptitude for Euclid. But in the month when I was grappling with Locke,
reading and re-reading to make sure that I was following his meanings,
I could feel the muscles of my mind expand, and my confidence grow,
just as the person who is learning to play golf or to swim finds new
uses for untried muscles in his body and rejoices therein. I never
followed up metaphysical reading, though in the next three or four
years I dipped into most of the philosophers, and was fascinated with
the doctrines of Spinoza and Hegel. Mill's _Logic_, which I tackled
two years after Locke, rather repelled me, though his treatise on
_Liberty_ fixed certain political principles of mine; and I could wish
that on this continent more people accepted John Stuart Mill, and
fewer, Billy Sunday, as a prophet.

Though the desire for mental exercise took me to the philosophers, I
can now see plainly that it was the artistic and imaginative aspects
of literature, the phases of it which tend to blend with other arts,
that really attracted me most. The reading room of the public library
not far from the office became my University. There by judicious
arrangement of the time I took for luncheon, and by not stopping
on the street to talk to anyone, I could have a full forty minutes
intensive reading. And I acquired a personal love for translations of
Goethe and Heine. Heine's _Atta Troll_, epic of a captive bear who
ran away and joined her companions in the woods, with its mordant
championship of intellectual liberty, especially appealed to my
mind,--which was like that of all ardent youths, rebellious against
the trammels of its surroundings. I have not looked into _Atta Troll_
for years, but it is a great allegory and a moral tract.

It must have been somewhere about the same time that I acquired an
enthusiasm for Plato, not so much for the dialogues which deal with
the religious views of Socrates--though the _Apologia_ is great as
thought, great as poetry, and, in a sense, great as drama--as for
the dialogues which analyse the emotions of love and the emotions
of beauty. These won my enduring affection--the _Banquet_, which as
translated by Shelley is a masterpiece of glowing English prose; and
the _Phaedrus_, one of the most gracious of the Carey translations.

My sudden plunge in the great world of literature was so replete with
adventure that I had little time for thoughts of girls and sports, the
normal aptitudes of healthy youths. I take no especial pride in that
fact. Lovely and charming girls are after all the greatest thing in
human existence. It was lucky for me that the location of my home, by
this time far out in the suburbs, compelled me to walk a great deal;
and I was also fortunate that when mentally lax I could always saddle
a horse, and amble peacefully along the beautiful by-ways of York
county in those days when the motor car was merely the dream of a few
inventors. One of the most glorious of physical sensations is to ride
on country roads on a warm June night, and savour the odour of the
unseen shrubs and flowers in the farm gardens. To the sensitive, every
changing month from May to October has its own specific odours, young
grass at one time, new cut hay at another, ripened apples at another.
And it was natural that my first impulse when I started to write
should take the form of nature poetry.

It is with some pride that I recall that while I was living this
exhilarating life of mental adventure and sensuous delight,--intensely
happy and intensely melancholy, often in one and the same hour,--I was
not lazy and stupid in the prosaic business of accountancy. Excitement
had been added to the game (for the game of double entry book-keeping
can be quite as fascinating as cross-word puzzles, for example) by the
fact that my chief had become a public assignee, and in the ledgers
and day-books that came to our hands we had to unravel the sordid
mysteries of many insolvencies.

I can imagine nothing more calculated to disgust an idealistic youth
with business, then an experience in an assignee's office, especially
in a period when commerce is generally unsettled, as it was in Canada
in the period of 1890. The clear proof of the shabby tricks and
subterfuges men of repute had resorted to in the vain hope of keeping
their businesses afloat; the deceptions they had practiced even on
trusting friends and relatives; the worries, as painful as a malignant
growth, they had endured--all these things were clear before my mind.
I believe that modern banking science, when truly practised (as it
sometimes is not), and the gradual elimination of the credit system
has done something to remedy matters for men of honest intentions,
but the inner anatomy of business in 1890 certainly offered no very
alluring prospect to a lad privileged to peer into it, as I was. I
used to think despairingly, "Am I to be fettered to this sort of thing
for life?"

Then circumstances arose that, in spite of myself, upset the plans
which had been made for me. My father ever since 1880 had foreseen
that Quebec was the natural home of the shoe industry, owing in the
main to its freedom from labour troubles and for other reasons as
well. He had desired to move his industry thither, but his partners
would not consent. The ability of Quebec to produce more cheaply
had in the end compelled abandonment of the manufacturing side of
his business, in which crisis his creditors behaved with splendid
magnanimity,--not at all like the creditors in novels,--and he
had attempted to carry on as a jobber. But here again, in an era
of falling prices, the men whose goods he was handling found it
convenient to unload and undersell him at the factory. Therefore
he closed up while there was still a chance to avoid disaster;
and the object which was in view when I was articled as a student
of accountancy, disappeared. When the three years of my time as
an articled clerk expired, my chief offered me a position to stay
with him and run the routine of the office at a rising stipend. But
this ended in a more tragic way. He was an accountant of amazing
penetration, whose ability to see through a bad mess led to his being
frequently called in consultation by other assignees and liquidators;
but his judgments in dealing with his fellow beings were child-like.
His youth had been one of drudgery in the black towns of the North of
England, and when prosperity came to him it was too much for him. He
developed a fatal connoisseurship in whiskey and an overweening desire
to learn to play the game of poker. There were plenty of rascals about
willing to teach him. The first signs of disintegration came when I,
who looked after the banking of the firm, would discover in going
through the checks at the end of the month withdrawals not only from
his own personal account, but on the trust accounts of the various
insolvent estates in our charge. I would ask about them, and he would
nervously assure me that everything would be all right. There could
be one end to this. Late on a winter afternoon in 1891 he called me
into his room, said that he knew I was worried, but that money was
coming from England that would amply cover all claims, but that he
was feeling unwell and thought he would take a brief vacation. Next
morning I found he had absconded. His creditors, largely already
creditors of estates in his hands, knew it was not worth while
bringing him back. He tried to make a living as a newspaper man by
use of his shorthand in Buffalo,--apparently he feared exposure if he
applied for an accountant's position there, since references would be
asked--and in the end committed suicide by throwing himself in front
of a railway train.

For two years I had been scribbling privately; and in order to avoid
the impression that I was not attending to business, as well as
from sheer diffidence, I had been sending verse and prose sketches
anonymously to the young weekly newspaper, the _Toronto Saturday
Night_, then conducted by Mr. E. E. Sheppard. I sometimes signed
my initials and sometimes the pen-name "Touchstone", which I chose
because of one of the jester's saying, "Call me not fool till Heaven
hath sent me fortune." A week or so before the disappearance of my
chief in the assignee's office, an item appeared as the very first
paragraph on the front page of _Saturday Night_ in which Mr. Sheppard,
or "Don" as he signed himself, requested that the contributor who
called himself "Touchstone" call on him or send him his address.
My elation was naturally tremendous, and I went to see him. In
after years he told me that he had expected to meet a man of about
thirty-eight (his own age) instead of one twenty years younger. But
after making some inquiries and sending for my father, he finally
offered me the post of assistant editor in succession to the late
Duncan A. McKellar, who was going away to New York to try his fortunes
in company with his pal, the late Peter McArthur. The stipend he
offered to begin on was so low that I could not have afforded to
accept it, had the crisis I have spoken of not occurred almost at the
same time. I had one other option: the Timothy Eaton Company was just
at that time entering on the marvellous career of expansion which
constitutes one of the greatest of business epics, and needed trained
office men to grow up with the business. I had a chance to start there
on somewhat better terms, but was already too deeply bitten with the
hope of becoming a writer to accept. Thus for good or ill, in the
second week of March, 1891, being some months less than nineteen, I
became a newspaper man.




                              CHAPTER VI

                  WHEN JOURNALISTS WERE PICTURESQUE


Edmund E. Sheppard, who had taken the responsibility of launching me
in newspaper work, was the most picturesque figure in the Canadian
literary and journalistic Bohemia of thirty-five years ago, and in
some respects the most unique mingling of likeable and offensive
traits that I have ever known. He was a man of intensive energy:--that
is to say, he would at certain periods work prodigiously and at others
loaf. This is a familiar condition with the literary temperament; but
he was something more than a literary man. He was both dreamer and
schemer, with the result that he managed to get a good deal more out
of life than the average man; to travel much in foreign lands and to
retire from active duty with a competence at an age when most men of
his calling are happy to be still at work and wondering what is to
happen them in old age, if they are unfortunate enough to live to
advanced years.

Several men of my acquaintance have made considerable fortunes out of
the newspaper business, but they have done so largely by gradually
attaining a sort of mental atrophy which enables them to shut out from
their vision the varied and fascinating panorama of human existence,
and to concentrate on money-getting pure and simple. They grow less
interesting every day they live, and the world grows less interesting
to them. But "Ned" Sheppard, as his friends called him, or "Don", as
he was known to the wider public, was at all times interesting. He
was the type who could always find the money for what he wished to
do. He was born in the early fifties in Elgin county, Ontario, where
his father was both a small farmer and a preacher of the Disciples
Church. The elder Sheppard was a man of very narrow and rigid ideas,
I have been told, and under his stern rule the son, who was a natural
rebel against all conventions, had so sad a time of it as a boy that
it embittered him for the rest of his life. At the time E. E. Sheppard
published his rural novel, _Widower Jones_, in the late eighties, it
was widely rumoured that in its title character he had rather brutally
satirized his own father. At any rate he acquired in boyhood a hatred
of pietists, to him synonymous with hypocrites, that lasted all his
life.

In his 'teens he managed to scrape up enough money to go away to
Virginia and study medicine at one of the cheap colleges of the
impoverished South; but without finishing his course he drifted to the
Mexican border, where he worked as cowboy and stage driver, and picked
up a marvellously racy vocabulary. I do not swear much myself, but I
know good swearing when I hear it, and Mr. Sheppard, when the spirit
moved him, was an artist. On the border he picked up a distinctive
habit of dress, half-Spanish and half-American, and resembled one of
Bret Harte's immaculate gamblers. It may be pure imagination, but I
have a theory that the late Cuyler Hastings, an actor who came from
the same part of Western Ontario as Mr. Sheppard, copied him when he
created the role of the Sheriff in the famous melodrama, _The Girl
of the Golden West_--a make-up now familiar the world over through
Puccini's opera based thereon. "Don" had two hats, a tall "plug"
for outdoor and a slouch for indoor wear,--and in the years when I
knew him best I hardly once saw him with his head uncovered. Under
his trousers he wore top boots of fine Spanish leather; and he liked
to surprise British visitors to his office by putting his feet on
the table and displaying these unique articles. He habitually chewed
tobacco, and his aim at a distantly placed cuspidor, when he felt
the need of expectoration, was invariably accurate. On one occasion
the late Sir George Ross visited his office on a political mission;
and Sheppard with a view to convincing the Premier of Ontario of his
brusque independence practised this gift throughout the interview,
occasionally ejaculating an unprintable synonym for buncombe which has
its origin in ranch-life. Sir George was never in danger, but would
jump nervously every time a quid flew past him to the cuspidor. The
first thing Mr. Sheppard told me by way of admonition when I entered
his employ was that he could drink all the whiskey the staff required,
and it was no idle boast; though in those days it never seemed to
unsteady him. On the contrary liquor made him pensive and morose; and
it was a unique sight to see him ruminating under his slouch hat;
meditating some attack on a charlatan, or some plan to "land" an
advertising contract. _Saturday Night_, his weekly paper, had a few
shareholders and a nominal board, and at the annual meeting he would
present a statement of affairs with the words: "You won't understand
what this means and I don't intend that you shall." Everyone took it
as a good joke, for the promised dividend was always paid.

He had cut his teeth in newspaper work in St. Thomas and London, Ont.,
and in 1882 came to work as a reporter in the _Mail_, in Toronto,
where his picturesque bearing and remarkably alert mind took the fancy
of the late John Riordan, the paper manufacturer, who with Christopher
W. Bunting owned the newspaper. John Riordan, I have been told, was
always very ambitious to follow the lead of the famous New York
publishers of forty years ago. Thus the _Mail_ building, which still
occupies the corner of Bay and King streets, Toronto, was constructed
as a replica of the old New York Tribune building facing City Hall
Square. At his home town, St. Catharines, he drove a team of trotters
after the manner of Robert Bonner, who had made a fortune out of a
fiction-weekly, the New York _Ledger_. Finally he decided to emulate
James Gordon Bennett, who had founded, in connection with the New
York _Herald_, a newspaper of different name, known as the _Evening
Telegram_. The latter title having been pre-empted in Toronto, Mr.
Riordan established the _Evening News_, and selected E. E. Sheppard,
as the livest man in his employ, to conduct it.

The methods adopted by Sheppard to gain fame and circulation for the
_News_ were lurid, and anticipated many of the "circulation stunts"
of to-day. For a time he printed it on pink paper; and when I was a
youngster, most boys desired their fathers to take the _News_ in order
that they might have pink kites. Less innocuous was the institution
of the "Peek-a-Boo" column containing offensive and often malicious
gossip about leading men and women of Toronto society. This is a very
old journalistic trick to get circulation. It was practised in New
York before the American Civil War by the elder Bennett, and in Canada
it was employed by William Lyon Mackenzie, whose plant was thrown
in Toronto Bay, not for political reasons, as some school histories
state, but because he had assailed the moral character of the wives
and daughters of members of the alleged Family Compact. Pressure of
public opinion compelled Sheppard to drop the "Peek-a-Boo" column, and
with this cicatrice removed, the _News_ won favour by the freshness
and interest of the writing which appeared in its columns.

I do not think any Canadian editor ever showed better judgment than
Sheppard in discerning newspaper ability. In later years I came to
know several of his colleagues in the conduct of the _News_ and
they were all men of fine gifts. They included the late Louis P.
Kribs, a Waterloo county "Dutchman" whose humorous articles signed
"Henery Pica" were copied all over America; the late Thomas A. Gregg,
who, with his brother George Gregg, had originally promoted the
establishment of the _Mail_ and who later was one of the founders of
the Toronto _Star_; the late John A. Ewan, who subsequently became
one of the editors of the _Globe_; and among the brilliant juniors
who have made a great success in life was Walter Cameron Nichol, who
became Lieutenant Governor of British Columbia and a knight.

I am speaking of a period several years before my own entry into
newspaper work; but in the nineties the lore of three decades was open
to the young man interested in the history of his calling. One of
Sheppard's circulation stunts was to try and make the _News_ the organ
of the then young and thriving body, the Knights of Labour, though
I do not think he had any actual sympathy with its aims. I recall
seeing a Labour procession in the mid-eighties when the entire staff
of the _News_, editors, reporters, business clerks, compositors,
and pressmen were compelled to walk wearing white "plug" hats like a
minstrel company. Sheppard with his black goatee and sallow Spanish
countenance walked at the head with Louis Kribs, a bulky blonde figure
who looked like a German comedian and was nick-named "The Crown
Prince". They were figures that one would not soon forget. I learned
in after years that the white plug hats were a job lot picked up by
Sheppard at a dollar apiece, and that it was a grievance with the
staff that every man was compelled to purchase one at that figure.
They refused to take them home after the parade, and when I went to
work for the _News_ in 1896 many of them were still lying about the
office, and were used as waste baskets; while at the noon hour the
printers' devils would play football with them. They were indeed hardy
perennials.

Kribs was one of the kindest hearted men who ever lived. He and his
wife were childless and made a practice of adopting orphans and giving
them a start in life. He had seldom less than four little ones in his
home, of whose misfortunes he had learned in the course of newspaper
work. And he was a famous hand at hoaxes. In the seventies, while
conducting a country newspaper at Barrie, he had chronicled the death
at Allandale, across Kempenfeldt Bay, of one T. H. O. Mascat, who had
been run over by a train. Half the population of Barrie walked over
to view the remains, only to find that the unfortunate victim was an
ordinary tabby. The greatest hoax that he perpetrated while on the
_News_ staff was the announcement of the retirement from public life
of Sir John A. Macdonald, accompanied by the full text of an alleged
farewell address. For a few hours it caused consternation in Canada,
until the more learned citizens discovered that it was copied word for
word from the farewell address of George Washington, a document really
written, it is supposed, by the great federalist, Alexander Hamilton.
Sir John did not resent the hoax, for he was very fond of Kribs and
two years later was instrumental in having him appointed news editor
of a new Conservative organ, the _Empire_. Kribs was a gifted oboe
player, who had been a member of the Waterloo town band; and another
recruit of the _Empire_ staff was James W. Curran, the present editor
of the Sault Ste. Marie _Star_ and a renowned authority on the
docility of wolves. Curran had been a trombone player in the Orillia
town band; and after I went to work on the _Empire_ staff in 1893 I
was told of the melancholy duets transposed for oboe and trombone
with which they used to while away the night hours. That was before
the days of "jazz", and these duets may be said to have anticipated
Paul Whiteman in weird combination effects. I once told the famous
conductor, Walter Damrosch, of these duets, which I regret never to
have heard personally, and he shuddered at the thought of them.

I never knew Louis P. Kribs very well, but he was literally adored by
all his associates, a contrast to Sheppard, who was not popular and
was sensitive about the isolation he suffered in his own calling. And
it was through Kribs, who would not willingly have wronged any man,
that Sheppard lost the _News_, though I do not believe that it ever
made a dollar for anybody throughout the forty years of its existence.

The military calling boasts its heroes, but it boasts its liars
as well. At the close of the Northwest rebellion of 1885 some
prevaricating soldier told Kribs that the 65th Battalion of Montreal,
largely composed of French Canadians, had shirked their duty while on
active service in the West, because of their sympathy with the rebel
leader, Louis Riel. Kribs, never a model of discretion, wrote and
printed the yarn. There was a less offensive story going the rounds at
the time which related to the 65th battalion. It was of a captain who
being told that a band of rebels was concealed in a coulie gave the
order, "Front rank, ready, present, fire!" and when the soldiers kept
on banging away shouted peremptorily, "Stop shoot! Leave some for the
rear rank!" The men of the 65th battalion did not mind this yarn; but,
when Kribs published his tale of dereliction in duty, all its officers
entered suit for damages against the _News_, of which E. E. Sheppard
under a purchasing agreement with the Riordan interests was already
part owner. They also took proceedings for criminal libel against Mr.
Sheppard personally, as editor of the offending newspaper.

Then ensued a long game of hare and hounds. Political animosity
between Quebec and Ontario has never run so rancorously as in the
mid-eighties, owing to the agitation among French Canadians over the
hanging of Riel. Under the libel law of Canada actions both criminal
and civil must be tried in the home town of the injured party, or the
nearest legal centre thereto. This clause is a menace to justice,
because it operates very strongly against the prospect of a fair
trial. If Sheppard and Kribs had been taken to Montreal in 1885,
matters would have been black for them. Sheppard took responsibility
for the article, though he had not seen it until it appeared in print,
and owing to his natural sense of caution would probably have "killed"
it, as newspaper men phrase it. The only course open to him was to
evade service of writs and warrants; and this he succeeded in doing
for nearly two years. For months the Quebec police officials had
great difficulty in securing the signature of a Toronto magistrate
to the warrant. Col. Denison, then the sole police magistrate, was
usually conveniently absent from his office, or on the bench, when
the High Constable from Montreal would appear on the scene to seek
his signature; and local justices of the peace were also diffident.
At last the warrant was validated by the higher courts; but the game
of evasion went merrily on. Sheppard had convenient exits broken in
the offices of the _News_ on Yonge street, Toronto, which enabled him
to vanish when the alarm was given. The office was indeed a curious
rookery. There was a platform or balcony on the second floor where
you might stand unseen and watch anyone moving about in a corridor
below, through which a police officer searching for the accused must
necessarily pass. One of the _News_ stereotypers told me that on one
occasion when the High Constable of Montreal was known to be in town,
he and a fellow employee had arranged to douse the official with a
barrel of flour from this vantage point. Fortunately the information
leaked to the "boss", who gave stern orders against violence. If the
incident had transpired it would have been disastrous, for it is a
very serious matter to assault an officer while in the pursuit of duty.

Finally the long game of hide and seek ended by Mr. Sheppard's
voluntary surrender. The long litigation in the courts had been very
costly; he had been unable to meet his obligations for purchase of
the _News_, and the Riordan interests were resolved to dislodge him.
There were economic reasons to justify this course. They were the
owners of the Conservative organ, the _Mail_, though they had already
quarrelled with Sir John Macdonald and announced that the publication
would thenceforth be independent in politics. Nevertheless it was an
embarrassment in business to be known as the partial supporters of
a publication at open war with the province of Quebec. Sheppard was
practically ruined; and it was arranged that he should depart. At
Montreal he was most leniently treated. Instead of imprisonment, he
was fined the nominal sum of $500, and the civil suits were withdrawn.
It was the knowledge that they had accomplished their purpose and
as they supposed ended the career of their enemy that led to this
magnanimity on the part of the officers of the 65th Battalion--or so I
have been assured.

In reality this supposed misfortune was the luckiest event that
ever happened to E. E. Sheppard. The litigation had advertised him
throughout the length and breadth of Canada, and it had created for
him many sympathizers in Ontario. I have spoken of the junior, Walter
Cameron Nichol, then a verse and skit writer on the _News_. Though
but a boy he, with one of the _News_ advertising staff, had projected
a weekly newspaper devoted to political commentary, social gossip
and musical and dramatic criticism. This was the origin of _Saturday
Night_, which has not only been the most successful of all Canadian
weeklies, but the only one of its kind that has survived.

Walter Nichol and his advertising friend had been unable to raise
capital for their project, but Mr. Sheppard had friends who were
willing to advance money to set him on his feet again, and having
nothing else to turn to he looked favourably on the projected weekly.
His name did not appear in the first issue, which was gotten out by
Nichol in the autumn of 1887, but in the second he began the front
page of independent commentary which has ever since been a feature
of _Saturday Night_, and to which I have myself in later years
contributed countless words.

Mr. Sheppard himself when he chose to apply his mind to the task
was a splendid editor with a fine discernment in securing talent.
Unfortunately for themselves Mr. Nichol, who became assistant editor
under him, and his friend, who had become advertising manager,
quarreled with Sheppard because they did not think they had been
fairly treated. They accused him of having grabbed control of a
project which had originated with them. They demanded a "show-down"
and were refused. Early in 1888 they left and established another
weekly on similar lines entitled _Life_. They lacked the prestige and
the means to swing the enterprise, though Walter Nichol wrote witty
lampoons of which Mr. Sheppard was the target in many instances.

One of his ideas was a fake questionable submitted to public men as
to whom they regarded as the world's three greatest men. Sheppard's
alleged answers were as follows: First, Edmund E. Sheppard; second. E.
E. Sheppard; third, "Don".

To-day in British Columbia Sir Walter Cameron Nichol is recognized
as a model of dignity and business acumen, but as a boy-reporter in
my native city of Hamilton where he served his apprenticeship on the
_Spectator_ he was regarded as a "terror", and I heard many amusing
stories of his pranks. There was in those days a character who was a
good deal of a fop known as Miles O'Reilly Jarvis. Nichol wrote a few
verses of asinine poetry and sent them to _Puck_ signed by Jarvis.
They were of course thrown in the waste paper basket; and for weeks
Nichol bombarded the famous editor, H. C. Bunner, with enquiries as
to when they would appear, assailing his literary intelligence and
proclaiming the verses the work of genius. These communications, each
containing fresh copies of the verses, were also signed by the name
of Jarvis. Finally Mr. Bunner instructed one of the _Puck_ staff to
write a jocular story about the Hamilton poet Miles O'Reilly Jarvis,
who was so confident of his genius. The article was a huge joke in
Hamilton, but Mr. Jarvis set an investigation afoot and the letters
were traced to Nichol, who had not kept the secret. He was threatened
with criminal proceedings, compelled to make an apology, and was a
sadder and wiser boy before he heard the last of Miles O'Reilly Jarvis.

In disgust with the difficulties of carrying on _Life_ and the failure
to obtain the share in _Saturday Night_ that was his due as first
promoter, he went to British Columbia, where his rise to affluence
and eminence is a matter of history. After he left his partner tried
to continue _Life_ with other assistance. A young literary aspirant,
just graduated from the University, whom I later came to know well,
was induced to advance five hundred dollars on condition of being
appointed to the staff. The first use that was made of this windfall
was the purchase of a ton of coal, for the finances of _Life_ had sunk
so low that the staff was literally freezing to death. The balance of
the funds financed two more issues, and then the young man who had
advanced the money was out of a job and out of pocket. Thus perished
the first rival of _Saturday Night_. Mr. Sheppard had been too shrewd
to advertise its existence by answering lampoons at his own expense,
but on its collapse he penned this epitaph: "The name of _Life_ has
been changed to _Death_".

_Saturday Night_ was itself unpretentious in quarters and equipment
in those days. Its chief ornament was a vast "old master" by Guercino
of doubtful value, which Mr. Sheppard picked up in a European auction
room as a bargain and subsequently presented to the National Club,
where it still hangs. The weekly occupied three narrow floors and
a basement in the Grand Opera House building, which as the only
first-class theatre in Toronto at that time was an excellent location
in which to house a publication of the kind. Every playgoer had the
name of _Saturday Night_ before his eyes; and on publication day
sheets were pasted on the windows to tease him into buying. The
editorial rooms upstairs were the nearest approach to a literary
Bohemia that Canada afforded at that time. A dark and narrow hallway
led to them, and they had at one time been the quarters of a defunct
Press Club at which Henry Irving and other celebrities had been
entertained. On the wall was a sketch of the great actor, which had
been made from life on one of these occasions. Many scribbled names,
some noted, still decorated the panelling, when I first entered
these quarters in 1891; and on the same floor was the studio of the
celebrated landscape painter, O. R. Jacobi, whose finer canvasses
to-day command a high price. He was a peculiar fusty old Teuton with
the soul of a poet, and he looked as though he lived on the smell of
an oil rag and slept in his clothes, as I believe he not infrequently
did. He used to let me go into his studio to watch him paint in his
peculiar minute spots, from which, however, he evolved unique and
charming effects in colour; and sometimes he would come into my room
to get warm.

In the frank picture of E. E. Sheppard which this chapter presents
I trust I have not belittled his real powers. His was indeed a
remarkably prophetic mind. Two or three years after he finally left
Canada for California in 1910, he wrote a book entitled _The Thinking
Universe_. It was a metaphysical disquisition, which owing to the
writer's lack of familiarity with the vocabulary of metaphysics and
philosophy was somewhat unintelligible, yet in it he unquestionably
anticipated the Einstein theory. More remarkable still was a paper
he prepared in 1897 which he hoped to have the privilege of reading
before the British Association for the Advancement of Science which
convened in Toronto that year. His offer was rejected by those in
charge of the programme because of his lack of scientific standing,
yet his secretary, to whom it was dictated, and who remembers its
contents, not long ago informed me that in that paper Mr. Sheppard
prophesied the advent of what is now known as "radio" in explicit
terms. He also once planned a life of Christ as viewed by the common
man of to-day and visited Palestine to get "atmosphere", but, perhaps
fortunately, became overawed by his own project.

The contrast between the mind of the man given to so much abstract, if
not entirely lucid, thinking and his daily conversation was startling.
Once when a local poet tendered him verses apostrophizing Toronto in
this wise,

    Let the daughter of the Don
    Put her radiant garments on,

Mr. Sheppard said that the poem, like the Don River itself (a
muddy stream which flows through the eastern part of Toronto), was
"hog-wash". The poet retorted with a quatrain:

    Hogwash is a word
    That can only be heard
    In the swinish herd
    Of a man named "Shep-perd".




                             CHAPTER VII

                 POETS AND WOMEN WRITERS OF THE PAST


The young man whom I succeeded as assistant editor, Duncan A.
McKellar, was a person of beautiful character, with a dark, melancholy
Scottish face that seemed to foretell his early death. He was a
talented black-and-white artist and was a prominent member of the
Art Students' League, now the Graphic Arts Club, and I think had
had something to do with selecting its Latin motto, which signified
"Not a Day Without a Line". He also wrote charming verse, and our
acquaintanceship had begun with his liking for my own nature lyrics.
Like Mr. Sheppard, he had not known that the anonymous person who
sent in prose sketches signed "Touchstone" was identical with "H. W.
C.", the verse writer to whom he had some time previously awarded a
prize in a competition for a poem on November's garland, the golden
witch-hazel. Duncan McKellar's poetry was collected by his sister
a year or so ago and makes a charming little book. The most famous
of all his lyrics, "Indian Woman's Lullaby", was set to music for
women's voices by Dr. A. S. Vogt. It is one of the finest part songs
in the modern repertoire, and is very frequently used at competition
festivals. The text has been admired by hundreds of thousands of
listeners who never heard of the author. Between McKellar and Peter
McArthur, already established in New York as a humorous writer,
existed a friendship which was the nearest approach to a Damon and
Pythias relationship that I have ever known. They shared diggings in
Brooklyn after McKellar went to New York and McArthur wrote jokes for
McKellar's pictures. The latter was just beginning to find a market
that offered a secure income when stricken with tuberculosis. McArthur
stood by his pal in this adversity; and when McKellar was brought home
to Canada to die, used to journey hither to visit him, although it
must have meant a strain on his resources. Peter McArthur's own end
in 1924 was so peaceful and gentle that it left beautiful memories,
and he told me a characteristic story of what were almost McKellar's
last words. A well-meaning clergyman came into the sick-room and asked
a question with which ministers, with the best of good intentions,
feel it their duty to torment the sick: "Have you made your peace with
God?" The dying artist glanced up with a smile in his beautiful dark
eyes and said softly, "I don't think I ever had a quarrel with God."
And he spoke truly.

McKellar delayed his departure for New York for a few days to "break
me in", as he put it, but my first instructions in how to fix up
copy for the printers were given me by the editor of the women's
department, Miss Elliott, now Mrs. Joseph E. Atkinson, wife of the
proprietor of the Toronto _Star_. I almost fell in love with her,
so charming was she; and she had an attractive gift in both verse
and prose. She used many pen-names, and thousands who are unaware of
her actual identity must be familiar with them. To the earliest of
her writings that I recall she signed "Frances Burton Clare"; but in
her weekly column of commentary for _Saturday Night_ she used "Clip
Carew", a capital pen-name. In a week or two she resigned to join
the staff of the _Globe_, the fame of whose woman's department had
been made by "Garth Grafton", no less a personage than the popular
novelist, Sarah Jeanette Duncan. She then assumed the pseudonym of
"Madge Merton", which she carried to the Montreal _Herald_, and in
after years used that of "Pandora".

As an auxiliary of _Saturday Night_, Mr. Sheppard published a cheap
though perfectly innocuous paper of the _Family Herald_ brand known
as the _Fireside Weekly_, and edited by Miss Kate Westlake, a woman
of delightful character who knew everything there was to know about
newspaper routine, since she had been a reporter and proof-reader
on country weeklies, had written up the cattle at fall fairs and
done every kind of job there was to do in a small office. She was
most resourceful, and when the famous Indian Chief, Sitting Bull,
died, she sat up late at nights and at break neck speed wrote a dime
novel, _Sitting Bull's White Ward_, which she sold to the Bedells of
Philadelphia for $500. She would have been a treasure in a modern
newspaper office. Subsequently she married the well-known apostle of
facts about Canada, Frank Yeigh, and many sorrowed when she died.

Though I never kept a diary, my memories of my first day in an
editorial room and of the persons who called, are as vivid as
though it were yesterday, for I had enjoyed no literary or artistic
acquaintanceships and had hungered for them. An early arrival was
the poet William Wilfred Campbell, then an Anglican clergyman at
Wiarton. He brought with him an advance copy of _Harper's Magazine_
for April, 1891, containing _The Mother_, the finest example of ballad
poetry that has ever been written by a Canadian, and his own best
achievement. He wished it reprinted in _Saturday Night_, and McKellar
showed me how to put it in hand so that the copy would be kept clean.
Within the next twelve months _The Mother_ was reprinted in hundreds
of publications in every English-speaking country. Shortly after
its appearance Mr. Campbell was accused of plagiarism by Katherine
Tynan Hinkson, the Irish poet, who had, it transpired, written a much
inferior poem on the same subject for some British publication, at
about the same time that Campbell had written his ballad for _Harper's
Magazine_. I am able to disprove the accusation of plagiarism with
regard to _The Mother_, which still crops up occasionally. Mrs. Tynan
was mistaken in thinking that the legend of the mother who had died
in childbirth and returns from the grave to seize her infant from
the arms of the new wife is peculiar to Ireland; it is common to the
folk-lore of all countries.

In 1890 I had found a group of "Russian Ghost Stories", in an old
copy of the _Eclectic Magazine_, which included this legend. I had
attempted to make a poem of it, and was so disgusted with my own
attempt that I tore up the copy. When Campbell showed me _The Mother_
I was naturally excited and asked where he had found the legend.
He told me he had read it in a book on folk-lore by John Fiske,
entitled, I think, _The Childhood of the World_. Here then we have the
coincidence of a single subject obtained from three distinct sources
appealing to three writers at about the same time and all attempting
to use it; Campbell handling it so perfectly that no other can hope
to surpass his version, Mrs. Tynan treating with a fair amount of
skill, and myself making a wretched abortive attempt. The same thing
has happened with regard to almost every revolutionary mechanical
invention of modern times. That is why I believe in a certain nebulous
form of telepathy, unconscious thought transference, which may some
day be put in harness as radio has put sound waves in harness.

Campbell and I became friends and kept up a random correspondence for
some years. This friendship was cemented first through the coincidence
with regard to _The Mother_ and also because he had liked a lyric
of mine, _Jeptha's Daughter in the Mountains_ which I am proud to
say was also deeply loved by Kate Westlake Yeigh, though it was
better in conception than execution. But we came to differ because I
questioned the wisdom of an elaborate charge of plagiarism Campbell
framed against Bliss Carman when the latter's poetry was just coming
into fame. The attack caused a sensation in Canadian literary circles
thirty years ago; and I did not think Campbell's citations sustained
his case. It seemed to me that a poet who had himself suffered an
unwarranted attack of plagiarism, on what looked like _prima facie_
evidence, should be chary of assailing others on a similar count.
There is a great deal of nonsense in most charges of plagiarism. If it
were a crime Shakespeare must be lying in the nethermost pit of hell.
Plagiarism when conscious justifies itself if the culprit's creation
is better than its source.

In my early weeks of newspaper life I made many lasting friendships.
Two visitors who came in to see McKellar on the very first day were
the artists Charles W. Jefferys and Robert Holmes. Jefferys has kept
his status as an illustrator and later as a water-colorist with
remarkable success; the woods of eastern Canada and the prairies
of western Canada have no more sincere and tasteful delineator; and
his historical studies in black and white truly depict the early
life of this country. Robert Holmes taught nearly two generations of
Upper Canada College boys to draw, and his studies of Canadian plant
life have almost a spiritual essence. Though time must have worked
its changes on them they seem the same to me as on that day, over
thirty-four years ago, when I felt that shaking their hands was an
initiation to the world of art. Another artistic friendship formed at
the outset was with Carl Ahrens, a poet with the brush if ever there
was one, and like most of the older Canadian artists, a man of truly
native inspiration.

As I have said, Miss Elliott was retiring from the staff, and in the
same week as I began my apprenticeship, another beginner,--my elder by
nearly twenty years, but nevertheless a novice--arrived on the scene.
She was Grace E. Denison, that wholesome buoyant woman whose pen name
of "Lady Gay" soon became widely famous. I cherish a deep affection
for her memory, for she was in those days almost a second mother to
me. A more celebrated protégé of hers was Arthur Stringer. To her deep
regret she had been denied children; and the mothering instinct was
profound in her. Her desire to do things for young people was sincere
and intense. Many women who are now settled down with growing families
recall the debutante parties she gave yearly; and during the time of
my early apprenticeship young girls who adored her were constantly
running in and out of her office. The pen-name "Lady Gay", so
perfectly suited to her personality, she took from Dion Boucicault's
comedy, _London Assurance_, of which the witty Lady Gay Spanker is
the heroine. Her tongue was sharp, and her repartee quick, but at
bottom she was all kindness, though rather proud of her skill in
offence, when provoked. Very characteristic was a remark I once heard
her make to a fellow newspaper woman, "Faith Fenton", of the _Empire_,
now Mrs. J. N. E. Brown. Faith Fenton had been sent to interview the
famous contralto singer, Agnes Huntingdon, at the request of Miss
Huntingdon's manager, and had been treated with unnecessary rudeness.
"I know how I'd get even with her," said Lady Gay. "How?" asked her
friend. "I'd say that she has a bull neck," was the response. It was
quite true, and I have no doubt that Lady Gay would have done so in
the circumstances.

In handling social gossip in a manner that titillated curiosity
without giving offence, no journalist was her equal, and despite her
cynical joviality she was a woman of deep emotions who had seemingly
been predestined to sorrow. She was a daughter of Canon Sandys, of
Chatham, Ont., and of aristocratic Irish lineage, and in youth she had
been engaged to a man she loved deeply. His accidental death shortly
before the day of her marriage prostrated her for a long period.
She cured herself of melancholy by the task of writing a novel, so
excellent that it was immediately accepted by the old publishing firm
of Belford. It was about to be put into the hands of the compositors
when the Belford printing house was burned and the sole copy of the
manuscript destroyed. She found it impossible to rewrite it. When she
did marry, the union was not a success, and during the later years of
her life she lived alone. She felt it cruelly that she was not told
of her husband's illness, and on the day he was buried sat in long
meditation by his coffin. She told me that in that hour the sense
came to her that all the little things that had separated them were
forgiven and blotted out; and very soon she followed him. I had by
that time again become her colleague; and on the last occasion when
I saw her in life she came to the office in the gayest and kindliest
of moods, with charming words even for those with whom she had been
on rather difficult terms. That night she was taken ill in her lonely
apartment and was dying after hours of agony, too weak even to use the
telephone, before her condition was discovered.

Among the friends who used to come in to see Lady Gay in the old days
of 1891 was another writer of aristocratic Irish descent, the late
Katherine Blake-Coleman, beloved of thousands through her writings
over the pen-name of "Kit". She was a discovery of E. E. Sheppard, who
to his eternal honour always encouraged beginners and may be said to
have discovered most of the writers who attained prominence in Canada
in the period from 1885 to 1900. There was always a touch of mystery
about "Kit". From her reminiscences of Irish life, in which she was at
her best, it was plain that she as a girl lived in the same type of
baronial hall and the same society as that described by George Moore
in his many recollections of youth. I fancy it must have been in the
neighbourhood of Connemara, for she used to dilate on the beauty of
the peasant girls in that region. She was highly educated, and that
she had spent a part of her life in Paris was also clear from her
writings. Bernhardt was one of her close friends, and they used to see
much of each other whenever the French tragedienne visited Canada. An
acquaintance who in youth lived in Dublin told me once that she had
been married to a very prominent Irishman of international fame, long
since dead, but he did not tell me the name because, as he averred,
he had promised her never to reveal it. The motive of her desire for
silence he never fathomed.

The brilliance and charm of two articles "Kit" wrote in 1890 for
_Saturday Night_, one on Bohemian life in Paris and one on Sarasate
in his younger days, attracted the attention of Christopher W.
Bunting, who established her on the woman's page of the _Mail_,
where she continued to write until her sudden death. Her page, which
reflected a warm personality and a wonderfully stored mind, was a
real "circulation-getter". Women whose husbands were opposed to the
newspaper in politics insisted on having the Saturday issue; and it
was the only feminine department I know of that was consistently read
by men also. Her correspondence was enormous, and she occupied a
favoured position in the newspaper world of Canada. She was sent to
Europe and on distant assignments all over America, which gave her a
great deal of experience on which to draw. In fact, we were all very
envious of "Kit", but liked her extremely. She had a diffident nervous
manner, but her speech was rich and caressing when she chose to talk
to anyone she liked. Her sense of humour was as keen as that of Lady
Gay, and they, after the Irish fashion, used to give each other
"bars", but it never interfered with their intimacy.

Of all the friends of my apprenticeship days the one who became most
famous and certain of a measure of immortality was Emily Pauline
Johnson, daughter of G. H. M. Johnson, head chief of the Mohawks
in his day. Already lyrics of hers had won a tribute from the
British critic, Theodore Watts Dunton, who because of her lineage
had described her in the _Athenaeum_ as in many respects the most
interesting woman poet at that time living. A great many of the poems
of Pauline Johnson which have since passed into popular literature
and are constantly reprinted in all sorts of publications were
originally published by Mr. Sheppard, who was the first to recognize
her genius, and while I was with him it was my duty to fix them up
for the compositors, with the cryptic markings which no doubt puzzle
some writers who reclaim their manuscripts after publication. Some
of these scripts would have a collector's value to-day, but few were
preserved. I was told not long ago that a simple signature of Pauline
Johnson's now commands a price of $5 and autograph letters a still
higher figure. But, though some of us recognized her rare lyrical
inspiration as early as the nineties, the future value of such scraps
of paper was unrealized. The price she received for some of her most
charming poems was absurdly low,--I recall making out a pay slip of $3
for "The Song My Paddle Sings"--but at that time it was not customary
for Canadian editors to pay for poetry at all. To-day conditions are
hardly improved, because many Canadian editors take pride in rejecting
poetry altogether.

I never met any native-born Canadian who gave a more complete sense
of aristocracy than Pauline Johnson, though when I first met her she
was very poor. The Mohawk tribe, the dominant element of the Iroquois
or Six Nations, are the nobility of the North American Indians, as
their features show; and an old authority, the late Horatio Hale, to
whom Pauline Johnson once introduced me, claimed that in their tribal
councils they had achieved a form of popular representation before
such a political idea had taken actual form in England. This is as it
may be, but the Mohawks have a fund of literary lore and balladry,
not unlike that of the early Irish people. Much of it was imparted to
Pauline Johnson by her grandfather, an aged warrior who had fought in
the wars of 1812 and who lived until about 1875, when she was a girl
of sixteen. The Mohawks also had a tribal music of their own; and my
first meeting with the famous music critic, the late H. E. Krehbiel of
the New York _Tribune_, was when he came to Canada with a Mr. Tunison
to collect some of these musical themes, and naturally sought out Miss
Johnson and her brothers.

Pauline Johnson's ancestors had for generations been chiefs of the
Mohawks in Western New York State before the movement to Canada under
Joseph Brant. They took their English name of Johnson from the great
British pro-consul, Sir William Johnson, superintendent of Western
New York before the revolutionary war, and held the Six Nations loyal
to the British Crown. When the Mohawks were given grants of land in
the Grand River country of Canada it was necessary for them to adopt
English names, and admiration for Sir William Johnson had led many of
them to adopt his cognomen. Chief G. H. M. Johnson was a man of high
education who spoke English, French, and German, and as a young man
had acted as an interpreter for an early Welsh missionary to Upper
Canada, the Rev. Mr. Howells. In the Johnson home at Brantford was
a mutilated wooden idol, the last, I was told, that had ever been
worshipped by the Mohawks. To demonstrate to his fellow aborigines
that nothing would happen if violence were offered to this idol,
the young interpreter had taken a hatchet and split it apart. This
demonstration was credited with having helped to convert his tribesmen
to Christianity.

Subsequently the young chief married Miss Howells, daughter of the
missionary. I knew her well in her declining years and she was a
most charming gentlewoman. Though Pauline was extremely proud of her
Mohawk descent and attributed her literary powers thereto I think she
owed something in that respect to the Howells strain. Howells, the
missionary, had a brother who settled in Ohio, and became a noted
editor. And his son, William Dean Howells, was assuredly the finest
novelist that this continent has yet produced, if we except Henry
James, whose best work is European rather than American, and Mark
Twain, whose _Huckleberry Finn_ is the greatest American novel, but
whose essays in extended fiction were few. The long book-shelf of
William Dean Howells will certainly rank in future times as the most
complete, discerning, and vivacious chronicle of American society in
the nineteenth century. His father, of whom he writes so beautifully
in his reminiscences, was for some years American consul at Toronto
in the eighties, and founded the Swedenborgian sect in Canada, which
still survives. But I do not think that the Ohio branch of the Howells
family quite forgave their cousin for having married an Indian chief,
and Pauline Johnson received small encouragement from her famous
relative in her early literary endeavours. Pauline Johnson's brothers,
Beverly and Allan, tall wiry men of very distinguished appearance,
used occasionally to visit Howells in New York, and one of them told
me an amusing story of the novelist's distaste for lionization and the
social life his wife enjoyed. "I was raised on corn meal mush," he
said, "and would like to live in the same simple way now, but my wife
won't let me."

One of the many interesting souvenirs in the Johnson home which, when
I knew the family, was on Napoleon Street, Brantford, was an autograph
portrait and letter from Count von Bismarck. A German friend of Chief
Johnson's had obtained a photograph of him in full regalia, and sent
it to the Iron Chancellor. Bismarck, who I have heard from other
sources, was in idle moments deeply interested in matters pertaining
to North America, was delighted and courteously reciprocated. After
the Chief's death the Johnson family became impoverished, but during
Pauline's childhood and girlhood they had lived in a handsome home,
"Chiefswood", occupying a beautiful site overlooking the Grand River.
Here Chief Johnson had been accustomed to entertain eminent visitors.
This early training gave Pauline a poise and social charm that was
enhanced by her native feeling of aristocracy as a Mohawk Princess.
Among the friends for whom she had cherished an affection as a child
was Sir William Butler, a great soldier, who afterwards became very
eminent in South Africa and whose wife, Elizabeth Thompson Butler,
painted "The Roll Call" and other famous battle pieces. During
the time Gen. Butler was stationed in Canada he used to go up to
Chiefswood periodically to shoot. Sir Garnet Wolseley was another
great soldier whom she had known as a child; and she cherished
charming memories of Prince Arthur, afterward the Duke of Connaught,
who had stayed at Chiefswood, on the occasion when he was inducted as
a Chief of the Six Nations by Chief Johnson. Forty years afterward,
the Duke of Connaught, while paying his farewell visit to Vancouver,
learned that Pauline Johnson was lying in hospital suffering from a
malignant growth in the throat, and went to call on her. To the dying
poet this act of kindness, signifying that she was not forgotten,
brought happiness for weeks.

Pauline also knew many famous actors and actresses of the late
Victorian period, for it was customary to entertain them at Chiefswood
when they visited Brantford. Among her closest friends were the
once famous Belgian artiste, Hortense Rhea, the delightful English
comédienne, Rosina Vokes, and the lovely American actress, Belle
Archer, who was, I think, Edward H. Sothern's first leading woman when
he became a star. Whenever any one of these celebrities was playing in
Toronto, Pauline Johnson was usually asked to come and stay with them.
Once she took me to call on Madame Rhea, a lovely auburn-haired woman
of exquisite social graces. I was then a shy lad under twenty, and the
actress laughed very heartily at my deep blush when she said: "You
are a ni-ice boy: I am going to keess you," and promptly saluted both
cheeks. Belle Archer's physical loveliness was supreme, and I recall
Pauline taking me to lunch with her when she was playing Maid Marian
in Tennyson's rather thin poetic drama on the Robin Hood legends, _The
Foresters_. The Robin Hood was a slim and handsome youth, a native of
Guelph, Ontario, named William Flynn. He is now the famous character
actor, William Courtleigh, and strangely enough I never met him again
until after I had begun these pages, when I encountered him in the
Lambs Club, New York. When I recalled the luncheon of long ago he
said, "My God, that was thirty-five years ago," and was quite relieved
when I said it was only thirty-three,--for in the dominance of youth
which prevails at the present time, Broadway actors do not like to be
reminded of how long they have been at the game.

Pauline Johnson owed a debt of gratitude to Frank Yeigh, who discerned
that better fortunes awaited her if she would give recitals throughout
Canada of her own poetry. The result was that in a year or two she had
saved enough money to go to London with a scrap book of fugitive verse
and certain original manuscripts. The late John Lane of the Bodley
Head was just then making a fight for the recognition of the younger
poets, which did much to influence British literature in the nineties,
and on meeting her at once arranged to publish a volume of her lyrics.
The man to whom he assigned the task of selection from the material
she had brought with her, was the ill-fated John Davidson, one of
the most brilliant poets of the late nineteenth century. His _Ballad
of a Nun_ and _Ballad of Tannhauser_ are magnificent expressions
of his pagan creed. Pauline afterwards told me how fond she became
of Davidson, a very brusque man with a broad Scottish accent, and
characteristic frankness in expressing his opinions. Some of her lines
he would damn emphatically, but would raise his voice in acclaim of
the originality of others. The nineties in London was the age of the
stylists who were straining to give freshness of interest to British
prose and poesy,--the fruitful _Yellow Book_ period,--and anything
that savoured of freshness was sure of a welcome. Davidson, as those
who are acquainted with his sad story are aware, became a suicide.

No Canadian who went to London up to her time received quite so warm
a welcome as Pauline Johnson. Throughout the London season of 1893
she was a social lioness--a woman who but two years previously
could hardly afford the money to put stamps on return envelopes for
her manuscripts. This London experience was, I think, the happiest
episode of a rather sad life. One of the kindest of her hostesses
was Lady Helen Blake, whose husband subsequently became Governor of
Jamaica. Some years afterward "Kit" visited Jamaica on a newspaper
mission, and when the hostess of the Government House at Kingston
learned that she came from Canada and knew Pauline Johnson, her
hospitality was generous. Another individual who was profoundly
interested in the noble features and distinguished personality of the
Canadian woman-poet was the actor George Alexander, not at that time
knighted. He wished to have a full-length emotional drama made from a
short story of hers, _A Red Girl's Reasoning_, of which the clash of
tradition between white and red races was the theme. But the story,
though it made an effective one-act sketch and was used in that way by
Pauline Johnson, lacked sufficient material for the type of emotional
play in which Alexander was at that time popular.

_White Wampum_, her first book of verse, beautifully produced by John
Lane, was an immediate success from a critical standpoint, and is
precious to-day, although I do not think first volumes of verse ever
bring any very substantial rewards to the author.

I have met many literary women since, but none with quite so
interesting a personality. By nature she was the soul of generosity,
and money, when she had it, literally ran through her fingers. The
greatness of her heart is shown by the fact that on one occasion,
before she was famous, but had a few hundred dollars of her own, she
paid out every cent of it to save from prosecution a young bank clerk
of her acquaintance, who had been guilty of peculation. She did it,
too, without letting him know. When he was told by his employers who
his benefactor was he was extremely grateful. In after years I asked
her if the money was ever repaid her. Her face became pained, and she
reluctantly said, "No; but let's not talk of it."

A most interesting experience was to drive through the Six Nations
Reserve in Brant and Haldimand counties with Pauline Johnson and her
brothers. All the Indian farmers, of course, knew them. One summer day
we were driving along a road in Haldimand when Pauline said to me:
"Did you know there were still pagans in this part of Canada?" On my
expressing surprise she said, "Most of them here about are pagans; we
will go into one of their houses, and over the fireplace you will see
a turtle rattle; that is the instrument they use in their worship;
but be sure not to comment on it." I forget whether the people were
Onondagas or Tuscaroras. We alighted and Allan Johnson spoke in Indian
to the housewife, who knew no English, asking permission to enter.
It was accorded, and the interior of the log shanty was so clean
that one might have eaten off the floor without qualms. By a sign
Allan showed me a turtle rattle on the wall,--the shell of a great
"snapper" with the neck pulled out to serve as a handle had been
scooped out and filled with dried peas. Worshippers of that tribe
used to shake this instrument rhythmically in their sacred dances,
and they had, and may still have for aught I know, a "Long House" for
such ceremonies. But the accessories which surrounded that particular
instrument of pagan worship were rather extraordinary. Above it was
a framed coloured lithograph of William, Prince of Orange, "presented
by the Hon. W. H. Montague, M.D., M.P." (at that time a member of the
Federal Government). Beneath, pinned on the wall, were an Orange badge
and another signifying membership in the East Haldimand Conservative
Association--verily a strange mingling of ancient custom and modern
politics.




                             CHAPTER VIII

     TWO FAMOUS FIGURES: SIR JOHN A. MACDONALD AND GOLDWIN SMITH


My first experience of the ruses newspapers and especially weekly
publications sometimes have to adopt to reconcile the date of
publication with the chronology of events came three months after
I commenced my journalistic apprenticeship, and the occasion was
the death of Sir John A. Macdonald on June 6th, 1891. The greatest
of all Canadian statesmen had been seized with apoplexy some days
previously and lay unconscious at Ottawa. None of his doctors could
say definitely just when death was likely to ensue; and the small,
slow press on which _Saturday Night_ was then issued, necessitated
going to press forty-eight hours ahead of the day of issue. The
problem (one that editors have to face every time a famous man is
dying) was how to anticipate events. If the newspaper came out with
an article assuming that the Prime Minister was still alive when he
had been dead twenty-four hours, the effect would be disconcerting to
those readers who did not know the routine of the publishing business.
If on the other hand the article assumed that he was dead, while he
was still alive, public sentiment would be outraged. Mr. Sheppard
wrote in advance a very fine and discerning obituary editorial which
he read to me, and then informed me that he had to go out of town. His
instructions were that I should come down very early on the morning
of publication day and if Sir John were not dead, take his proof and
use my ingenuity to amend it in such a way that the newspaper would
not actually commit itself. It was a tricky job for a youngster, but I
accomplished it in such a way as to win a compliment from the chief.
As a matter of fact Sir John did not die until after the issue had
been run off, but the average reader, his mind coloured by the news,
probably assumed that it was a "rush" editorial written after that
event. On many occasions I, like every other responsible newspaper
man, have had to play similar tricks on the public, and in these
matters intuition counts for a great deal.

The death of Sir John A. Macdonald, to which I alluded at the outset
of this chapter, made remarkable changes in the Canadian political
scene, and affected the fortunes of a great many public men. As it
occurred just when I was making my beginnings in newspaper work I
was destined to see much of the troubles that ensued during the next
decade. The young reader of to-day cannot imagine how great a place
Sir John filled in the minds of the Canadian public during his later
years, or what a gap he left. I myself saw him but once, but his name
was daily on every one's lips, and to vast numbers of the community
he seemed the prop which supported the whole structure of Canadian
nationality. By his opponents his supposedly unscrupulous cunning
and insouciance in the face of attack were regarded as begotten
of Lucifer. His reputation has grown with the years that have so
amply justified his foresight; but forty years ago he was pursued
by personalities in a degree that would be astonishing to-day. Yet
his magnetism was such that those who were his friends loved him for
his very weaknesses. They justified his most characteristic saying
uttered in response to a man who said he was glad to support him
when he was right,--"That is not enough, I want friends who will
support me when I am wrong." The power of his criticism was vital
even after death. I know of the case of one widely known Canadian,
a very able, ambitious man, whose career was detrimentally affected
by a single phrase uttered by the old chieftain. When Sir John, with
the assistance of friends, founded the _Empire_ newspaper in 1887, as
official organ of the Conservative party, the name of this brilliant,
progressive journalist was suggested as editor-in-chief. The Prime
Minister announced his veto with the words, "That young gentleman is
a footpad". The epithet stuck for thirty years. I never learned what
event had caused Sir John to utter his condemnation, but his veto was
an error in judgment, for the story of the _Empire_ would have been
more lustrous had the suggestion been adopted.

Even school boys were excited over the Jesuit Estates Bill controversy
in the late eighties, and I well recall how Sir John Macdonald made
many people feel ridiculous by the contemptuous speech with which
he closed the debate in the House of Commons. He told an old story
of a Jew who went into a restaurant and in a wayward mood ordered
ham. While he was eating a terrific thunder-storm occurred, and the
startled Jew exclaimed, "All this noise over a little bit of ham!"
Such a wheeze coming after all the orators of the House had been
thundering for days made every one appear a little silly. This type
of cool and calculated levity always exasperated Sir John's opponents
beyond words.

Years after the Jesuits Estates controversy was dead, I heard an
inside version from a veteran Roman Catholic journalist which showed
how ridiculous the whole row really was. The dispute arose over the
proposal of the government of the province of Quebec to pay a claim
of $300,000 or $400,000 to the Jesuit Order, outstanding since the
days of the French régime. In certain ultra-Protestant circles the
very name "Jesuit" is regarded as Satanic, despite the glorious
history of the Order's early missionary endeavours in Canada. While
the same prejudice could not exist among Roman Catholics, it is a
known fact that other Orders regard the Jesuits with considerable
jealousy on account of their superior culture and enterprise. In
Quebec forty years ago there was at least one order much more powerful
and influential than the Jesuits. This organization was strongly
opposed to the Jesuit claim, and if Ontario had left the issue alone
it had little chance of being recognized. The proposal to pay the
claim was as good as dead when the Orange politicians took it up.
This swung popular sentiment in Quebec to the side of the Jesuits and
when the demand came that Sir John should veto the Jesuit Estates
Bill, the proposal was properly resented as an unjustified and bigoted
interference with provincial rights. Thus, though they did not know
it, the pulpiteers and politicians who railed against the bill in
reality rendered staunch service to the Jesuit Order.

Five months before Sir John's death there were stormy scenes in
Toronto on the occasion of his exposure of annexation activities,
when he uttered the famous slogan, "A British subject I was born; a
British subject I shall die", and held up a pamphlet written by the
late Edward Farrer, at that time an editorial writer on the _Globe_,
in which it was suggested that the United States force Canada into
annexation by cutting off the bonding privileges, by which in winter
months the ports of the U.S. Atlantic seaboard are open to use by
Canadian importers and exporters. In his reminiscences Sir John
Willison relates that public excitement impelled the owners of the
_Globe_ to secure police protection for their premises, although they
themselves knew nothing of the pamphlet. The speech was delivered
from the stage of the old Academy of Music on the site of what is now
the Princess Theatre, Toronto. Though in the past thirty years nearly
all the great actors of our time have been seen on the same spot,
nothing of a mimic order has equalled the dramatic effect of the old
Chieftain's disclosure.

Some sticklers for ideals censured Sir John because the pamphlet in
question was stolen from the store room of the publishing house where
it had been printed and where it lay awaiting distribution. In after
years I learned something of the printer who secretly accomplished
the theft from the office of Hunter, Rose & Co. and sold it to the
Conservative organization. He was given a government job at Ottawa,
and some months later a member of the firm of Hunter, Rose & Co.
threw out a hint to the Dominion Police that he was worth watching. A
search of his rooms was made at the instance of Col. Percy Sherwood,
and it was found that he had stolen a large batch of the private
correspondence of his ministerial chief, Hon. John Haggart. The
same firm had a similar experience with another printer who, unlike
the thief just alluded to, was a pillar of the Methodist Church he
attended. It occurred five years before the incident of the Farrer
pamphlet, shortly after Sir Rider Haggard leaped into fame with his
novel, _King Solomon's Mines_. Naturally the publication of its
sequel _Allan Quatermain_, was awaited with intense interest, and the
copyright laws were then in so loose a state in the United States that
it was necessary to bring out new books with rigid secrecy in order
to prevent piracy. It was arranged that _Allan Quatermain_ should be
issued simultaneously at London, New York, and Toronto, and the date
of issue in all three cities was known to the trade. There was at that
time in Chicago a publishing firm engaged in piracy, one of whose
members had connections in Canada. A week or more before the day on
which _Allan Quatermain_ was to go on sale, the Chicago pirates sent
an emissary to Toronto who bribed this particular printer to steal
the proofs. The theft was easily accomplished and the proofs were not
entrusted to the mails. The agent took them to Chicago where a big
staff of compositors had been assembled. Haggard's novel was set,
printed, and bound in a very short time, and was on the market more
than forty-eight hours before the honest edition, issued I think by
Harper and Brothers. Since the pirated edition was much cheaper, the
sales of the regular edition were diminished, and the thief remained
in the employ of the Toronto publishing house unsuspected.

In connection with the theft of the Farrer pamphlet, Goldwin Smith,
who was suspected of having not a little to do with the project of
circulating it, was deeply incensed and never forgave Sir John, who
at one time had been a close friend, for what he deemed an act of
dishonour in "receiving stolen goods". He was credited with a rather
amusing aphorism. The same printing house had not long previously
published Sir Oliver Mowat's booklet _Evidences of Christianity_.
Appearing as it did on the eve of a general election in Ontario Sir
Oliver's excursion into theology had excited some derision. Goldwin
Smith, in speaking of the theft of the Farrer pamphlet, said that the
thief had first come on the _Evidences_ and "by a strange assumption
mistaken it for a political brochure". The subtle irony of this
comment was perhaps more easily grasped then than now.

In my year of apprenticeship with E. E. Sheppard I had glimpses of
Goldwin Smith, who was an occasional visitor to the office, and seemed
to enjoy "Don's" breezy, independent commentary on things in general.
Together they staged the first and last attempt in modern days to
run a business man of the highest eminence for Mayor of Toronto in
the person of the late Sir Edmund Osler, who at that time had not
been knighted. There were committee meetings of the "intelligentsia"
every day or so in the office of Mr. Sheppard, at which Goldwin
Smith usually presided, but as the event proved they were quite out
of touch with popular opinion, then as now, inimical to a "silk
stocking" candidate. In the business office was John A. Harkins, still
a prominent Liberal and at that time a merry, amusing young man who
had enjoyed a complete training in practical politics. Harkins, whose
humorous sallies were a continual delight to me, used to wink when he
would see the notables assembling, and say, "What they should do is
get out among the boys, instead of discussing the millennium they are
trying to start." The defeat of Osler had unquestionably a bad effect
on municipal life in Toronto, since it discouraged business men of
eminence from seeking election for many a year, and a financier of
his ability was sorely needed in the boom days of that era. Mr. Osler
later entered politics as a candidate for the House of Commons, but
did not rely on a committee of intelligentsia. He left his election
to the war organizers and remained unbeatable until the day of his
retirement.

Once after Goldwin Smith had left his office, Mr. Sheppard said to
me, "I'm very sorry for that man". It seemed rather a ridiculous
assertion, for to my youthful eyes the former Oxford professor led an
ideal life. He occupied the most attractive home in Toronto; he was
the host of nearly every celebrity who came to Canada; his means were
large; he had ample leisure for scholarly pursuits; he could travel
where and when he wished; his abilities, if not his opinions, were
universally respected. Surely an ideal existence in the eyes of any
young man of literary ambitions,--a condition of felicity to which few
earthly sojourners attain. And so I asked Mr. Sheppard why anyone had
to be sorry for Goldwin Smith. "He is a disappointed man," said Mr.
Sheppard; "he thinks that with his abilities he should be filling a
much greater place in the world's affairs." It was a very shrewd and
accurate estimate of the mental attitude of the "Sage of the Grange".
And perhaps Mr. Sheppard's clairvoyance was the more accurate because
he had within him the seeds of the same malady, public ambitions
which, thwarted, embittered his later years. In his memoirs Goldwin
Smith speaks with extreme contempt for the whole social circle which
surrounded him during his long residence in Toronto. And when I
think of how people used to mention his views and utterances almost
with bated breath, and thrust him into the limelight on every public
occasion as "Exhibit A" to prove the city's distinction and culture,
his words savour of ingratitude.

Arnold Haultain, for many years his secretary and later his
biographer, more than hints that in Goldwin Smith's incessant though
at times covert support of the annexation movement, he cherished the
dream that if it were ever accomplished the people of this continent
would be so grateful that they would elect him President,--which shows
how far out of touch with realities even the finest minds may become.
His friendship with Sir John and his advocacy of protection in the
seventies is now known to have been due to his belief that it would
tend to detach Canada from Great Britain through the creation of trade
barriers. When in the later nineties I became a member of the staff of
the Toronto _Mail and Empire_ the office was replete with traditions
associated with Goldwin Smith and he sometimes visited us in a
friendly way to have a chat. For the _Empire_ newspaper before it was
merged with the _Mail_, he had an extreme dislike. I was once sent to
interview him for that newspaper on his return from a trip to Europe,
and was greeted by a polite but firm refusal, although the other
newspapers were honoured with a delightful discourse. Of the _Mail_
office he had been an habitué from the earliest days of his arrival in
Canada. Whether this friendship would have continued had a fortunate
typographical error not occurred, is doubtful. On one occasion in the
seventies the late T. C. Patteson, one of the famous early editors
of the _Mail_ wrote an editorial containing an allusion to Goldwin
Smith's pessimism and mentioning that he possessed "an heritage of
woe"--an allusion to his father's suicide. Mr. Patteson's handwriting
was so obscure that the phrase appeared as "an heritage of love". The
editor stormed over the error; but had it not occurred relations would
assuredly have been severed; for Goldwin Smith was very sensitive
about his father's death, and felt that it had debarred him from a
public career in Great Britain,--a curious obsession.

During the period from 1886 to 1895 when the _Mail_, originally the
Conservative organ, opposed that party, it doubly endeared itself to
the "sage of the Grange", who was a staunch believer in independent
journalism. His friendship almost wrecked it, for he nearly succeeded
in bringing it into the annexation movement. Some of its staff were
more or less mixed up in petty conspiracies with the late Charles A.
Dana, of the New York _Sun_, and Francis Wayland Glenn, of Brooklyn,
a former member of the Canadian House of Commons to bring about that
end. It is not generally known that Goldwin Smith was the author of
many editorials on various questions which appeared in the _Mail_ at
that period. It is sad to have to say it, but Goldwin Smith was a much
more vitriolic writer under cover of anonymity than in his signed
articles. He was the author of probably the most savage editorial
that ever appeared in the _Mail_, in which Sir Charles Tupper was
dubbed "The Prince of Political Cracksmen". So long as Tupper lived
this editorial was a source of embarrassment to the newspaper. In
both Tupper's campaigns against Laurier, in 1896 and 1900, the _Mail
and Empire_, back in the fold once more, of course strongly supported
him, and the old editorial was dug out and broadcasted through Canada.
In many parts of the country it was no doubt accepted by voters as a
current expression of opinion. Needless to say it was a gross libel
on one of the ablest and most courageous of Canadian statesmen.

Mr. Arthur Wallis, for many years editor of the _Mail and Empire_
after the death of the late Christopher W. Bunting told me of another
grossly libellous editorial, from the pen of Goldwin Smith that almost
got into print. It dealt with municipal politics and was liberal in
abuse of a certain public figure. The author brought it into the
office one afternoon when Mr. Bunting was in rather a hilarious and
reckless mood. It was so pungent that he said, "That's great; it will
be in the paper to-morrow morning," marking instructions to that
effect on the copy. It chanced that Mr. Wallis, then a junior on the
editorial page, was entrusted with the task of making it up that
night. When he encountered the proof with the emphatic "MUST" on it,
meaning that it should appear even if everything else was left out,
he naturally read it and was appalled at its violence. Visions of
expensive libel suits and elaborate apologies came before his mind.
He could not get hold of Mr. Bunting by 'phone and though it was a
serious step for a junior to cancel explicit instructions from the
editor-in-chief he resolved to take the risk of leaving it out. The
next morning he came down in fear and trembling, and was called into
Mr. Bunting's office. "What became of Goldwin Smith's editorial which
I marked 'Must'?" the editor asked. Wallis answered that he had feared
Mr. Bunting had not read it carefully, and had assumed responsibility
for holding it over. "My God, boy, you saved my life," said Bunting,
"I have not slept a wink since three o'clock this morning. I wakened
up in the night and suddenly the whole thing came back to me. I lay
there dreading the arrival of the newspaper, and you can judge of my
relief when I found it had been omitted. Never hesitate to use your
own judgment again, Wallis."

Going through the Morgan collection of manuscripts in the New York
Public Library recently I saw a manuscript, "Berlin and Afghanistan",
by Goldwin Smith, the collector's value of which lies in the fact that
it never succeeded in finding a publisher. It was locked up in a glass
case, and I could not help wondering what it contained that it should
have been suppressed.

Goldwin Smith dealt rather a harsh blow to the city in which he
resided so long, and to the University whose staff had always
delighted to honour him, when he left a large fortune to Cornell
University at Ithaca, N.Y., where he had been for a brief period
professor of history, many years before. The injustice of the
gift was emphasized by the fact that Cornell was in no need of
endowments, whereas University College has always been in straitened
circumstances. A fair division at least would have been acceptable.
After his wife's death Goldwin Smith grew more discontented with
Toronto than ever, and announced his intention of ending his days at
Ithaca. An accident followed by a lingering illness prevented his
carrying out this intention. A Scottish newspaper friend of mine made
a very shrewd comment on the bequest to Cornell, when he said: "It's
hard luck that Goldwin Smith did not go to live at Cornell University.
In three months time he would have become so sore at not receiving
enough attention that he would have changed his will in favour of
the University of Toronto." Beyond a doubt that is what would have
happened. Discontent with his surroundings was a ruling phase of his
temperament. In his Oxford days he had little but dispraise for that
University; yet as a voluntary exile in Canada, he wrote of it in
phrases of haunting beauty.

There is a mistaken impression that the Toronto Art Gallery and Grange
Park was given to the city by Goldwin Smith; the donor was really Mrs.
Goldwin Smith, as a great memorial tablet shows, and the property was
originally that of her first husband, William Henry Boulton. Mrs.
Goldwin Smith merely deputed her husband to carry out her intentions.
The late Sir Edmund Walker, who with the late E. F. B. Johnston, K.C.,
had been instrumental in securing a promise of the benefaction for the
Art Gallery, told me that they had considerable difficulty in getting
the old scholar to make the proper provisions. It was not that he
desired to violate his wife's clearly expressed intentions, but, as
old men do, he kept putting it off from day to day. Then the provision
he proposed was so vague that it was doubtful whether the Trustees
of the Art Gallery would have had a clear title; and there were no
safeguards in Goldwin Smith's suggested codicil to compel the city
to carry out its just obligations in the matter. Finally Sir Edmund
persuaded him to allow Z. A. Lash, K.C., to draft a clause in his will
covering the gift. Mr. Lash who was unequalled anywhere in the art of
drafting a tight and fast agreement or contract, struck while the iron
was hot, and thus a fine art museum and a beautiful public playground
were secured to the citizens of Toronto for all time.

Goldwin Smith himself was very deficient in artistic taste. His
dining-room sheltered daubs, copies of portraits of the leaders of
the Cromwellian revolution of the seventeenth century. The originals
were probably made by journeymen limners and the copies are worse. I
have always imagined that the daily contemplation of these grotesque
"objects of art", still compulsorily preserved in an ante-room to the
Art Gallery, gave a bilious colour to his thought.

When he wished to be mischievous, the old gentleman could be almost
diabolical. I remember such an occasion at a closing exercise for
divinity students in the educational centre of Methodism, Victoria
College. Goldwin Smith had come as a guest unprepared to speak, but
Chancellor Burwash urged him to do so. At last rising and addressing
the young men who had just received their degrees as Bachelors of
Divinity, and had been quite unctuously dedicated to the service of
dogmatic religion, the great man commenced to relate reminiscences
of theological controversies in his youth. "I recall the day," he
said, "when the news was whispered through the streets of Oxford that
John Henry Newman had gone over to Rome. There were many troubled
hearts among us that night; and there were those who feared that
the days of the Church of England were numbered. But the Church of
England has survived as churches have a way of surviving, and this
proves the comparatively small importance of theological dogmas in
their affairs." With further illustrations he left the unmistakable
impression that creeds were mostly nonsense anyway, and wound up,
"When you come to my years most of you will no doubt realize that,
after all, _reason is the only guide_".

Such a rejection of the whole theory of revelation within the walls of
a theological college was appalling to everyone except the reporters,
who were enjoying the fun. Poor Chancellor Burwash, troubled in spirit
and at a loss for words, got up and tried to make a defence of faith,
but the day was ruined for him; and Goldwin Smith sat ironically
smiling as the Chancellor sought for terms to refute him without
becoming impolite to a distinguished visitor.

The shade of Disraeli must laugh, if shades do laugh, at the Nemesis
which has overtaken Grange Park, where the old scholar loved to stroll
and reflect under the elms, and where eminent men like Matthew Arnold
and John Morley in days gone by strolled and discoursed with him. In
their famous controversy over an invidious reference to him in one of
Disraeli's novels, Goldwin Smith described the taunt as "the stingless
insult of a coward". But as one of his oldest friends said to me, "the
sting lasted all his life". It used to take the form of outbursts
against the Jews. On several occasions he wrote articles condoning
Russian pogroms, and in private conversation used to suggest that the
rite of circumcision should be amplified to include sterilization.
To-day Grange Park is the chief playground of the little children of
Russian and Polish Jews whose homes envelop the old colonial estate on
every side.

Yet, despite the bitterness with which his inner nature was stored,
no more courteous and stately gentleman than Goldwin Smith ever
lived. He was a most entertaining man. At the period when I was one
of the editors of the _Mail and Empire_ he would sometimes come into
my office and chat. I remember that on one occasion he was extremely
anxious that we should oppose the prohibition movement, which had
already become formidable. He came armed with blue books and reports
showing its failures and hypocrisies. He was rather disgusted when I
told him that, although I had nothing to do with fixing the policy
of the paper, I was sure that such a step would be regarded as
impolitic, especially in view of the newspaper's party connections.
"Ah! politics, politics, always politics," he sighed.

He grew quite droll in discussing the municipal elections which were
then approaching, and said, "I have lived nearly thirty-five years
in Toronto and have never, so far as I am aware, cast an intelligent
vote." (This was of course an inverted form of swank, for his judgment
in men had often been excellent.) "I usually leave it to Chinn," he
went on; "Chinn is a most excellent butler, and he is better equipped
than I to choose the proper candidates. So I say, 'Chinn, whom shall I
vote for?' and follow his advice. But even Chinn is fallible! He once
told me to vote for E. A. Macdonald for Mayor--and I learned afterward
that the man was insane."

The late Edward Farrer was full of good stories about Goldwin Smith,
whom he used frequently to assist in preparing articles for the
English reviews when old age or ill health made him indolent. Farrer
would be sent for, and would find the old scholar sitting wrapped in
blankets with his feet in a mustard bath. "Ah, Farrer," he would sigh,
"I fear the inevitable dissolution is at hand". His adoring wife would
say: "Now Goldwin, you must not talk such nonsense; you know you will
be better to-morrow if you obey my orders." "Don't delude yourself,
my dear," he would reply, "dissolution is inevitable; we must face it
bravely." Presently Farrer would tell him a lively bit of political
gossip, or invent it if necessary, and the subject of dissolution
would be forgotten.

The most amusing story that Farrer ever told me was one relating to
Joseph Haycock, the noted farmer politician, who led the Patrons of
Industry in the Ontario Legislature from 1894 to 1902. Haycock was a
man of fine mentality, with a racy, original mode of speech, but a
typical "side-liner". He was and is entirely indifferent to convention
and used to carry a large pair of wire cutters to tear off his chewing
tobacco with. He explained that his teeth were getting too worn to
bite it, and that one was always dropping and losing pen-knives;
whereas with a pair of wire-cutters, the noise they made when they
dropped was a safeguard against loss. At the time of which I speak, a
quarter of a century or more ago, his teeth were incisive enough for
all practical uses.

Goldwin Smith, who always took an interest in the agrarian movement
and started the _Farmers Sun_ with his own money to promote it, was
attracted by reports of Haycock's terse and amusing speeches. "I am
interested in this man Haycock," he said to Farrer one day. "Do you
know him?" "I do indeed," said the journalist. "He's the best company
in the Legislature."

"Well, bring him over some afternoon; and by the way, does he take a
drink?" "Does a duck swim?" was the retort. Thus when Farrer brought
Haycock to the Grange a day or so later Chinn was instructed to
provide the best whiskey in the cellar.

After introductions the old professor said: "I cannot drink whiskey
myself, but I have some which my more fortunate friends tell me is
excellent. May I offer you some?" Assent was readily given, and as
the farmer leader took the decanter in hand he gave it a rapid shake
before pouring out a libation. As the conversation proceeded Goldwin
Smith pressed his guest to have another, and then another, and the
pouring was always preceded by a shaking of the decanter, at which
the host would give a little jump. Finally Haycock was obliged by
legislative duties to take his leave. "A most interesting man," said
Goldwin Smith, "but tell me, Farrer, why did he shake the decanter.
Was there anything wrong with the whiskey?" "No," explained Farrer,
"but you see Joe is used to drinking farmers' whiskey down in
Frontenac county, and from force of habit he gives it a shake to bring
up the tansy blossom from the bottom of the bottle and make it bite!"

The allusion to "farmers' whiskey" reminds me of a story told me by
the late R. H. Bowes, who was at one time adjutant of the Queen's Own
Rifles. He was at Niagara Camp with his commanding officer, the late
Col. Arthurs, and strolling about the old village they stopped at an
inn and had a drink. On taking a large "shot" of whiskey Col. Arthurs
was seized with violent pains. The hotel proprietor rushed in from the
office to see what was the matter. "Let me see that bottle," he said
to the bartender, and inspecting it exclaimed, "My God, boy, you've
given the colonel the farmers' whiskey. Did you want to kill him?"




                              CHAPTER IX

                    LEARNING LIFE WITH A NOTE BOOK


My youthful ambitions had never included a desire to be a newspaper
man in the ordinary acceptance of the term. I wanted to be a good
writer--a stylist if you please--and I had been warned that if I
took the plunge into daily journalism, in Canada or for that matter
anywhere else, I might as well say good-bye to literary aspiration.
And that advice was good, for not one in a hundred young men of
literary aptitude survives the grind of newspaper routine. So far as I
myself am concerned, my obstinate clinging to artistic interests in a
calling which has to do with them but remotely, has been a financial
handicap. If I have given readers any pleasure through discourses on
the several arts during the past three decades I have the additional
satisfaction of knowing that it has been a free gift to them; for my
income from the newspaper business would have been considerably larger
if I had never let my thoughts dwell on music and pictures and other
beautiful things,--I was almost going to say, if I had never read a
serious book. Many times in years gone by friends expostulated with
me at the folly of a man who had developed considerable aptitude for
the routine of newspaper direction wasting his time on interests to
which the majority of men and women, are, however they may disguise
it, indifferent. Bad business truly, in a country in the making like
Canada. But the answer is that I have _lived_ and have arrived
at middle age, retaining a youthful delight in new and beautiful
sensations. To-day I encounter friends of my boyhood who in the
process of making money have missed these things, and who sometimes
tell me they envy me my interests and enthusiasms, because the
prospect of old age finds them arid of intellectual and emotional
resources. But if I have preserved these resources it has been in
spite of, rather than because of, my connection with newspaper work.

The mistake I made thirty years ago was not in failing to go to New
York to try to live by my pen as so many discouraged seniors advised
in those days; but in not seeking a career in London. As late as the
close of the South African war a good friend who had passed through
London on his way home from Capetown, urged me strongly to pull up
stakes and try my luck there. He said it was the natural field for
a man of my tastes and aptitudes, because there I would find the
largest assemblage of people interested in the same things that I have
always been interested in, that exists anywhere. It is a fact that
most of the Canadians of my own generation, who while still young
went to London, did well, though at first they had a hard struggle.
The broadening of Britain's imperial outlook in the social sense long
since made the Canadian of average vitality a welcome figure in London
and in the golden years between 1894 and 1914, London was indeed a
happy hunting ground for the man from afar who had anything to say and
a measure of ability in saying it. But I have always been a home-bird,
rootedly Canadian, and subject to nostalgia in even brief absences. In
1900, when I was so strongly urged to pull up stakes and go abroad,
I had a young wife and the hope of a family some day and I did not
feel like taking the risk. Perhaps my election was lucky; because fate
has since dealt sore blows to Britain and had I gone there I should
probably now be endeavouring to send my children back to Canada in
their own interests.

In 1892 circumstances drove me into daily journalism with no
particular desire to shine therein. As a lad in the accountant's
office I had already become acquainted with several reporters, when
they called in to enquire about insolvencies; their calling exercised
no fascination over me. When I first came to mingle among newspaper
men as a working associate it secretly amused me to discern that they
held a much higher opinion of their importance in the world than the
business and social community with which they were surrounded actually
accorded them.

A singular phenomenon of the newspaper business in all the larger
cities of this continent is that as they have increased in wealth and
population the number of newspapers has decreased, and the vigour and
distinction of those which have survived has steadily declined. In
1892 when Toronto boasted but one quarter of its present population
(if that), there were six daily newspapers and within a year or so,
when the _Star_ came into existence, seven. As I look back, the
comparative youthfulness of the men who dominated the journalist
scene, and unquestionably exercised a great influence over Canadian
opinion surprises me. The picturesque Mr. Sheppard, whom the community
feared if it did not admire, was still under forty. His only equal in
enterprise and progressive instinct was William Findlay Maclean,--now
the Nestor of the House of Commons, and at that time just breaking
into politics, at the age of about thirty-five. Down in the _Globe_
Office young Mr. Willison, now Sir John, was proving that youth was no
handicap to his filling the shoes of a famous father of Confederation,
the Hon. George Brown. In the _Telegram_ office, John Ross Robertson,
himself in middle age, had discerned the ability to appeal to the
sympathies of the masses of an aggressive young Liberal, destined to
become the most violent of Tories, John R. Robinson. Full maturity was
to be found chiefly in the _Mail_ office, conducted by Christopher
W. Bunting, and that journal was still revelling in the fact that it
had shaken off Conservative allegiance. The official organ of the
Conservative party, the _Empire_, was conducted by the late David
Creighton, a man of most attractive personal character, but a rural
journalist by instinct, who never felt quite at home in city newspaper
work. Mr. Creighton to young eyes seemed older than he really was, and
he had a staff of gifted young men around him. Indeed, throughout its
brief career of seven years, I do not think any Canadian newspaper
was ever so well endowed in personnel as the _Empire_. There remained
the _News_, always hobbled in some way or another, but edited by a
cultured man and prince of good fellows, Thomas A. Gregg, who because
of the shrewdness that lay back of his genial presence was known
as "the Fat Mephistopheles". Among the men who held responsible
positions there was hardly one who had reached the age of fifty.
That condition is no longer true, because the men who came forward
in the late eighties and the nineties have for the most part shown a
quality of vitality that has kept them at the top. Many of my pals
of thirty years ago when we were all cubs together are conducting
newspapers in various parts of Canada; others have won distinction in
business; others are valuable civil servants; and a few are well known
in other parts of the world. Few indeed became actual failures in
life, though when I entered daily newspaper work in 1892 some family
friends implored my parents not to let me continue in such a "sink of
iniquity". My father did not disguise his displeasure, though business
depression was so widespread in those days of "blue ruin speeches"
that he hesitated to advise me where to turn.

Mr. Sheppard after a year had decided that he could do nothing more
for me in his "kindergarten" and advised me to "get in touch with
life". For that end he said, and said truly, that there was no
better school than the calling of a newspaper reporter. Moreover, he
wanted as deputy an editorial writer who could supply on his front
page whenever he felt like laying off or going on a journey. He had
found one in a bright and original young country editor who had run
a newspaper of his own in the village of Pickering, Joseph T. Clark.
Countless Canadians know Joe Clark--despite the fact that he has for
years been a recluse in his sanctum in the office of the Toronto
_Star_--a man about whom there is nothing small except his stature. It
was characteristic of Joe that when he found that his acceptance of a
permanent position under Mr. Sheppard meant my departure, he should
bestir himself to find me a post. He had been writing on the _World_
for a few months and had formed a friendship with its managing editor,
the late John A. Ewan. Ewan had manifold duties. He used to perform
the city editor's task of assigning reporters to their duties and
handled much of their copy; he wrote editorials; he met the public;
and he supervised the _Sunday World_, a small weekly which W. F.
Maclean has established as on open défi to the rigid Sabbatarianism
which then prevailed in Canada. Mr. Maclean had even tried to sell it
on Sunday, but the law had stepped in. The Lord's Day Alliance could
not prevent his using the word "Sunday", though it tried to do so;
nor could it prevent him publishing it so late on Saturday night that
it would be read on Sunday. It was to read the proofs, clip stories,
and write special articles on the _Sunday World_, and make up its few
pages, usually six or eight, that Mr. Ewan engaged me. Consequently
Saturday was a long day for me; but I had a good deal of leisure on
other days of the week. Therefore in a newspaper office where there
was always a shortage of reporters for financial reasons, it was not
long before I was hooked on to the reportorial staff as well. In that
office anyone was likely to be assigned to any kind of duty at any
time, and within a month after my arrival I was even drafted into the
task of writing an occasional editorial. For a lad under twenty to be
asked to contribute his opinions in a daily paper everyone was talking
about was quite an exalting experience.

I doubt if there has ever been a newspaper office anywhere that was
run in a more rough and ready manner or was such a gathering place for
interesting characters, as the old _World_ office of the nineties.
Situated near the corner of King and Yonge streets, the very heart of
the city's life, its accessibility made it a place of visitation at
all hours of the day or night. The premises had been a retail shop
in other days; in the forward part, the counters where clerks had
sold dry goods or groceries still remained and this served as the
business office. Behind, an ordinary mercantile store room had been
converted into editorial quarters with very bare furnishings. A lane
ran alongside from which strangers could walk in off the street upon
the staff, without any of the formalities which attend admission to an
editorial sanctum to-day. When it was necessary for an editor to carry
on a confidential conversation, the participants got into a corner
and talked in whispers, or more frequently adjourned to the hotel
next door. There was a good deal of drinking among the lesser members
of the staff, but the paper always came out and somewhere on its
front page there was always something fresh and pungent to interest
the public. For the great virtue of the _World_ office was that not
only W. F. Maclean himself, but all his senior aides were first rate
journalists by instinct, with their fingers on the public pulse, and
an inherent ability to distinguish what was news from what was not,
and "dish it up" in a vitally interesting way. No wonder, when I
labour through tedious columns of undigested detail about some trivial
story that could be more effectively handled in a third or a quarter
of a column, present-day journalism seems to me flat and mushy.

The first morning of my arrival in the _World_ office I got an inkling
of the "shirt sleeves" method by which it was conducted. Throughout
the three or four years that I was connected with that newspaper, it
had seldom supplies of paper for more than a few issues and sometimes
barely enough for one. There was a commotion in the lane outside
the editorial room; a roll of paper had arrived, and the teamster
and his assistant were having difficulty about rolling it through a
window into the press-room. They were making artificial difficulties,
as teamsters in expectation of beer were apt to do in those days.
A sturdily built, youngish man with strongly modelled features and
eye-brows that stood out like antennae, was looking cynically on.
Presently he became impatient and said, "Give me that crowbar." He
seized it and in short order had rolled the paper into the cellar
single-handed. It was the redoubtable "W. F." himself, who although
a Bachelor of Arts and a gold medallist of the University of Toronto
could never refrain from turning his hand to any thing around his
shop. I have seen him seize a broom and sweep a clutter of discarded
"flimsy" into a corner; and he was always sitting down at somebody's
desk to scribble with a stubby lead pencil some idea that had come
into his head. Nobody from the office boy to the janitor thought of
addressing him by any other title than "W. F." This was the "live
wire" who in the Federal general elections of 1891 had astonished
the community by his "cheek" in contesting the supposedly safe
Liberal riding of East York with a former Prime Minister of Canada,
the venerated Hon. Alexander Mackenzie himself, and to come within
25 votes of being elected. Shortly afterward the noble and solitary
Mackenzie died; and one of the gala nights of my first year in the
_World_ office was that on which the news came in that Maclean had
redeemed the old constituency for the Conservative party. It was no
easy battle; for the death of Sir John Macdonald had left the party
at sixes and sevens. Maclean was far from popular among the "elder
statesmen" of Toryism, because of his known radical ideas. For the
most part he had to depend on the oratorical services of ambitious
lads from the law school; and he had no money of his own. There has
never been in this country quite so clever a candidate in the art
of winning and holding the votes of an electorate as William Findlay
Maclean. In thirty-three years he has never known defeat. I do not
know on how many occasions his constituency has been gerrymandered
or had its boundaries altered. The original riding of East York to
which he was elected in 1892 is now so split up that its various
sections form the whole or parts of eight ridings. Its population
was then 25,000, and it now numbers 400,000. At each succeeding
election he has had new constituents to face; and no candidate has
ever encountered so much opposition in his own party; and yet he has
always won elections. This record of victory is the more interesting
when it is added that Maclean never stopped for a second to consider
whether any policy he espoused was popular or not; and never joined a
secret society or other organization through which he could exercise
a "pull". I was never more bitterly disgusted with my own calling
than when the news came that after forty-two years of struggle he had
lost his newspaper. It was an inspiration to work under him, although
with his new absorption in politics we saw less and less of him; and
I honestly believe that the scores of able newspaper men who served
on the _World_ at various times remember that service with pride. It
is something after all, even when the pay envelope fails to arrive
promptly to feel that you are in contact with a directing mind of real
distinction and vitality--and the mind of W. F. Maclean assuredly was
that during his career as editor. Had he stuck to that calling alone,
and stood aside from the turmoils and conspiracies of politics, I am
satisfied that the _World_ would have survived. The Canadian community
is unquestionably the poorer without it; and the main cause of its
downfall was the divided ambition of its chief. The battles he fought
for the public ownership of public utilities, for such boons as Sunday
street cars, for the development of the beautiful suburban environs of
Toronto, have all borne prodigious fruit, but only from the few has he
ever received a word of gratitude; and by many of his contemporaries
in the newspaper calling he was regarded with jealousy and suspicion.

In his prime Maclean was a fighter who could deal blows as effectively
as his own claymore-wielding ancestors, for he is a lineal descendant
of the old Highland chieftains, the Macleans of Lochbury, "Maclean of
the Bloody Hand" among them. You may learn something of the Macleans
in William Black's novel _Macleod of Dare_, and it was this clan which
finished the work in connection with the destruction of the Spanish
Armada, when some of Philip's galleons were blown northward into the
Hebrides. "W. F." never signed an article, but his "signature" was
the kind of type he used, a fine, small nonpareil to distinguish it
from the other contents of the sheet; and for years his ironical jibes
at public men, recognizable as his work alone, were a feature of the
newspaper. I can see him still working with his stubby lead-pencil,
a diabolical grin on his face signifying complete absorption in his
task, grinding out little witty paragraphs shrewd as rapier thrusts.
And he often took this means of forecasting important news that was
not ripe for disclosure in the ordinary columns.

For some years after its foundation in 1879 with a few hundred dollars
of borrowed money, the _World_ had been a family affair. The father,
John Maclean, a most gifted writer on economic subjects, had at one
time conducted a newspaper in Hamilton, Ont. His position as the first
journalistic advocate of the policy of protection for Canada is a
matter of history, and he trained up his four sons, James Maclean,
John Maclean, W. F. Maclean, and Wallace Maclean, to the newspaper
business from their tenderest years. By 1892, all were dead save
W. F. and Wallace, an able editorial writer, whose independence of
thought once or twice got his brother into political scrapes. A year
or so after W. F.'s departure for Ottawa there was a tempest over
an editorial which Wallace wrote advocating the abolition of the
Orange Order. Since East York had many Orange electors it looked like
political death for W. F. to have his newspaper come out with such a
bald declaration. He had refused to join the order, but he was not
prepared to undertake the quixotic task of destroying it. But somehow
or other he managed to weather the storm, and seemingly it did him
no harm politically. I think his personal friend, the Hon. N. Clarke
Wallace, who represented West York, had much to do with quelling the
storm. Contemporaries of the Macleans would have it that "Jimmy"
Maclean, whom I never saw and who was his brother's news editor, was
the ablest of the whole family. He had that rare newspaper endowment
of ability to "bump into news"--the newspaper man's second sight which
very few possess. Of "Jack" Maclean I heard less, save that like his
father and all his brothers he was a good writer with a serviceable
fund of general information.

John A. Ewan, who had succeeded "Jimmy" Maclean as chief aide in the
editorial room, was also a born journalist who had worked his way up
from the printer's case, had made his mark as a descriptive writer
on the _News_ under E. E. Sheppard and had been Ottawa correspondent
of the _Mail_ during the period of its independence when it was the
_bête noire_ of Sir John Macdonald. The power of the Prime Minister in
those days to make news collection difficult for papers he disliked
was great, and Ewan's life at Ottawa was a daily battle to avoid
being "scooped". At the time of which I speak he was famous for
having ventured to call Sir John a liar to his face. The incident
had occurred prior to the federal elections of 1891, when the whole
country was on the _qui vive_ to learn the date of the polling.
Ewan had personally interviewed the Prime Minister, and received a
promise that he would tell him the date as soon as he told it to
anyone else. One morning the _Empire_ newspaper, Sir John's' personal
organ, appeared with the exclusive announcement, and the heated _Mail_
correspondent waited for the old chieftain in the corridor and called
him a liar with emphasizing adjectives. I learned afterward of the
casuistry to which Sir John resorted to keep his word not to "tell"
the news to anyone without disclosing it to Ewan, and at the same time
give the _Empire_ a "scoop". One night he sent for Fred Cook, the
_Empire's_ Ottawa correspondent, to discuss another matter, and in the
course of the conversation scribbled something on a sheet of paper
in apparent absent-mindedness. He made a casual allusion to the fact
that the country seemed to be anxious to know the date of the general
election, and passed on to other topics. When Cook was leaving, Sir
John pressed the paper upon him without comment. It bore a date and
nothing more; but, as the old newspaper saying went, it was not
necessary for a house to fall on Cook for him to discern what it meant.

Ewan had a violent temper, as this episode showed, but a kindly heart.
He would go up in the air if any reporter talked of "roasting" someone
who had affronted him; and _World_ reporters were frequently affronted
in those days. "That's not your business," he would shout, "your
business is to get and write the news, your personal feelings do not
count." Sound advice which should prevail in every newspaper office.
I saw him roused on one occasion when a reporter almost literally did
let a house fall on him without getting the news. One Sunday the side
wall of a house in the residential districts fell into an excavation
alongside it, disclosing the whole interior while the family were in
various rooms. It was a big "story" then or at any time; but in those
days before Sunday street cars few people came down town on the first
evening of the week and somehow or other the _World_ was scooped. Next
afternoon when the staff assembled Ewan was in a towering rage. While
he was talking of the incident a young reporter came in and said:
"Oh, I saw that just after it happened; it was the funniest thing you
can imagine; the people in the house were so taken by surprise." For
a full minute Ewan was speechless. "Why in the name of the eternal
didn't you mention it last night?" he asked. "Oh! I don't know," said
the reporter; "I was busy with my assignment." "Good-bye," said Ewan,
"you're fired. A young man like you had best go into the ministry."
However, the lad stuck to newspaper work and has held responsible
posts for many years.

Shortly after my advent to the _World_ office, Edward Farrer finally
parted company with the _Globe_, and J. S. Willison immediately sent
for Ewan to take the post of chief editorial writer. His fame grew,
and the _Globe_ sent him as correspondent to various parts of the
world. He reported the South African War, in company with Col. C.
F. Hamilton, now Secretary of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. He
also went to Cuba during the Spanish American War, and his account
of the Battle of San Juan Hill, which he witnessed in company with
the British military attaché, was probably the best published in
any newspaper on this continent. He himself told me of how this
British officer was almost beside himself with amazement and dismay
at seeing the American troops using black powder, which made them
targets for the enemy, when smokeless powder was available. Ewan's
excursions for the _Globe_ extended all over the continent; and one
of the most unique was a trip, in company with J. E. Atkinson, to
investigate the workings of prohibition in Kansas and other states.
Atkinson as a prohibitionist was sent to record sobriety; Ewan as
an anti-prohibitionist was instructed to detect non-enforcement.
Both got what they were after. Atkinson had no difficulty in finding
total-abstainers; while Ewan had no difficulty in locating drinkers
and bootleggers. Atkinson was received in the parlour; but Ewan was
entertained in the barn.

W. F. Maclean's sound newspaper instinct led him to appoint Walter J.
Wilkinson, Ewan's successor, as news editor; and he soon discovered
that he had an aide who could give even his famous brother "Jimmy"
Maclean "cards and spades" as a news-getter, and beat him. "Wallie"
Wilkinson is still the doyen of the news editors of Canada, and
since 1897 has filled that post with the _Mail and Empire_, to whose
return to prosperity he largely contributed by his genius for news
organization. Thirty years ago on the _World_ his task of keeping up
with three other morning papers, all of which had ample financial
backing (whereas the _World_ had none) and adequate staffs, was
supremely difficult. But I never knew a man who loved the game for
its own sake so much as he. Inadequate as was his staff, his ability
to instil into reporters his own gusto for getting the news and
scooping the other fellow, and "dishing it up" so that readers would
know what it meant, brought wonderful results. With him the instinct
for his task was hereditary, as in the case of the Macleans. His
father, Jonathan Wilkinson, was one of the best-known Ontario editors
of the nineteenth century, and was the founder of a very prosperous
publication, the St. Thomas _Journal_. "Wallie" had been almost
cradled in a newspaper office, and was a reporter since boyhood.
His experience now runs well beyond half a century, and no other
newspaper man in Canada or possibly elsewhere has so long a record
of continuous editorial authority. In the old days he was literally
strung on wires; and he had one of the rarest of newspaper gifts, the
ability to recognize public interest in subjects in which he was not
interested himself. For instance, although I do not think he ever
went voluntarily to a concert, and only occasionally to the theatre,
he more than any Canadian editor was responsible for building up the
news importance of musical and dramatic events. With a few brief
experiences elsewhere, I was associated with Wilkinson wherever he
went until my retirement from daily journalism in 1910, and he more
than once tried to lure me back. Playing the game with "Wallie" in the
nineties, when there was a steady run of big murder and conspiracy
stories, was great sport for a youngster; and his quickness of mind,
his resources of newspaper sense, were a continuous stimulus. He could
make the reporter's life so fascinating that one seldom thought of
money.

While there never was a greater stickler for accuracy in matters where
serious interests were involved, he liked a good "fake" once in a
while. As a young man he invented a story which went around the world
and is, I dare say, in many nature books. In the eighties the most
famous elephant in the world was Jumbo, the favourite of the children
in the London Zoo, whose name added a permanent word to the English
language. For some reason or other it was thought advisable in the
interest of Jumbo's health to give him a constant change of scene.
He was sold to P. T. Barnum and became the leading feature of "The
greatest show on earth". One afternoon while the circus was at St.
Thomas, Ont., Jumbo was killed by railway hands who carelessly let
a circus train back into the herd of elephants at a level crossing.
The tragic death of the most widely known quadruped of any species in
the world caused a great sensation, and Wilkinson sent stories of the
catastrophe to a score of important newspapers. Next morning the world
learned that Jumbo had given his life in a successful effort to save
that of the Baby Elephant, another famous feature of the Barnum herd.
This act of altruism was a pure and harmless invention on the part
of young Wilkinson, and it brought tears to the eyes of many English
people who as children had ridden on Jumbo's back. "Wallie" always
maintained that Jumbo was deliberately killed, because he had become
dangerous, and the Barnum and Bailey management did not know what to
do with him; but this is hard to credit.

This, I think, was the only actual case of real "faking" in
Wilkinson's career, but when he came to Toronto and showed his ability
to scoop the local journalistic fraternity, his defeated rivals would
bring it up and excuse themselves to their chiefs on the ground that
the news which they had failed to get was just one of Wilkinson's
fakes. This "Wallie" turned to advantage in getting scoops for the
_World_. At least two big murder and conspiracy stories, which have
passed into the permanent annals of crime in America were first
published in the _World_ and ignored for days by other newspapers
under the impression that they were not authentic. These were the
Pitzell case and the Hyams case, of which I shall write in a later
chapter. Wilkinson's alleged fakes, which turned out realities, became
so numerous that excuses would not hold water. Finally the Riordan
interests engaged him for the _News_, which had fallen on evil days,
and subsequently he was transferred to the _Mail and Empire_, whose
news columns few thought of looking at except for political reports
until his advent. For instance, the death of Tennyson, which had been
expected for two days, was handled in the _Mail_ with the simple
heading:

                      LATEST CABLE INTELLIGENCE.

                       PASSING OF THE LAUREATE.

                     Anything to avoid sensation!

One scoop of great importance, which turned out to be absolutely true,
was bitterly denounced as a fake and caused W. F. Maclean in his
capacity as a junior Conservative member immense anxiety. Wilkinson's
friends outside his own calling were nearly all sources of news, and
one of the closest of them was the late Judge Hughes, of St. Thomas,
who in his later years enjoyed an inside knowledge of public affairs
possessed by few Canadians. Though his official position prevented his
participation in politics, his counsel was frequently sought by public
men and he had been one of the closest friends of Sir John Macdonald.
After the death of the latter Sir John Abbott served as a stopgap,
and then the party hopes fastened on Sir John Thompson, Minister of
Justice, and a man of the highest character and ability. In 1894 Sir
John Thompson went to England, and it was during his absence there
that Wilkinson happened to go to St. Thomas to visit his relatives.
He paid his usual call on Judge Hughes, and during the course of a
long gossip the judge let fall information known to very few that the
Prime Minister was a very sick man, that one of the reasons for his
visit to England had been to obtain medical advice, and that as a
result of this advice he would so soon as he returned to Canada ask
the Conservative party to name a successor, and resign his post. How
Judge Hughes got this information I never learned, and he had not the
slightest thought that he was giving out news for publication, though
he exacted no pledge of secrecy. He simply dropped it as a bit of
gossip. Wilkinson was too shrewd to press for details, but when he
came back to Toronto wrote the story, making me his sole confidant,
I believe, since W. F. Maclean was absent on parliamentary duties in
Ottawa.

It was news of the highest importance to the country, but very
embarrassing to Conservative partizans, and I do not think Wilkinson
gave a thought to the chief's political fortunes, so intent was
his mind on the main issue. But when the _World_ came out with the
story it hit Toronto, Ottawa, and all other Canadian cities like a
bomb-shell. Canadian party politics at that time being rife with
conspiracy and suspicion, it was assumed that W. F. Maclean had
deliberately connived at the publication of a fake in order to ruin
his own party. The _Empire_ next morning made the charge openly in a
vicious leader entitled, "The Man with the Knife". Maclean's immediate
action was to take a day train to Toronto. I have never seen him so
rattled and perturbed. The story was as much news to him as to anyone
else, and he asked where it had come from in agitated tones. When
given the source, he murmured several times: "It may be true, but if
it isn't true it's my finish. They'll never forgive me."

Confirmation came, in a manner more tragic than anyone expected,
shortly afterward, when Sir John Thompson died suddenly at Windsor
Castle, after an audience with Queen Victoria; and medical men whom
the Prime Minister had consulted in Ottawa disclosed the fact that
for some time he had suffered from acute heart trouble. But I do
not think W. F. Maclean was forgiven. Politicians unfamiliar with
newspaper routine did not credit the truth that he was innocent as a
babe unborn of any connection with the disclosure; and the newspapers
which had proclaimed the untruthfulness of the _World's_ story
without taking the trouble to investigate, accused him of indecency
in prematurely publishing intelligence so distressing. All this was
particularly unjust to Maclean who, so far from desiring to knife Sir
John Thompson, had the highest respect for him and saw little hope
for party success after he was removed from the scene.

Memories of the old _World_ staff would be incomplete without a
reference to a most interesting individual, the late Henry Taylor
Howard, a Yorkshire newspaper man who had been trained in the soundest
methods of British provincial journalism, and who was a pillar of
strength in teaching young lads how to write copy without tautology
and undue verbiage. Howard was a native of York, and as a boy had been
a soprano in York Minster. He had served his apprenticeship on the
_Newcastle Chronicle_, whose famous editor, Joseph Hume, he regarded
as the greatest of English journalists, and he had been the personal
friend and associate of W. T. Stead, a fact of which he was very
proud. He had adopted as his pen-name "Ebor", the ancient Roman name
of his native city. He had an immense knowledge of all schools of
theology and was a born "sermon-taster", as the Scots say. No other
man could report a sermon with half the gusto and knowledge that he
displayed. In the _Sunday World_ he wrote articles on religious topics
which were of interest to the entire community, and his capacity for
apt poetical quotation was unlimited. He was a little rotund man with
a very rubicund countenance, and bore a considerable resemblance to
Seymour's pictures of the elder Weller. I trust that I who loved Mr.
Howard for his greatness of heart may speak of his known failings
without disrespect to his memory. He would no doubt have been as
big a man in British journalism as some of his youthful associates,
if it had not been that he was a dipsomaniac. He was not a steady
drinker, but periodically he would have an outbreak. Warnings to
hotel-keepers not to serve him liquor were of little avail; indeed,
when he was drinking, very few hotels would sell him a drink, for his
personality and failings were well-known; but he got what he wanted
in illicit dives, and would pawn his clothes to satisfy the craving.
The only course to pursue was to let matters run to a certain length
and then ask the police authorities to take him in. He had a staunch
friend in the Governor of the Jail, who liked his company, and would
nurse him back to sobriety and months of usefulness, until the next
attack seized him. But it did not do to place him in confinement too
soon. That only meant another outbreak so soon as he was at liberty.
Neither prohibition nor any other legal remedy will meet such cases.
He himself did not know where the appetite came from; it was not
hereditary, he told me, and his early associations were of the best.
Drunk or sober he was clean of mind; when sober, he was the typical
cold-water Englishman who could not do without his morning douche; and
he was deeply religious as well. When Dwight L. Moody gave his last
series of revival meetings in Canada he took a deep interest in Howard
and "converted" him, though just what that meant in a man already
devout I cannot say. We rather feared that the emotional feelings
Moody aroused in him would have a reaction--and so the event proved.

His end was a sad one, though not directly caused by liquor. He turned
up at a public function at which W. F. was present in his capacity as
member of parliament, and made such a scene that his exasperated chief
dismissed him on the spot. Of course every newspaper man knew that the
dismissal was not permanent, but Howard took the humiliation so much
to heart that he went home to bed, and never got up again.

An instance of his kindness was the case of a friendless girl employed
in the proof room, who was deceived by a callous ruffian. Out of his
slender means, Howard paid for her retirement to a nursing home, and
helped her to get on her feet after her child was born. In truth, not
one father in a hundred would have been so kind. On many occasions he
shielded young reporters for neglect of duty--so that his religion was
no mere lip-service.

We used to have a good deal of fun with "Ebor". The _World_ office was
full of his Bibles. He never went to report a sermon without bringing
one back; and instead of simply writing the text he would clip it out
and paste it on his sheet of copy, a much more laborious process.
This habit was akin to many of the modern labour-saving devices which
entail extra effort. One of the practical jokers on the staff used to
hide his book of familiar quotations, for he never wrote an article
without the apt use of poesy. The old chap would say nothing but go
mousing about until he found it, sighing out a phrase all his own, "O
Rum-pum-pum".

During the first campaign for Sunday street cars in the early
'nineties, Howard came in for a good deal of platform abuse in common
with all other members of the _World_ staff, for that newspaper stood
alone against all other daily papers in demanding the convenience.
Sunday cars were more needed then, even than now, for motor cars and
taxi-cabs were unknown. The inconveniences suffered by poor working
women, who could get to the cemeteries on no other day, was but one
of the many abuses which fanatical Sabbatarianism inflicted on the
poor. A large part of the clergy maintained that the opportunities
for family intercourse which Sunday street cars would unquestionably
provide would be destructive of religion. They managed to bring such
pressure on all newspapers except the _World_ that the innovation was
almost unanimously opposed by the press. Men who habitually drove to
church in their carriages took the platform against the cause and
predicted the coming of the continental Sabbath and a carnival of
vice. _World_ reporters who covered these meetings became known and
were insulted from the platform. I more than once retorted from the
press table in language far from courteous; and the most shameful
episode was when a well-known pietistic layman viciously ridiculed
the personal appearance of Mr. Howard and spoke of him as the type of
"bum" who was trying to destroy the Sabbath.

The most splendid protagonist of the liberal movement was the Rev.
William Clark, D.D., Professor of Philosophy at Trinity University,
and a man whose _Life of Savonarola_ and services as editor of Ranke's
_Lives of the Popes_ had won him international fame. In fact it was
known that if Dr. Clark had been ambitious and remained in England he
would have died a Bishop of one of the historic sees. The opponents of
Sunday cars could not break down his imperturbable good humour, nor
was the whole host of them a match for him in theological argument;
for from the standpoint of Christian doctrine, Sabbatarianism, like
prohibition, has not a leg to stand on.

Nevertheless, on that occasion Sunday street cars were beaten, and the
city had to wait until 1897 for their establishment. The arguments
which carried the day were chiefly that the innovation would help to
enrich the capitalists who owned the Toronto Railway Company; and
further that some of these capitalists were "Papists". Then, as
now, large bodies of the electorate were easily swayed by any outcry
against capital and could not recognize the truth that what benefits
capital not infrequently benefits the community.




                              CHAPTER X

                          HOBBLED JOURNALISM


In a later chapter I shall speak of my connection with dramatic
criticism which became active during my early days with the _World_.
It was the local celebrity which I had acquired in this field,
through articles signed by the pen-name "Touchstone", which led to
an offer to join the staff of the _Empire_ newspaper shortly before
my twenty-first birthday in September, 1893. Though all the daily
newspapers covered theatrical performances spasmodically, as ordinary
newspaper assignments, only one indulged in the luxury of continuous
criticism by a single individual. This was the _Mail_ on which the
late E. R. Parkhurst had been critic since the early seventies.
Finally the _Empire_ in the sixth year of its existence decided to
adopt a similar policy. The volume of work involved was so light that
I combined reportorial duties with critical work--as I continued to do
for many years.

The _Empire_ was, as far as I know, the first Canadian newspaper to
be, in the completest sense, party-owned and party-controlled--and it
was certainly the last. Other journals had been the personal organs
of political leaders, like the _Globe_ under the Hon. George Brown,
or the Montreal _Gazette_ under Hon. Thomas White. With the _Mail_
Sir John Macdonald had enjoyed close personal relations from its
foundation in 1872 until in the mid-eighties its owners quarrelled
with him and it became violently independent. Sir John then resolved
to have an organ so hobbled and tied that it could not bolt; and
appealed to prominent followers to supply the funds. The _Empire_ was
launched with an able staff in 1887 and my affiliations with it begun
at the very outset in a peculiar way.

The accountancy firm to which I was articled had for rental a building
on Grand Opera House lane, which became the first premises of the
new Conservative organ. As a boy it had been my duty to take David
Creighton, M.P.P., its managing director, and two of the provisional
directors, Thomas Cowan, M.P., and Frank Turner, C.E., "the Squire of
Bracondale" and one of the most eminent of the older Tory stalwarts,
over these premises. I also wrote on the typewriter the agreement of
lease and witnessed the signatures; so in a sense I was in at the very
beginnings of the _Empire_, though at the time I had not the slightest
anticipation of ever becoming a newspaper man or a member of its
staff. Six years later, when I entered its offices as dramatic critic,
the newspaper had removed to a warehouse on Adelaide street west,
very near to the spot where William Lyon Mackenzie had conducted his
newspaper in opposition to the "Family Compact" sixty years previously.

The _Empire_ office, having strong financial backing and close
personal connections with many of the leading public men of Canada,
was a very different place from the bohemian _World_ office. It had
an ample and able staff, and had it been conducted independently
of interference from party chiefs would undoubtedly in the end
have out-stripped all its rivals. But a newspaper established and
conducted primarily by an official partizan junta has in its system
the seeds of death from the outset. The internal condition of the
Conservative party in 1893 was chaotic and was becoming more so every
day, owing to the sudden removal in 1891 of the chieftain who had
ruled its destinies for half a century. These internal dissensions
and jealousies affected the conditions in the office of the party
organ. No editor--not even the chief, David Creighton himself--and no
reporter, felt safe from incurring the dislike of some politician with
a personal axe to grind, who thought his stock subscription or his
prominence in the party gave him the right of interference.

During my sojourn of less than thirteen months two able and
conscientious city editors were deposed, solely because one faction
or another was displeased with some story that had been published.
Non-political news of an important character was constantly suppressed
at the request of some party magnate or other, a fatal policy in a
field in which so many newspapers were competing.

There was a tendency among the younger men on the staff to regard
David Creighton as weak, but in the light of experience I now see how
helpless he was. The attempt to please the rapidly disintegrating
Conservative party headed by a gentleman whose good looks and
beautiful silver beard disguised his weakness--Sir Mackenzie
Bowell--was like trying to conduct a Sunday school picnic in a jungle.
Mr. Creighton was a most kindly and lovable man who wanted to do right
by everybody, and I wonder that the politicians did not hound him
into his grave. In personal attire and bearing he was as simple and
rustic as Horace Greeley is said to have been. He was the first man
I ever saw who wore what George Ade calls "Texas evening dress" at
public functions--a very low cut waistcoat with a black string tie
and a frock coat instead of the conventional swallow-tail. That was
before the era of the dinner-jacket. For years he had conducted a
Conservative weekly paper at Owen Sound, Ont., and had been member for
North Grey in the Ontario Legislature. His popularity in that riding
was such that he once said that his election expenses in each campaign
were about $70, whereas it used to cost his colleague, who represented
the same constituency in the House of Commons, $7,000. As a country
editor he had acquired the habit of walking about the office in his
socks. The _Empire_ establishment, business office, editorial rooms,
and composing room occupied four floors, and it used to be an amusing
sight to see the chief paddling up and down the stairs bootless, for
he had a habit of being all over the place. On wet and muddy nights
the habit must have been uncomfortable. Often he must have overheard
conversations which were critical of himself and of the general
conduct of the newspaper, but I never knew him to show resentment or
take any revenges. Prior to my joining the staff some of the men used
to play upon his kindness, by tendering resignations which they had
no desire to see accepted; merely to enjoy Mr. Creighton's tender
appeals to them to remain. One day, to the surprise of the staff, Mr.
Creighton accepted a resignation without comment, and that ended the
practice.

In my day Mr. Creighton's chief aide, bearing the title of managing
editor, was Arthur H. U. Colquhoun, who did not then boast the
honour of "LL.D." and is now Deputy Minister of Education of the
Province of Ontario. Mr. Colquhoun was a contrast to Mr. Creighton
in many ways, since he was the most immaculately dressed man in the
newspaper fraternity, impeccably neat and a good though ever-courteous
disciplinarian. He was a young man in his thirties, and had had a
distinguished career in Montreal before the Conservative party sent
him to Toronto. He was a type of the complete Tory gentleman of the
old school, proud as Lucifer of his Highland ancestry, and with a
great fund of political acumen under an exterior that in no way
suggested the politician. Together Creighton and Colquhoun would have
made a strong combination had they been let alone. The latter was a
typical city and university man, whereas Creighton had a profound
knowledge of rural politics and side-line sentiment, and was a
whirlwind with a blue-book on the stump.

Another of the _Empire's_ long list of retired city editors was H.
J. P. Good. Harry Good, who still lives, had the distinction of
actually being the first sporting editor in America. T. C. Patteson,
a gifted Englishman of wealth, who was editor of the _Mail_ in the
mid-seventies and afterward postmaster of Toronto, took a deep
interest in racing and cricket. One of his younger reporters made
a very bad blunder in recording an international cricket match. It
occurred to Patteson to instruct Good, who had a complete knowledge of
sports and who was his revising proof-reader, to oversee all sporting
news in order to avoid blunders. For his own convenience Good grouped
together all the matter of this character that came to his desk and
the result was the first department of assembled sporting news in
North America. Within a very short time the New York and Chicago
journals had copied the idea; and to-day sporting writing is by far
the most remunerative and least controlled branch of journalism on
this continent.

Good, as Patteson's revising proof-reader, was one of those
responsible for an historical blunder in connection with Sir John
Macdonald's adoption of Protection as the National Policy. John
Maclean, the earliest Canadian advocate of this economic measure,
was at that time an editorial writer on the _Mail_, and had written
many articles on the subject which Patteson had quietly pigeon-holed.
One day Sir John who was then in opposition, walked into the office
and announced that Protection was henceforth to be his policy. He
asked that the _Mail_ publish a good strong editorial defining what
it meant, for Protection was not the familiar word to readers fifty
years ago that it is to-day. Maclean was sent for and instructed
to herald the new policy. He was so elated over the triumph of
his ideas that he went out and celebrated a little, a step that,
while it did not obscure his mind, did affect his handwriting. The
printers had especial difficulty in making out the long, unfamiliar
word beginning with "p". Finally the late Edward F. Clarke, who was
chief proof-reader, thought he had found the correct solution; as
an Orangeman he was sure that the word was "protestantism". Harry
Good passed this interpretation, and the _Mail_ came out the next
day with a leader announcing that "Canadian interests demand more
protestantism", and that Sir John would give it to them. No wonder Mr.
Patteson, a few years after, gave up newspaper work because his nerves
could not stand the strain.

Another able journalist was a serious-minded Scotsman, Finlay
Mackenzie, who during his lifetime had a remarkable experience in
half the greater cities of this continent. At the time he was on the
_Empire_ he had already won fame as a reporter on the now defunct
New York _Press_ by scooping all the newspapers of the metropolis on
the fatal illness of James G. Blaine, the most eminent leader in the
ranks of the Republican party. The manner in which he got this "scoop"
illustrates the methodical manner in which an intelligent reporter
will go to work. The _Press_, as a Republican newspaper, had received
a tip that Blaine was indisposed at the home of his son-in-law, the
orchestral conductor Walter Damrosch, and Mackenzie was sent there to
obtain particulars. At the Damrosch home he was politely dismissed
with a statement that Mr. Blaine was not very well, but that it was
a matter of little consequence. While waiting for a street car he
noticed a maid-servant come out of the house and run to a near-by drug
store to have a prescription filled. He waited until she had run back
and then interviewed the drug clerk. He had a solemn Presbyterian
manner, and with little difficulty obtained from a young clerk details
of the prescription. Taking it to a doctor friend, he learned that the
drugs contained therein were only administered to patients who were
_in extremis_. Thus the _Press_ was able to scoop all New York the
next morning, and the news was but too true.

Mackenzie was a man with a _wanderlust_ and could not stay long
anywhere, although his fortunes were made with New York news editors
after the Blaine episode. As a handler of copy on the city desk he
was the most timorous man I ever encountered. He knew nothing of the
drama, yet he would laboriously go through my theatrical criticisms
for fear I had omitted to cross a "t" or make a "bad break". Once I
alluded to the renowned Bessie Clayton as a "seductive dancer". When
Mackenzie saw the phrase there was a roar from his den: "Hector, mon,
come ye here. What on airth, mon, do ye mean by yon word 'sedooctive'"?

"Just that," I replied.

"Mon alive, is it the _Police Gazette_ you think you're warking for.
There'll be no ondecencies in the _Empire_ if I can help it."

His fear of indecency was an obsession. Once he sent me to report a
cattle show, and gave this preliminary monition: "Remember, no jocks
aboot the bulls and the hayfers." He pronounced bull to rhyme with
lull. It was not Mackenzie, but a Mr. Moore, one-time editor of the
_Weekly Globe_ who effected the greatest feat in Bowdlerization of
which I have ever heard. In the text of a serial story he discovered
this snatch of dialogue:

The hero--"What does all this mean!"

The heroine--"I cannot conceive."

Moore promptly changed the latter line to "I cannot tell". He would
have made a great motion-picture censor.

Mackenzie's dread of what he called "jocks" was almost as great as
of "ondecencies"; susceptibilities he had apparently acquired during
his apprenticeship on that "Scotsman's Bible", the _Glasgow Herald_.
Once in reporting one of the periodical rows which used to occur in
the synagogues and were accompanied by much beard-pulling, I wrote
that one of the chief aggressors was alleged to be contemplating the
establishment of a mattress factory. When Mackenzie saw the allusion
there was a Doric roar, "Hector, mon, what do you mean by yon?"

"Oh, that's just a joke, Mr. Mackenzie," I said.

Mackenzie at once became the dominie. "Hector, did ye ever hear tell
o' the _Glawsgae Herruld_. Aye, ye say! Well, it's the grandest
newspaper in the warld; and ye may read the _Glawsgae Herruld_ from
year's eend to year's eend, from the first coalum to the lawst, and
ye'll find nae a jock in its coalums. Hector, mon, I warked on the
_Glawsgae Herruld_ for three years, and I am thoroughly imbued wi' its
principles. So ye'll kindly refrain from trying to pit your jocks over
on me."

The timorousness of Mackenzie is perhaps understandable because his
predecessor, James W. Curran, had been deposed, not for dereliction
of duty, but because his mind was too enterprising and instinctively
professional for the heavy partizan yoke imposed by politicians.
Curran, now the editor of the _Sault Ste. Marie Star_, was cradled,
like other veterans I have mentioned, in a small newspaper office in
Orillia, and was a renowned authority on the early exploration of
the region of the great lakes. When I first knew Jim Curran he had
not developed his historical enthusiasms, but was very keen about
encouraging young writers of initiative and talent. A year or so
later, when he became city editor of the _Montreal Herald_, he was
instrumental in launching Arthur Stringer in the newspaper field.
Stringer is now one of the best known of Canadian novelists, but
thirty years ago he was a minor poet and a first-rate football player.
In after years he told me an amusing story about his early experiences
under Curran. When the latter engaged him he was looking for a musical
critic for the _Herald_ and, knowing that Stringer was a University
graduate of some literary distinction, asked him if he could undertake
the work. The poet was so anxious for a job that he said he could;
although music is his blind side. He had a girl friend who was
very musical, and by accepting her counsel managed to make a very
respectable showing. One summer Lieut. Dan Godfrey and his British
Guards Band came to Canada. The opening concert being held in the
afternoon, the city editor, Curran, decided to accompany his critic
to the concert. As a boy Curran had been a bandsman at Orillia and
had a working knowledge of every instrument. He had not been sitting
with Stringer for more than half an hour before he discovered that the
latter did not know one instrument from another.

Arthur Stringer was one of several brilliant young men of about my
own age who were cub reporters in the nineties and who afterwards won
fame in other fields. They included Harvey J. O'Higgins, also famous
as a novelist, Harry Addington Bruce, whose syndicated articles on
psychological themes are famous throughout America, Claude Bryan, now
a prominent capitalist in Great Britain, Sir Thomas Hamar Greenwood,
who dabbled a little in newspaper work but not very deeply, and the
present Prime Minister of Canada, William Lyon Mackenzie King. There
was another less widely known, J. H. Cornyn, a Queen's University man,
who afterwards had much to do with establishing the educational system
of Mexico under President Diaz. Yet another was E. W. Beatty, K.C.,
President of the C. P. R., whom I first knew when he was "subbing" as
a reporter on the Toronto press.

On the _Empire_ the two ablest juniors were H. Franklin Gadsby, whose
brilliant, efflorescent, and vitriolic writings are widely familiar,
and Frank D. L. Smith, who specialized in financial subjects and
succeeded Sir John Willison as editor of the now vanished Toronto
_News_. The most flamboyant figure of the _Empire_ coterie was Charles
T. Long, whose father, a wealthy man, was Vice-President. Owing to his
father's wealth, he had enjoyed the opportunities of travel, and had
visited Japan at a time when it was not nearly so modernized as it is
to-day. He was a wanderer by nature, but shrewd in a business way,
and when he died in Calcutta, India, a few years ago, had personally
amassed considerable wealth. Charley Long was capital company, but
the most irresponsible newspaper reporter I have ever known. His
vivid imagination impelled him to exaggerate. When I knew him first
he was rather under a cloud, owing to one of his indiscretions. In
the eighties he had served as a reporter in Chicago on one of the
many vanished sheets that anticipated the sensational faking that
afterwards became systematized under William Randolph Hearst. This was
a bad training for anyone, especially a man of Long's temperament.
After the _Empire_ was founded in 1887 his father, anxious to have him
back in Canada, induced him to come home and join its staff.

In 1888, while the Parnell enquiry was in progress in London, the
world was startled by the disappearance of Dr. Cronin, a prominent
Irish physician, resident in Chicago. Sometime later his body was
found in a sewer, and the murder was traced to the local "triangle" of
the Clan-na-gael, a Fenian organization. Among his murderers was one
Coughlin, a prominent member of the Chicago detective force, who in
his official capacity had helped to delay the solution of the mystery.
The reason for Cronin's murder was the belief of his brothers in the
Clan-na-gael that he was an informer.

A day or so after his disappearance, despatches appeared in all the
leading papers of the United States that Dr. Cronin had been seen at
the Walker House, Toronto, by Charles T. Long, who, as a reporter
in Chicago, had known Cronin well. The despatches contained lengthy
disclosures that the doctor's purpose in leaving Chicago was to
proceed to London and testify in the Parnell enquiry as to the Irish
leader's connection with American Fenian organizations. (It will be
remembered that the Parnell enquiry arose through an allegation by the
London _Times_ that Parnell had been privy to the Phoenix Park murders
five years earlier.) Long continued sending out stories of Cronin's
plans for two or three days; and in the meantime detectives came from
Chicago to interview him. Long was taken to the offices of Blake,
Lash, and Cassels and asked to make an affidavit as to having seen
Cronin; but somehow he evaded the actual commission of perjury. Early
one morning just after the leading newspapers of America had received
a despatch from the Toronto newspaper making further disclosures,
word came that Cronin's body had been found in a Chicago sewer. One
prominent New York newspaper published a heading "Reporter Long a
Liar". Another obtained his photograph and published it with the
underline, "Charles T. Long, the Toronto Liar".

Though bitterly humiliated, Long was of such mercurial temperament
that it did not take him long to live down the Cronin affair. All this
occurred five years before I became his associate on the _Empire_
staff, and I, in common with many, was under the impression that he
had victimized his own newspaper as well as the New York _Herald_,
the New York _Sun_, and leading Chicago dailies. After his death in
Calcutta, there were allusions to the Cronin case, and David Creighton
sent me a note explaining that he had refused to publish Long's
alleged interview with Cronin and had distrusted its _bona fides_ from
the outset. The other Canadian papers naturally took up the story,
however, and Long's life for a time was not happy. He was a man of
such quick temper that no one alluded to it in his presence. Seven
or eight years afterward J. H. Woods, now publisher of the Calgary
_Herald_, who at the time of the Cronin affair was in the West, and
quite ignorant of Long's connection with it, was sitting with a group
of us who were yarning away about newspaper experiences. Long told
some interesting stories of his early days in Chicago, when Woods
quite innocently said "Did you know anything of the Cronin murder?"
The rest of us were appalled. Long turned white, gave a very dark
look, and without a word reached for his hat and left us.

To my surprise, he one day opened up his heart to me on the subject.
In the eighties, before Associated Press services were so fully
organized as they are to-day, reporters made a good deal of money
sending despatches to American newspapers which were not always
particular whether the information was true so long as it was
interesting. Long had been in the habit of making extra money in this
way. When the news came from Chicago that Dr. Cronin had disappeared,
he was morally satisfied that the cause of the disappearance was as
stated in his interviews. He said that when he lived in Chicago he had
been certain that the doctor was not what he seemed, but a British
agent. In inventing a meeting at Toronto he assumed that within ten
days Cronin would turn up in London, and that if he did deny having
passed through Toronto and talking with Long, no one would believe
him. He justified himself on the ground that he had merely made a
wrong guess and that, if Cronin's comrades in the Clan-na-gael had not
killed him, he would have testified against Parnell.

Young as I was, it seemed to me that the _Empire_ could not continue
very long under the conditions of political espionage which hampered
the work of its staff. If the original President, D'Alton McCarthy, a
sane and able man, had continued on the Board there might have been a
different tale to tell; but he severed his connection with the party.
In the autumn of 1894 I was first dismissed to placate a disgruntled
politician, and privately informed that this meant only a lay-off
for three weeks. I laid the facts before the politician himself,
who was at once eager for my reinstatement, but I had had enough of
machine-controlled journalism and went back to work for W. F. Maclean.
It was to my good fortune that I did so, for in five months all my old
colleagues were walking the streets, in dead of winter, jobless.

The newspaper men who knew the circumstances under which the _Empire_
was allowed to die never forgave the late Sir Mackenzie Bowell, then
Prime Minister of Canada, for the callousness with which he killed
his party organ, and refused to make the slightest provision for any
employee save David Creighton. I suspect that as a country editor of
not very brilliant powers he looked with rather jealous eyes on city
newspaper men. Moreover, though he had a very distinguished personal
appearance, he was, as I have said, a weakling. The letters of Sir
John Macdonald, published by Sir Joseph Pope a few years ago, show
that his stability was always questionable. At a time when it was nip
and tuck whether the Canadian Pacific Railway should go into the hands
of a receiver, a course which would have been ruinous to the whole
country, his weakness was a serious embarrassment to his leader, for
he favoured letting the great enterprise collapse. And he showed the
same willingness to scuttle a ship he supposed to be sinking, in the
case of the _Empire_.

There was much exaggeration as to the losses suffered by the
shareholders. It was supposed that they totalled over half a million
dollars. Some time afterward, Robert Birmingham, for many years
Conservative organizer, who had helped to raise subscriptions for its
establishment and had a private contempt for the men who let it die,
showed me the exact figures. The losses in the seven years or more of
its existence were between $145,000 and $150,000. If it had not been
for outside interference, they would have been nil; and most of the
subscribers had been amply compensated by governmental favours.

The amalgamation by which the _Empire_ was turned over to the _Mail_
and the combined newspapers became the official organ, but freed
from political control in management, was a triumph of the late
Christopher Bunting's diplomacy. In this way he retrieved political
and journalistic adventures which had almost run the _Mail_ into
the ground. If he had not succeeded in bluffing the owners of the
_Empire_ into an amalgamation, early in 1895, the _Mail_ would have
gone into liquidation the following week. The cabinet ministers who
took a personal hand in the negotiations therefore had all the cards
in their own hands, but had not sense enough to know it. Then, as
a final stroke, Mr. Bunting specified in the agreement that every
employee of the _Mail_ was to be retained in his position. The only
change to which he consented was that T. P. Healy (now provincial
librarian of Manitoba), who had been Ottawa correspondent of the
_Mail_ and had annoyed the government by his pungent exposures of its
weaknesses, should be recalled to Toronto, and Fred Cook, the _Empire_
correspondent, engaged as his successor. The Prime Minister and his
friends made no provision for the _Empire_ employees who had served
them so well. Sir Mackenzie Bowell even refused to take care of them
until the end of winter with temporary clerkships at Ottawa, as he
easily might have done, for the House of Commons was about to convene.
Sir Oliver Mowat, the then Premier of Ontario, despite the fact that
the _Empire_ had bitterly opposed him, was kinder and found places for
a few to tide them over until spring.

I covered the whole story of the negotiations for the _World_, which
was naturally keenly interested in the removal of a rival from the
crowded newspaper field. David Creighton's last speech to his staff
was touching and dignified. The Government had given no intimation
that it intended to provide for him, though he was subsequently
appointed Collector of Inland Revenue. He asked the boys to let the
ship go down with honour; there was one more issue to be gotten out,
and he trusted that on this the last day of their employment they
would be as industrious and careful as though nothing had happened.
There were, he said, important assignments to be covered that day, and
he trusted the last issue of the _Empire_, of which he had always been
proud, would do justice to its record.

The staff cheered him; and observed his admonition to the letter.
Another city editor, Patrick F. Cronin, had by this time been
appointed, and without a wink of an eye-lash he reminded his reporters
that a great Liberal rally was to be held at Massey Hall that night,
at which Sir Wilfrid Laurier was to speak. He assigned six reporters
to cover it and told them that they need not economize in the matter
of space. Never did reporters go more willingly to work; and the last
issue of the _Empire_, founded by the Conservatives, contained as fine
a "send-off" for their Liberal opponents as had ever appeared in a
Canadian newspaper.

It is interesting to add that professional relations between the
_Empire_ and the _Globe_, the Liberal organ, were always courteous
and friendly. During my year with the former, the _Globe_ office was
gutted by fire, and David Creighton offered Robert Jaffray and J.
S. Willison the accommodations of the _Empire_ office and plant to
publish the Liberal organ. Thus for a month we had the _Globe_ staff
as our guests. The two staffs worked side by side harmoniously without
trying to pry into each other's business, and lifelong friendships
were cemented.

This would have been shocking to many rural partizans if they had
realized it. In trips to smaller towns I have often noted the surprise
of local inhabitants at the sight of rival reporters fraternizing.
On one occasion, in covering the Murray Hill railway wreck near
Trenton, I asked a coroner who came from a village in the next county
for the names of the jury he had empanelled. When he learned that I
represented the Conservative organ, he peremptorily refused them.
My old pal, Victor Ross, then of the _Globe_ appeared on the scene,
and I said: "Hurry up and nail that coroner! He's going home and he
won't give me the names of the jury." Victor approached him and made
the same request. The coroner looked at him sternly and searchingly,
"Honestly, now, are you really a _Globe_ reporter?" "Cross my heart!"
said Victor, "Why, sir, do you doubt me?" "Well, I saw you talking to
that _Mail_ reporter, a minute ago," said the official. "Oh, well,"
said Victor, "I didn't like to snub the poor fellow, though I try to
avoid him as much as possible." The placated coroner gave him the
names.




                              CHAPTER XI

                       POLITICS OF THE NINETIES


My first five years in newspaper work had given me a pretty thorough
grounding in political affairs, and from 1896 until 1910 I was
entrusted with a supervision of political news, especially at
election time, on the various journals by which I was employed. I
began this work on the _News_ in 1896; and continued it on the _Mail
and Empire_ in 1898. For the first year of Sir Joseph Flavelle's
idealistic attempt to make the _News_ a cultural institution under the
editorship of Mr. (later Sir) John Willison (1903), I was also thus
employed. It was usually my task to write the introductory summaries
at all great political rallies and to interview political leaders on
ticklish points of policy. I attribute some of my success in making
reluctant politicians talk to the fact that I never used a note-book,
and did not try to do the talking myself, the fatal mistake of some
interviewers. The politician confronted with a note-book and pencil is
at once put on his guard; and gratuitous advice offends him.

The first political interview I ever undertook was also the first
reportorial assignment. Shortly after I joined the _World_ in 1892,
the news was cabled that the great Liberal leader, the Hon. Edward
Blake, had received an invitation from Justin McCarthy and other
leaders of the Irish Nationalist party to leave Canada and contest the
safe seat of Longford for the British House of Commons. Blake was
a sphinx toward the evening newspapers, and John Ewan told me to go
to his house and get him to talk if I could. I was aghast, for I was
entirely without experience and the name of Blake, the most austere of
political leaders, was a very august one in those days. I really think
Ewan's reason for selecting me was that I was wearing a rather good
morning-coat, and my juvenile appearance might disarm the great man.
Frightened as I was I got on swimmingly with Mr. Blake, whose courtesy
banished my nervousness. He would not commit himself, but walked out
to the porch with me and chatted in such a pleasant unbending mood,
that I made up my mind that he was very happy over the offer, and
intended to accept it. I went back and told Ewan so. The latter wrote
the story himself, and added that there was little doubt of Blake's
acceptance. The other newspapers were less convinced, but when in a
day or two Blake announced his intention of leaving Canada, Ewan laid
flattering unction to my soul by saying, "You sized that gentleman up
right, my boy!"

It was as a result of this that W. F. Maclean, not long after, gave
me a list containing the names of half a score of well-known citizens
and told me to go to them and ask certain questions which he drilled
into me as to their connection with the Annexation movement. He told
me not to use a note-book, but remember what they said, and write it
out immediately after each interview. They "hedged" in every instance,
but by the end of the day I had quite an accumulation of notes.
Maclean took them and made a brilliant story headed, "Crawled into
the hole and pulled the hole in after them". Sir John Macdonald had
so shattered the Annexation movement by his single speech in 1891
that a year after his death there was but one man who would openly
avow his convictions. He was a municipal politician, Ernest Albert
Macdonald, who had made and lost a fortune in the real estate boom of
the eighties, a promoter bubbling over with schemes, who afterwards,
while Mayor of Toronto, went insane. More prominent Toronto men than
is realized to-day dallied with Annexation about the period of 1890,
when times were growing hard after a real estate boom, and when the
exodus to the United States was more appalling. Hare-brained schemes
to turn over the country to Washington were hatched by some of these
dreamers. There is still living in Toronto, a promoter who had a plan
forty years ago to turn over the Northwest Territories to the United
States for two million dollars. Erastus Wiman, a New York millionaire,
who afterwards wrecked himself by speculation, and who had been at one
time a newsboy in Toronto, was busy with plans of this kind. I once
interviewed Wiman before the days of his downfall and arrest. He was
a stout little man of the John Bull type with mutton chop whiskers,
and quite open in his avowals that Canada should be brought into the
United States, not by force, but by reason.

My father-in-law, Peter Ryan, one of the most brilliant of the
many fine Liberal orators of forty years ago, knew many of the
annexationists, and told me in after years of an episode which
convinced him of the ludicrousness of the whole movement. A party of
well-known Torontonians went to New York and Washington to arrange
terms for handing over Canada. They had a glorious time of it, and
spent so much money that they drew on him for $400 to pay their
hotel bill at the Gilsey House (I think). The predicament of men
who proposed to dispose of a vast section of the British Empire, yet
lacked money to get home, appealed so to his sense of humour that the
Annexation movement seemed to him a colossal joke ever after.

While with the _Empire_ I covered the Ontario elections of 1894, the
last political campaign of Sir Oliver Mowat who had been Premier
since 1873, and also of his formidable opponent, Sir William Ralph
Meredith, afterwards Chief Justice of Ontario. The wiliness of Mowat
as a politician was only equalled by that of Sir John Macdonald, in
whose law office at Kingston he had been articled as a student. Though
nominally a Liberal leader he was even more of a Tory than Sir John,
and much more so than Sir William Meredith, a most progressive man.
He was a great municipal lawyer, and in his early days as corporation
counsel for Toronto reformed the constitution of the city on modern
lines. At the Confederation conference of 1864, the result of which
took form in the British North America Act, he led the legal fight for
the federal system, whereas Sir John Macdonald advocated a general
parliamentary system on the lines that prevailed in Great Britain. Sir
John Macdonald was once asked what kind of a lad Mowat was when he was
his law student, and jocularly replied, "He was a very good pen-man."
This was a jest, for both men respected each other, and there were in
Ontario, when I was a boy, thousands of men who were Mowat Liberals in
provincial affairs and Macdonald Conservatives in federal issues.

I shall not forget the pathos of my last interview with Sir Oliver.
This was on the occasion of the death of Queen Victoria, while he was
Lieutenant-Governor of Ontario. He had been active in public affairs
throughout most of her reign, and an interview with him would have
been most interesting. Commander Law, his secretary, took me up to the
library to see him, and the old gentleman said he was flattered that
I should ask for a tribute to a Queen he had always revered. He said
that if I would come back in three hours' time he would have decided
on what he wished to say. When I returned he told me sorrowfully that
he had not been able to collect his ideas and requested that I make
no mention of having sought an interview. It was touching to hear
this admission from the lips of a man who had won so many political
battles; and he did not survive very long thereafter. I fancy I was
the last reporter he ever talked to.

In his last campaign, in 1894, Sir Oliver had matters very much in his
own hands; and he had whip-sawed Meredith very skilfully, by accepting
any progressive and popular measures his rival proposed. Ten years
previously Meredith had been placed in a very difficult position in
the Manitoba boundary issue, which involved possession of the natural
resources of Northern Ontario, claimed by the Federal Government. I
have always thought Sir John Macdonald's policy, which would have
placed the Manitoba boundary forty miles east of Fort William, and
given the prairie provinces an outlet on the Great Lakes, a wise
one. There would be less ill feeling between East and West if it had
come to pass. But Meredith, as Conservative leader in Ontario, had
been placed in a false position in the rivalries between the Federal
and Provincial governments, though he actually suggested the legal
solutions by which the deadlock was solved. Many Ontario men, greedy
for "all that was coming" to the province, thought he had tried to
sacrifice their interests, especially after Mowat had won his great
victory before the Privy Council in London.

By 1894 Mowat had manoeuvred matters to a point where his opponents
had nothing but trivialities to talk about. I reported Meredith's
opening speech of the campaign and was filled with boyish disgust at
the paltriness of the discussions by himself and his chief lieutenant
George F. Marter, who had been a general storekeeper in Bracebridge,
Muskoka, and was then contesting a Toronto constituency. It seemed to
me an outrage that a man of really big mind like Meredith should be
wasting his energies on a scandal which consisted in the fact that
the Minister of Agriculture, the Hon. John Dryden, had recommended a
silver medal bull, owned by one of his constituents, for purchase by
the Ontario College of Agriculture. Mr. Marter raised another issue
which he regarded as stupendous; it was that too much money was spent
on luxuries like eggs, raspberries, and strawberries for patients
in the insane asylums of Ontario. Mr. Marter was a very stout man,
and when he began to gurgle in his ample tenement we always knew the
same old joke was coming. After enumerating the costs of various
small fruits he would say, "But the poor fellows didn't get any
huckleberries." As an _Empire_ reporter I was expected to write in
"Laughter and applause" at this point. The third issue was the fact
that Sir Oliver had appointed his son Sheriff of Toronto. Inasmuch
as the appointment would have gone to some more aggressive Liberal
henchman anyway, it was impossible to excite the electorate over this
accusation. I think from his attitude that Sir William Meredith was
himself disgusted with the issues, for he shortly afterward resigned
the leadership to Mr. Marter and went ultimately to the bench. I was
present at Mr. Marter's first meeting as leader, at London, Ont., and
heard the same speech that I had heard a dozen times before, with one
addition. He announced that he was going to abolish separate schools
in Ontario. The next morning, on the way home to Toronto, J. E.
Atkinson, who had been reporting the meeting for the _Globe_, sat down
beside him on the train, and asked him where he had gotten the idea
that he could abolish separate schools. He said he had gathered as
much from D'Alton McCarthy. Atkinson then informed him that separate
schools were guaranteed by the British North America Act and could
only be abolished by the British parliament. Marter was greatly
surprised, and when he got home gave out an interview announcing that
he was not going to abolish separate schools after all. What D'Alton
McCarthy had been advocating for years was a check to the encroachment
of the French language in separate schools; but Mr. Marter had never
really grasped what he was talking about.

The most tedious experience in all my career as political reporter was
a joint debate between Marter and his opponent in the constituency
of North Toronto, Joseph Tait, on the issues above outlined. It
lasted five hours. Both orators were local preachers of the Methodist
persuasion and could talk forever on the slightest provocation. Both
took extreme enjoyment in their own quips. It was horrible, but
we may assume that Marter was adjudged winner in this oratorical
Marathon, for he was elected by 900 votes. It was a sore blow to Tait,
for Marter was a stranger, whereas he had been a popular baker in
the constituency all his adult life, and had made a close personal
canvass. On the night of the voting he was asked what he thought of
the result and said: "All I can say is that there are nine hundred
monumental lee-ars in North Toronto."

Tait as a lad in Scotland had been reared a Presbyterian and joined
the Methodist Church after he came to Canada. Peter Ryan once asked
him why he had changed, and he said, "I realized in my earliest
youth that I had a rare talent for exegesis and exposeetion. But
in Scotlan' the meenistry like to do all the talking themsels and
discourage discourse by the laity. When I came to Canada I found that
the Presbyterian meenisters had the same perneecious prejudice, so I
joined Methodism, which gave me scope for my natural gifts."

Tait sat in the Ontario Legislature from 1890 to 1894, and once Mr.
Ryan perpetrated a famous practical joke on him. It had been arranged
between the whips that the debate on the address should close with
speeches by the two leaders, Meredith and Premier Mowat. Greatly to
the annoyance of Sir Oliver, Tait arose in his seat to continue the
debate, a gross breach of courtesy. An adjournment until evening was
arranged, and Mr. Ryan, who happened to be a visitor on the floor
of the house, told his friend, the Hon. A. S. Hardy, that he would
arrange matters. At eight o'clock Tait arose to present his ideas,
which he assumed were of "no small value", and in a moment or two a
page handed him a note. He gave a startled pause. "I must apologize
to the Speaker for bringing my remarks to an abrupt conclusion, but
I have just learned that my bakery is on fire." In his absence the
division was called, and when Tait came back and tried to resume he
was told that he was out of order.

George F. Marter's tenure as Conservative leader was short. Sir Oliver
Mowat's last campaign had left that party short of followers. The
Legislature mainly consisted of Liberals and Patrons of Industry, the
early name of the party which subsequently became the United Farmers
of Ontario and of whose really delightful leader, Joe Haycock, I
have spoken in an earlier chapter. There were twenty-two Patrons;
and I still have the picture of them sitting in the house in warm
spring weather with weather-beaten fur-caps on their heads. One
farmer member, who afterwards developed ability and sat in the House
of Commons, put up at a down-town hotel, and after a night or two
approached the hotel clerk with the words: "Up our way we usually give
a fellow a lamp when he's going to bed." "Isn't there a light in your
room?" asked the clerk. "No," said the politician. The clerk called
a bell-boy and told him to go up and see about it. The boy found an
overcoat hanging on the electric light bulb. This member had actually
never seen an electric light before, though he had been warden of a
Western Ontario county.

The retirement of Sir Oliver Mowat in 1896 to become Minister of
Justice in the first Laurier administration at Ottawa changed the
situation in Ontario. His successor was his brilliant, aggressive
colleague, the Hon. Arthur Sturgis Hardy, who had as chief associate
the Hon. George W. (afterward Sir George) Ross, a man whose oratory
was admired in Great Britain as well as in the United States. It
was clear that George F. Marter would be helpless against such
a combination and the only man of real political talent in the
Conservative group was a scholarly lawyer, James Pliny Whitney, who
had been modestly keeping in the background. Without effort on his
own part, Whitney automatically became leader, though Marter always
cherished a grievance against him.

Privately, Whitney was a personal friend and admirer of the new
Premier. Two or three years after, when ill-health compelled Mr.
Hardy's retirement, Mr. Whitney said to me, "I never had the heart to
really fight Arthur Hardy, but now I'm going in to win." And he did,
though it took longer than he expected. Nevertheless Whitney's showing
in his first campaign was amazing. Mowat had been triumphant in 1894,
and the Liberals were jubilant over their great federal victory with
Laurier in 1896. Yet on March 1st, 1898, Whitney, with whose name
very few electors had been acquainted two years before, came within
seven seats of capturing the province against opponents of high
political stature and long popularity. As I have said, Whitney had a
very inferior following to build on. Once from a seat just above him
in the press gallery I saw him put down his head and audibly swear.
He had, as he thought, closed a debate on the agricultural estimates
with a fine speech demanding an extension of the already admirable
educational work established by the Hon. John Dryden, one of the most
useful statesmen Canada ever possessed. As he sat down a follower
behind him got up and raised a question about an item of $16 for
repairs to a chicken house on the Government farm. The drop from the
sublime to the ridiculous was appalling.

Whitney did not win recognition all at once. Owing to the manner
in which he had remained in the background, his abilities were
unrecognized. For instance, John R. Robinson, the vitriolic editor of
the Toronto _Telegram_, who later became one of his most emotionally
enthusiastic supporters, wrote, "You can throw a brick through the
window of any country law office and hit a J. P. Whitney." Would
that this were so! Two more honourable and more courageous gentlemen
than Arthur Sturgis Hardy and his opponent, this province has never
possessed. Though he did not know it, the seeds of the malady which
made his career as Premier so brief, were already in Mr. Hardy's
system, and he was sometimes irascible. He would say cutting things
for which he would be sorry afterward. Once a rural member, who was an
undertaker by trade was pestering him on the subject of law reform,
and he shouted: "Let us hear something new; let us hear from the
honourable gentleman on the subject of funeral reform." When he saw
that he had wounded his opponent he was deeply sorry. In other days
his volatile oratory had earned him the name of "Little Thunder", and
he had a gift for electrifying audiences by apparently unconscious
repetitions of a telling phrase. There was one reporter who could give
a perfect imitation of his style and would begin "My name is Arthur
Sturgis Hardy--Sturgis Hardy." The Premier heard of this imitation and
got him to repeat it in his presence. He was in no wise displeased
with the burlesque, but highly diverted.

Unlike most politicians Mr. Hardy was deeply interested in music,
the theatre, and poetry, and when I had occasion to go and see him
would often turn to those subjects. He used to comment on my musical
criticisms. "Where do you get your musical vocabulary, boy?" he once
asked. "Oh, they're in every musical dictionary," I replied, "but I
always try to avoid technical terms. I only use them when no other
words will do." "Oh! I don't know, I don't know," he said. "Words
like _arpeggio_ and _cantabile_ sound very well, even if the reader
doesn't know what they mean."

After his retirement he had leisure to indulge his taste for music,
and if I saw him in an audience at a concert, the earlier part of
which I had missed, I could always obtain from him a very sane
and discerning criticism, safe to follow. He once thought I had
misrepresented him about a certain matter, and when I quoted his
words, and convinced him that if there had been misrepresentation
I was blameless, he apologized. This from a noted statesman to a
reporter on an opposition paper illustrated the profound chivalry
of his nature. We became such friends that if he gave an item to
the _Globe_ which he had forgotten to give me, he would say: "You
must call up Charlesworth and let him know," which used to annoy the
_Globe_ sometimes, in those days of news rivalries.

It is not realized how much Hardy did in his long term as Commissioner
of Crown Lands toward the effective and profitable administration
of the forest resources of this province. He was keen about
conservation, and there were certain tracts that he flatly refused
to sell because he thought them essential to the national rainfall.
He was always looking to the future, and fearful of the day when
white pine, Ontario's most splendid resource at that time, might be
exhausted. Nor is it realized how much he did during his brief term
as Premier to force power development at Niagara Falls. When he took
office, American capital had for years kept certain sites for power
development on the Canadian side tied up under old concessions.
Hardy forced the capitalists to commence development on threat of
cancellation, so that within a few years the present stupendous
development, non-existent in 1898, was under way. I had an amusing
experience in connection with this. He sent for me one night and
outlined what he intended to do. I then, on his suggestion, went to
the Canadian counsel for the American interests whom he was forcing to
action, and asked what they proposed to do. The lawyer, still a very
distinguished man, was very genial. "So far as we are concerned," he
said, "we know our rights; we shall start development when we please;
and the Ontario Government can go to hell. That's our position, but
don't put it quite so crudely."

I amended the statement to read that the American interests were more
or less indifferent as to what course the Hardy administration chose
to adopt. My own impression was that they felt sure of a Federal
Government veto. The Premier's eagle eye fell on the statement, and
he told his secretary to telephone the lawyer to come to his office
immediately. The lawyer wanted to excuse himself, but the message was
so peremptory that he decided to drop other affairs and attend. Shown
the interview and asked what it meant he was ready with an answer:
"Oh, the reporter misunderstood me," he said, "I just told him to go
to hell and he must have assumed that I meant the Government could go
to hell." "I am glad to accept your explanation," said Mr. Hardy, "but
understand we mean business. Tell your clients that." This was the end
of defiance, and the development work proceeded.




                             CHAPTER XII

                       GREAT THINGS UNFORESEEN


I do not think anyone foresaw the immense economic consequences
that were to ensue from the initial effort of Arthur Sturgis
Hardy to compel development of the power resources of the Niagara
River, or that it was one of the things that was going to lift the
Ontario Legislature from the position of a partly comatose county
council--the position in which Mowat left it--to a body dealing with
issues of enormous economic importance. Niagara development, and
the construction of the Timiskaming and Northern Ontario Railway,
initiated three years later by the Hon. G. W. Ross, were the
beginnings of movements and transitions which have in twenty years
changed the entire economic position of central Canada. Few grasped
this fact at the time; but the contrast between the subjects that were
discussed in the Ontario elections of 1894 and those which had become
issues ten years later, was remarkable.

Even then their importance was obscured by the public excitement
arising from political scandals of a sensational and often grotesque
order. Whitney's fine showing at the Ontario elections of 1898 was a
surprise to both Liberals and Conservatives. At that time Liberals
were in power not only throughout Canada, but in every province
from the Atlantic to the Pacific. I was closely in touch with the
central Conservative organization at that time, and on the day after
the polling I never saw a man more exasperated than the chief
organizer, Robert Birmingham. In the closing days of the campaign the
organization had been so desperate for money that it could not find
funds to send speakers to assist candidates appealing for oratorical
help. It had been obliged to pinch and economize in the mere matter
of posters and campaign literature. There were plenty of wealthy men
in the party, but they had not supposed that Whitney's chances were
so good, and refused, as they put it, to throw good money after bad.
The day after, $30,000 was voluntarily tendered Birmingham to assist
in fighting unseatment petitions, at that time an aftermath of every
general election. Birmingham said to me, "That $30,000 if offered two
weeks ago would have put Whitney in office."

Arthur Sturgis Hardy himself clearly discerned the handwriting on
the wall, sick man though he was. He openly told his friends that
seven was not in his opinion a safe majority on which to try and
carry on the affairs of the province. The Liberal reverses in Western
Ontario, which had all his life been his political stamping ground,
distressed him deeply. The policy he advocated was that he should
again go to the people and ask for a real mandate and stand or fall
by the result. He predicted that an attempt to hang on by the skin
of their teeth would result in permanent disaster to the Liberal
party throughout Ontario--and, since Ontario is one third of Canada,
both geographically and in population, this should be by every means
avoided.

Hardy's advice was disregarded, and as a result it is now more than
twenty-seven years since the Liberal party obtained a majority in
Ontario, either in provincial or federal elections. It had nominally
a majority of one or two in the general elections for the Legislature
in 1902, but events showed that this was corruptly obtained. Hardy's
party followers were, however, all for a "fighting policy" and these
militant tactics took a form analogous to poison gas and stink
bombs. An era of ballot-stuffing, ballot-burning, ballot-switching,
impersonation, and vote-buying on a very extensive scale, was
inaugurated, and finally Whitney was swept into power on a wave of
public indignation. If it were worth while I could write several
chapters on the impudently criminal incidents of those bad old days.
But as I look back on the political history of Canada I realize that
this eruption of electoral crime was but the final stage of a disease
which had prevailed for many years, and to which the consciences
of the most honourable public men were blind. The attitude of most
political leaders from 1850 to 1900 toward the election laws, was much
like that of the celebrated baseball magnate, Mr. "Muggsy" McGraw,
toward baseball regulations. He is reported to have said to his team
after certain new regulations were promulgated: "These are the new
rules, boys, now we must try and find a way to beat them." So with
the politicians. Prominent men of both parties used to delight, when
in social intercourse, to boast of the hair-raising tricks they had
played to thwart the will of the electorate. An instance or two will
suffice. One day a newspaper published a portrait and short biography
of a well-known citizen, and one of the flattering things it said was
that he had been entrusted with many important private missions for
the Conservative party in days gone by. "Rot," said an acquaintance,
"the only private mission he was ever entrusted with was to steal a
ballot box, and then he got cold feet."

I was living in East York when W. F. Maclean first ran against the
Hon. Alexander Mackenzie and pulled the latter's majority down to
25. The returning officer was a neighbour, and in the middle of the
night two cabinet ministers of the Ottawa administration drove to
his house, one a very old friend. The visitors requested that they
be locked up alone with the ballot boxes for an hour or so. But the
returning officer, stout Tory though he was, peremptorily refused.
In the last few months of his premiership Mr. Hardy was made the
unconscious bearer of "boodle" into the riding of Lennox where a
bye-election was in progress. W. T. R. Preston was the organizer in
charge for the Liberals, and had secretly sent word that he wanted a
large sum in five dollar bills as sinews of war. He issued a warning
against sending it by express or mail, as both sources were watched. A
quick-witted Liberal stuffed a club-bag full of currency and knowing
that the Premier was billed to speak at Napanee, the county town of
Lennox, that night, took it to the station and handed it to Mr. Hardy
with the words: "Do you mind giving this to Preston? It's his laundry.
He's all out of clean shirts and collars." The Premier said, "Why,
certainly," and to his dying day never knew of the trick played on him.

Personation was a game party workers played with the same zest as
they would poker; and this had been the practice for decades. Whitney
was almost the first active politician to realize seriously that this
sort of thing was ruinous, not merely in destroying public morale,
but to the financial resources of the country. Elections grew more
and more costly, and the men who supplied the campaign funds had
to be recompensed one hundred or two hundred-fold out of the public
resources. In addition, governments which retained power so long as
those of Sir Oliver Mowat and Sir John Macdonald had raised up around
them a veritable host of hangers-on who had to be "kept". Whitney
wiped out corruption in Ontario by making penalties so severe that it
was impossible to find henchmen to take the inevitable risks.

While the "atrocities", as Whitney in thunderous tones described them,
were in full swing in Ontario, the Hon. G. W. Ross, who had succeeded
Hardy as Premier, came in for a great deal of public recrimination;
and as I look back I must admit that the younger journalists like
myself, who were disgusted with what we saw going on around us,
were cruel in our lampoons of him. I have learned since, on the
most unimpeachable authority, that Ross was in reality a singularly
guileless man, and did not sense the unscrupulousness of some of those
around him. When the facts came out he at first refused to believe
them, and when he did protest, too late, he was treated as an ingrate,
because, it was argued, he had been the chief beneficiary. He was more
or less broken-hearted over the whole business to the end of his days,
though, because of his great oratorical abilities and studious mind,
he was later knighted, and became Liberal leader in the Senate.

It certainly could not be charged against either Hardy or Ross that
either ever used public office to enrich himself. Indeed, throughout
the régime when electoral crime was rife, the public services of the
province were singularly pure. I was for seven years as a reporter,
in very close touch with the civil service of Ontario and not in
all that time did I hear of the misappropriation of one dollar. I
really think Sir George Ross would have been tempted to suicide if
revelations of malfeasance such as disgraced a later and recent régime
had transpired under him. Even the cabinet minister who was chiefly
responsible for the electoral crimes, was rigid and exacting in the
conduct of his own department.

Ross had a gift of Celtic oratory that enthralled every listener, and
had been a member of the House of Commons before he entered Ontario
politics as Minister of Education. The late John Ross Robertson in
his old age told me that of all the orators he had listened to in his
long life the two most eloquent were Hon. William Macdougall and my
own father-in-law, Peter Ryan, but both of them would have admitted
the supreme excellence of Ross in this respect. Forty years ago the
Liberal party was, by all accounts, amazingly endowed with talented
speakers, but the unfortunate fact about their addresses was that much
of their eloquence was so belied by subsequent events that it would be
cruel to reprint them. There was more first-rate oratory wasted in the
effort to show that the Canadian Pacific Railway could never become a
practicable proposition than was ever bestowed on a good cause, save
Confederation. Sir George Ross was a most charming man in his social
relations, and got his training as a public speaker in the same way as
did Sir George Foster--addressing temperance meetings in the days when
hard drinking was the order of the day in all parts of Canada except
Quebec. He was also a didactic poet of some skill, and his ambitions
in this respect once got him into a rather embarrassing literary
controversy.

Every man of literary tastes stores in the subconscious chambers of
his mind quotations and allusions which he frequently gives forth
after a lapse of years under the impression that they are his own.
For instance, I myself not long ago in a rather "highbrow" discussion
on heredity recalled the humble origin of men of great genius like
Shakespeare and Turner, and said, "Genius, after all, springs up
inexplicably like the flower in the cranny of the rock." I thought
it original, until a lady told me that she had found the image that
very day in a poem by Wordsworth. In Sir George Ross's youth there
was a popular didactic poet, Dr. J. G. Holland, editor of _Scribner's
Magazine_, whose verses were widely recited. Years after Holland's
death Sir George Ross published a volume of verse, and one poem,
"Canada Wants Men", contained an almost exact paraphrase of half
a dozen lines by Holland. It was a clear case of that unconscious
plagiarism of which every writer is guilty occasionally, but of
course it looked queer to the non-literary multitude when some
busy investigator exposed it. Sir George wisely ignored a charge
difficult to explain. Some years later I was present at a banquet
of the Canadian Club in Hamilton, at which the chief speakers were
Adam Brown, ex-M.P., still flourishing at the age of 99, Sir George
Ross, and Sir James Whitney. Mr. Brown, a sweet and guileless soul
incapable of mischief, wound up his remarks thus: "In closing I cannot
do better than recite the noble lines of the statesman who sits at my
right," and proceeded to quote the Holland paraphrase. I was sitting
directly opposite all three speakers and could see the embarrassment
in Sir George Ross's countenance. So soon as he had concluded Adam
Brown leaned across to me and said: "If you would care to include
those lines in your report, here is the copy." Sir George fixed his
gaze on me, and I explained that space would not permit. If ever
there was gratitude in a man's eyes, it gleamed in his when I refused
those lines. As only two or three of those present were aware of the
controversy over Mr. Brown's quotation, no harm was done.

The old battling days in the Legislature, when Whitney and Ross had
their horns locked in desperate encounter, brought me in contact
with a number of men of remarkable ability and personality. Two men
of similar personality and attainments, though opposed in politics,
were the Attorney General, the Hon. J. M. (afterwards Sir John)
Gibson of Hamilton, and J. J. Foy, K.C., of Toronto, who later
filled that office. Both were lawyers of very high attainments and
fine philosophic minds; but strangely enough very hesitant speakers
(and for that reason easy to report). When the orators were through
with the fireworks it was usually their task to present the legal
arguments. Though the listeners in the public galleries were perhaps
bored, every reporter was on the alert when either man arose, for
neither spoke unless he had something to say, and in print the remarks
of each were noted for distinction and fine analysis. Above all, both
were kindly, whole-souled men, instinctively kind to any youth seeking
information. Mr. Foy died beloved by all who had known him. Sir John
Gibson still lives and the length of his public service may be judged
from the fact that I possess a book won by my mother as a school-prize
when she was a girl at the Central School, Hamilton, in the sixties,
and it is signed "John Morrison Gibson, Inspector". Sir John and the
grand old man of the Canadian bench, Chief Justice Sir William Mulock,
were students in residence at the University of Toronto in the first
years of the American Civil War and the military ardour of each was
fired by the Trent Affair. How long ago that seems even to men of
middle age like myself!

Another man who came into the legislature with the wave of sentiment
aroused by Whitney was the late Hon. W. J. Hanna, of West Lambton, a
man for whom I cherished a profound affection. He had much to do with
Whitney's ultimate victory. While a lawyer at Sarnia he had undertaken
the task of organizing Western Ontario and inducing candidates of real
influence to accept nominations. Among the men whom Whitney and Hanna
succeeded in bringing into the legislative arena was the young Mayor
of London, who later became that remarkable and world-famous figure,
Sir Adam Beck. Hanna himself was destined to widespread fame, through
his connection with that vastly potential and essentially modern
force, the oil industry, with which, at the time of which I speak, he
had but recently become connected. The wonderful epic of the petroleum
industry, of which I have written much elsewhere, is not for these
pages.

The chance that led to its establishment in Canada and the association
of W. J. Hanna therewith is, however, worth mentioning, for it is
both ludicrous and romantic. In the mid-nineties the town of Sarnia
advanced a large cash bonus to an adventurer of the rain-maker variety
to establish a plant by which he claimed that he could extract oil
from the waters of Lake St. Clair. The faker ultimately fled and the
plant was left idle, until in 1897 Charles O. Stillman who, like his
father before him, had been an expert oil man in New Jersey, acquired
it for $10,000. This was the beginning of the Imperial Oil Company,
now linked up with the whole world, and W. J. Hanna was the young
lawyer engaged to put through the legal transfers.

The reason Hanna found such favour with the Standard Oil Company, of
which the Canadian enterprise became a subsidiary, was that he never
let actions get into court; he was one of those rare lawyers who,
both in his large neighbourhood practice as well as his corporate
activities, always avoided litigation. For many years he paid a great
deal more attention to politics than he did to his private interests.
Occasionally absurd whispers of "Standard Oil" used to be whispered
about him, doubly nonsensical because that company has been one of the
greatest benefactors of Canadian industry, and because it could desire
no favours that the Ontario Government was in a position to bestow.

He was a wonderful politician in establishing contacts with rural
voters, for he was originally a farm lad himself. Once while on a
campaign he was invited to dinner at a farm house and the good wife
asked him if he would like to step into the "spare room" and wash his
hands. "No," said he, "I was raised on a farm and used to wash my face
and hands under the pump and I'd like to do it now." That story went
all over the rural districts of Ontario and was of immense political
value.

Once he was at some function in New York at which many executives of
the great corporation were assembled. It was one of those banquets
which are organized to celebrate the retirement of an eminent officer
and herald his successor. The speeches were rather heavy; speaker
after speaker told of the long line of remarkable men who had
presided over the destinies of the company, and how providentially
new men of equal or greater ability arose to fill vacancies. Finally
"Judge" Hanna, as he was called in the Wall Street district, was
incited to speak; and he commenced with a racy recital of conditions
in the community in which he was reared. He said that when a Methodist
minister was going to another station a "social" was held to bid
godspeed to the departing minister and welcome the new. The retiring
cleric would invariably say that though his heart ached at leaving his
friends he was consoled by the thought that Providence was sending
them an abler and better man to take his place. At one of these
functions an old lady burst into bitter tears, and sobbed so loudly
that the retiring minister said, "I must leave the platform to try and
console our distressed sister." He sat beside her and patted her hand,
saying that she would find that all was for the best, but she, through
her sobs, murmured: "I've been going to this church for fifty years,
and I've been hearing that speech you just made every three years.
They all say the next man will be better. But it ain't true. They get
worse and worse." Needless to say "Judge" Hanna's anecdote relieved
the tension of the occasion and for a month it was repeated all over
the Wall Street district.

W. J. Hanna could have been Premier of Ontario when Sir James Whitney
died, but declined. Later, at personal sacrifice, he accepted a
more onerous and ungrateful post, that of Food Controller in the
darkest days of the war. I wrote at the time that he, probably the
most popular man in Canadian politics, was voluntarily taking a step
that would make him unpopular. I knew that the people were expecting
a Food Controller who would make rations cheaper for those at
home, and thus increase consumption; whereas the real purpose of
the appointment was to reduce consumption of food staples so that
there would be ampler supplies for the army in the field. The event
proved that there were countless people who would rather prove their
patriotism by denouncing the Germans than by doing without bacon at
breakfast. Perhaps the most extraordinary remark I heard at that time
was by a Toronto lady who said sorrowfully: "Isn't the war terrible,
I can't get those lovely French face powders any more." This may seem
unbelievable, but it is literally true.

Mr. Hanna died suddenly early in 1919, partly of overwork and partly
of private grief. His only son, Neil Hanna, a lovable and able young
lawyer, came safely through the war as an aviator, only to be killed
in an accident two weeks after the armistice. Such a blow, when the
hopes of everyone had been restored, was ten-fold more wounding than
if it had occurred during the conflict when the hearts of all fathers
and mothers were steeled for the worst. I was Mr. Hanna's guest at
Sarnia two months before he died, and spent a day with him in the
great industrial works of which he was the head. It was his first
visit since the death of his son, who, like the father, had been
beloved by many. As he walked about I saw hundreds of people looking
at him with mute sympathy in their eyes. At night he said to me,
"Well, I've kept up pretty well, don't you think, but it's been a hard
day. Everything reminded me of Neil. I could see that all those people
wanted to speak to me about him, but I didn't dare let them."

Mr. Hanna had in his Sarnia home some of the most beautiful
hand-carved walnut furniture I have ever seen, and which he told me
had been made by a brother of the former Prime Minister of Canada, the
Hon. Alexander Mackenzie, a Scottish cabinet-maker with an absolute
genius for his craft. When I spoke of it enthusiastically, he sighed
and said, "Yes, it's beautiful, but I have no heart for it now, it was
to have been Neil's when he married."

As I have said, the Niagara development forced into being by the
Hon. A. S. Hardy was destined to have a great deal to do with the
subsequent fortunes of public men. I saw much of it in its beginnings.
One of my most thrilling experiences was a trip through the tunnel
which was to form a vent for the water of the first great plant, that
of the Canadian Niagara Power Company. It was then completed almost
to its outlet in the middle of the Horse Shoe Falls. It was uncanny
to feel that above me was the whole weight of the Niagara River, and
just beyond a thin wall of rock the thundering cataract. Still more
thrilling was it to walk out on a coffer dam erected to protect the
initial work of the Ontario Power Company near Dufferin Islands, the
cribs for which were being sunk far out in the middle of the rapids
above the falls. I have always enjoyed the sensation of danger, and
the sense that if one of the cribs loosened I would be swept over the
cataract by the swirling waters at my feet, was enchanting.

As a correspondent I took an active part in the agitation for
government control of power distribution, which was the germ of the
Hydro-Electric Commission, now the greatest electrical development
institution in the world. Several men whose fame has been eclipsed
by the deserved eminence of Sir Adam Beck merit recognition in the
movement for public control. They included the late W. K. McNaught,
and P. W. Ellis, of Toronto, who as manufacturing jewelers knew of
the value to Switzerland of so clean and stable a source of power
as electricity; Controller Frank Spence, of Toronto, whose labours
in behalf of electric development were much more important than all
his agitation for prohibition; and eminent men of the Swiss-German
district, Waterloo county, like the late E. W. B. Snider of St.
Jacobs, the real father of the Ontario Hydro System.

The policy of hydro-development under public ownership grew out of the
agitation for a government transmission line, a plan sponsored by Sir
Joseph Flavelle and Sir John Willison when they purchased the _News_.
In their first issue, early in 1903, this policy was enunciated, and
I, who had just joined the staff, was turned loose to work up the
agitation through interviews. Not only in Toronto, but throughout
Western Ontario I encountered "commercial shell-backs" who told me
that the "white coal" would never supersede steam plants. And that was
only twenty-two years ago. I first met Sir Adam Beck at a conference
on the subject in the Walper House, at Kitchener (then known as
Berlin). He was Mayor of London, and he said that he had not hitherto
paid much attention to the subject, but was there to learn. The effect
of his conversion that day was stupendous. When Premier Ross did
grant the demand for a government-owned transmission line it was a
single-handed triumph for the _News_. Journals which have since taken
hydro-development under their wing were, during the initial agitation,
skeptical and satirical.

In the magnificently worded preface to the King James version of the
Bible the translators speak of certain critics who "give liking unto
nothing but what is framed by themselves, and hammered on their own
anvil". There is an over-abundance of that spirit in journalism, and
that is why at the outset we fought alone on the hydro issue. The
wonderful dynamic personality and business mind of Sir Adam Beck
rectified the situation, and brought everyone into camp. When Whitney
came to power twenty years ago Beck literally forced his ideas on the
new Premier, for the latter was naturally conservative, and, as I have
said, there was little popular conviction that "white coal" would
ever supersede steam as an industrial proposition. The abilities and
personality of Adam Beck won my whole-hearted admiration many years
ago--his rise from humble beginnings no less than his equestrian
tastes, for when I first saw him he was a brilliant steeple-chaser,
riding his own mounts. His skill as a business organizer he proved
in his own manufacturing industry while still young. I thought him,
and still think him, a superman in capacity, and long believed that
he was the inevitable successor for Sir James Whitney as Premier of
Ontario. But his was not the temperament for practical politics, and
as Chairman of the Hydro-Electric Commission he performed a greater
work than he could have accomplished in a purely political capacity.

The contrast between what was initiated in Ontario in the eight years
between 1898 and 1908 and certain events in the Ottawa arena, is
tragic, for that was also the period of reckless railway construction
which has laid a frightful burden on the country. Before bidding adieu
to the transition period of Ontario politics, a quarter of a century
ago, I should mention another work initiated by Sir George Ross, at
the instance of his colleague, the Hon. Frank (now Chief Justice)
Latchford. This was the construction of the Timiskaming and Northern
Ontario Railway, which has had its aftermath in making Canada one of
the great silver and gold producing countries of the world. Latchford,
alone among all public men of the time realized the potentialities
of that area; and his policy paved the way for the services of the
world-famous geologist, the late Willet G. Miller, whose name will be
forever held in honour in that region.

It is strange to look back and realize that in the public excitement
over ballot-stuffing, ballot-burning and bribery of members, hardly
anyone visualized the future of the vast economic potentialities of
those natural forces which these men were developing for industrial
uses.




                             CHAPTER XIII

                          LAURIER AND TUPPER


In the Federal arena the cardinal episode of the nineties was the
rise to international fame of the late Sir Wilfrid Laurier. In 1892
when I first entered daily newspaper work he was but vaguely known to
the multitude. In 1897, at Queen Victoria's diamond jubilee, he, as
Richard Harding Davis wrote in _Harper's Magazine_, divided honours
with Lord Roberts as a figure of popular interest in that great
demonstration of the might and glory of the British Empire.

Though I am not old, it is strange to think that I have seen or
known every Prime Minister in the history of the Canadian Dominion,
save one, Sir John Abbott, who filled the post for a brief term in
1891. Sir John Macdonald I recall as a grim sphinx-like figure in
grey top hat and grey frock coat sitting with his hands gripping
the top of his cane as his carriage stood to let traffic pass on a
Toronto thoroughfare. The reserved Mackenzie, much beloved by his few
intimates, I often saw in the office building where I worked as a
youth, which housed an insurance company of which he was President.
I have spoken of Sir John Thompson and Sir Mackenzie Bowell, and I
was thrown into close contact with Sir Charles Tupper throughout
his five years' career as Conservative leader. Sir Robert Borden I
also saw frequently during the eleven years when he was leader of
the Opposition, and often the object of irritating conspiracies
among his own followers--conspiracies of which the authors must have
been ashamed in the days of his triumph and superb war service. And
in passing I should say that Canadian politics has known no more
courteous or grateful man. He never came to Toronto without visiting
the _Mail and Empire_ office and thanking every member of the staff
for the assistance rendered him. Such recognition by public men,
who have usually nothing but complaints to make even of staunch
journalistic friends, is as rare as angels' visits. Arthur Meighen
and William Lyon Mackenzie King are of course contemporaries. But Mr.
King and I covered many assignments together in the old days when
he was a most enthusiastic journalist, but already aiming at higher
flights. In his youth "Billy" King, as we called him, was not only a
brilliant speaker but keenly interested in the theatre. I remember
Tom Gregg once saying to me, "Do you know a young man named King on
the _Globe_?" I said I knew him well, and asked the reason of Gregg's
enquiry. "Well," he said, "I was walking along the street yesterday
with Lewis Morrison, the actor, and he stopped and shook hands with
him. Morrison says he is a most idealistic lad. Goes in for social
reform and things like that. Morrison says he is sure he will be a
great man some day. A reporter who goes in for social reform must
be an oddity!" Actors have curious intuitions. It was the brilliant
Canadian actor, Franklin McLeay, who first told me he was sure Hamar
Greenwood was destined for "big things".

To return to Laurier, who long before his death selected King as his
Heir Apparent. I recall as a boy reading a description, by the veteran
Canadian humourist "The Khan", of the French-Canadian statesman's
first reception in Ontario after he became leader. Cobourg was I
think the scene, and "The Khan" recorded the fact that nearly all
the stalwarts introduced, addressed him as though his name rhymed
with "tarrier". Before the rise of Laurier in the federal arena, the
Liberal party had been cursed by literary indiscretions as serious
for them as was the cry of "rum, Romanism, and rebellion" for James
G. Blaine in the U.S. Presidential campaign of 1884. In 1891, when
Laurier fought his first campaign, he did not escape the curse, which
came back in the form of the Farrer Annexation pamphlet. In the two
previous campaigns the Liberals, and his predecessor as leader, Edward
Blake, had been equally unfortunate in their literary allies. In the
general election of 1882 Blake's chances were ruined by a campaign
song, "Ontario, Ontario," which ran in part as follows:

    The traitor's hand is at thy throat,
                Ontario, Ontario.
    Then kill the tyrant with thy vote,
                Ontario, Ontario.

The individual being thus proclaimed both traitor and tyrant was the
French-Canadian voter. The song was sprung as a surprise at a great
Liberal rally in Toronto, where Blake was the chief speaker. My
father-in-law, Peter Ryan, was sitting by his side, and when E. W.
Schuch, a well known baritone singer rose and sang it, the Liberal
leader turned and whispered to Mr. Ryan, "Who is responsible for this
damned rubbish?" Mr. Ryan, who had been on tour, was ignorant of its
origin and was equally appalled. "Well, these smart gentlemen have
cost us the province of Quebec," said Blake, as the singer finished.
He desired to leave the platform, but was dissuaded, and in the course
of his speech he made a hopeless effort to smooth matters over by
eulogies of the French Canadians.

The damage was done, however. The Toronto Liberal group were seemingly
proud of their achievement, and sent Mr. Schuch on tour to sing
"Ontario, Ontario" (to the tune of Maryland). At St. Thomas Mr. Blake
encountered him on the platform before the meeting opened. "Either
you leave this hall, or I will," was his dictum. The authorship
remained for forty years a mystery, though the culprit was John W.
Bengough, the noted cartoonist and humourist. One rainy afternoon a
committee meeting of Toronto Liberals was held in the grocery store
of one John Macmillan, a local stalwart. Schuch, who had some months
previously filled an engagement as a campaign singer in an election
in Ohio, suggested that they should adopt similar methods in Canada,
if the lyrics could be produced. Bengough, who was present, went into
retirement behind the counter and penned "Ontario, Ontario" in less
than half an hour.

After it became public property, the late Martin Griffin, afterward
Parliamentary librarian at Ottawa, and then an editorial writer on
the _Mail_, wrote a learned discourse, in which by internal evidence
he showed that the lyric must be the work of J. D. Edgar, K.C.,
afterwards Sir James Edgar, Speaker of the House of Commons. Mr. Edgar
had in his salad days published a volume of verse, which Griffin used
as circumstantial evidence against him. The editorial was intended as
a hoax, but the public took it seriously, and to the end of his life
Sir James could not live it down. I personally disclosed the real
authorship after Mr. Bengough's death in 1923, and several prominent
men told me that they had always believed Edgar to be the author.
I fancy the clearing of his father's name in connection with this
doggerel must have been a relief to Prof. Pelham Edgar, our leading
Canadian authority on the art of poesy.

The Liberals also suffered grotesquely from another literary effusion
in the campaign of 1882. At that time the _Globe_ had on its staff
the late J. Gordon Mowat (Moses Oates), founder of the _Canadian
Magazine_. Mowat was sent on tour in Eastern Ontario writing up the
industrial situation and from one town on the St. Lawrence mailed a
story denouncing factories as hot beds of immorality and undesirable
institutions for a country so young and chaste as Canada. The night
editor of the _Globe_ was a Mr. J. E. Collins and finding some
difficulty in reading Mowat's copy sent it to the composing room
unread. Protection and factories had been an issue in every campaign
since 1878 and when the article appeared the fat was in the fire.
Gordon Brown, the managing editor of the _Globe_, at once discerned
the mischief that would ensue and dismissed Collins, but the damage
was done.

On its appearance the Tories at once raised an outcry that the
morality of decent factory girls had been assailed by the Liberal
organ, and it did irreparable damage to Liberal candidates among the
working classes of every town in Eastern Canada. As Arthur Wallis
ironically put it, the morality of factory operatives was not regarded
as truly vindicated until the Conservatives were returned to power.

Certainly a literary "jinx" pursued Blake, and Laurier might well have
thought himself subject to the same curse when the Farrer pamphlet,
written by an editorial supporter, was revealed in 1891. But by 1896
matters had changed. The selection of a French-Canadian leader had
proven an antidote to the old anti-French cry voiced in "Ontario,
Ontario"; and the Conservatives were making hay for Laurier by their
own quarrels. Moreover, "that great gentleman", as Lady Minto truly
termed him, revealed qualities of oratory that could charm the birds
out of the trees.

Sir John Willison in his memories has told us of the grave
difficulties which were at first encountered in reconciling Ontario
Liberalism to a French Catholic leader. In 1896 not the least of them
was the timidity of Laurier himself in the face of the decree of the
Quebec hierarchy favouring Sir Charles Tupper's policy of remedial
legislation for Manitoba Catholics following the local Legislature's
action in abolishing separate schools. It was quite certain that if
Laurier was to capture Ontario he must fight the hierarchy, but since
the Bishops of Quebec had once defeated him when he became a cabinet
minister under Mackenzie in the seventies, he was "twice shy". In
1896 Peter Ryan was the chief oratorical representative of the Irish
Catholics of Ontario, a very important factor since they had for many
years voted solidly Liberal under his shepherding and Mowat's tolerant
policies. My father-in-law was asked whether he thought he could hold
his group to their Liberal allegiance if Laurier fought the Quebec
hierarchy, and he said he believed he could. I was told on the best
of authority that it was this assurance, together with one from J.
Israel Tarte, who had become Laurier's organizer in Quebec, that he
could deliver the French-Canadian voters to his new chief in spite
of the Bishops, which decided the course of the Liberal leader--a
course which elected him. To the day of his death Sir Wilfrid remained
grateful to Mr. Ryan, and in the latter years of his life, when he
was deeply depressed over his eclipse, never came to Toronto without
paying him a visit. The task of holding Irish Catholic Liberals
of Ontario against their conviction that Manitoba Catholics were
entitled to redress, was rendered the easier by the fact that certain
Conservatives of the lower rank had two years previously been mixed
up in a despicable organization known as the Protestant Protective
Association, which pledged its members to dismiss Catholic servant
girls and factory hands from their employ. In Quebec, parish priests
read from their pulpits the hierarchy's condemnation of Laurier and
after mass told their parishioners to vote for a leader of their own
race as probably their only chance to elect a French-Canadian Premier
of Canada.

Some years afterwards Mr. Tarte spoke to me of Sir Charles Tupper's
hard luck. "Poor Sir Charles," he said, "he was a great man, but he
was 'in wrong' both in '96 and 1900. He did not know, and Laurier did
not know until I told him, that in 1896 nearly every _habitant_ was
down on the Bishops, because times had been very hard and the Church
had been exacting in the matter of tithes. Some could not buy new farm
machinery because of tithes, and it was their chance to get even with
the Bishops. Then in 1900, Sir Charles appointed as chief organizer
Henry Dalby of the _Montreal Star_. Now Henry Dalby is a nice old man.
I dare say he knows a lot about the Byzantine Empire, but he knows
nothing of French Canada, and if I wanted to carry the province of
Quebec I should certainly try and bribe the _Montreal Star_ to oppose
me."

After Laurier's death in 1919, most Canadian editorial writers of
all shades of opinion were rather gravelled, in scanning his career,
to discern what of constructive statesmanship its events revealed.
Only one, Prof. Archibald McMechan, of Halifax, had the temerity to
mention this. It seemed hardly fair to review his disastrous railway
policies, embarked on against the advice of his saner advisers. So in
the obituary articles we dwelt strongly on his personality. In that
we had ample material, for he was a man of essentially social nature,
who appealed to the eye and imagination, and fired the appreciation of
those with whom he came in contact. No Canadian who ever filled high
office possessed in a greater degree personal distinction, enriched
with magnetism. The princeliness of his bearing impressed the public
in every country he visited, and his oratory, invariably humane and
charming rather than flamboyant, impressed all listeners. When he
first went to England in 1897 he appealed to the British public as an
essentially romantic figure, typical of what British Imperial prestige
stood for--a man of foreign race in a conquered land whom Britain's
wise colonial policy had made a distinguished servant of the Crown.

During the Royal tour of 1901 and the Quebec Tercentenary of 1908,
I frequently saw him in contact with the many distinguished men
whom the present King brought with him to Canada on both occasions.
To Canadians, whatever their politics, it gave a deep sense of
satisfaction to recognize in their own Prime Minister a man on whom
knighthood, the order of chivalry, sat so fittingly.

The Royal tour of 1901 put Sir Wilfrid's _savoir faire_ to a severe
test at times. He was a man who enjoyed manifestations of popular
good-will as well as anybody; and as a politician was not oblivious to
the necessity of avoiding offence toward well-meaning supporters. He
accompanied Their Majesties across the continent, and was sometimes
embarrassed by indiscreet coteries in remote settlements who tried to
play the political game by making him the hero of the occasion. On one
occasion, a Liberal association, learning that the Royal train was
to lie at a siding for half an hour, sought to improve the occasion
by presenting him with an address. The annoyance of Sir Wilfrid at
so gross a breach of etiquette was great, but he managed to send the
deputation home without ruffling their feelings, though preserving the
decorum of his position as official host to his future sovereign.

Political leaders, though they receive a great deal of honour while
custodians of power, have also much to endure from indiscreet
followers. In such cases they must display unfailing tact, for they
never know but that the gad-fly may have sufficient influence in his
own bailiwick to swing an entire township to the opposite party. In
1899 in the old station dining-room at Palmerston, Ont., I witnessed
Laurier's ability to deal with such importunities. It was at a time
when there was a great hullabaloo about the supposed opposition of
the Hon. Israel Tarte to sending a Canadian contingent from Canada to
assist Great Britain in the South African war. The room was thronged
with yokels anxious to see whether a Prime Minister ate like ordinary
mortals; and a local Liberal magnate seated himself at the table and
proceeded to inform Sir Wilfrid that "the boys around there" did not
like his colleague, Mr. Tarte. He demanded to know what the Prime
Minister was going to do about Tarte. I was sitting at a near-by table
with the late Rudolph Boudreau, afterwards Clerk of the Privy Council,
and at that time Sir Wilfrid's chief secretary; and I have never seen
a man more indignant with our Ontario "boors", as he called them. Sir
Wilfrid tried to change the subject, but the interloper did not take
the hint. However, the statesman showed no annoyance. "Oh, you don't
understand Mr. Tarte," he said, and bethought himself of a humorous
anecdote about misunderstandings. Nevertheless, he was much relieved
when the whistle blew, and the brakeman cried, "All aboard".

It is realized now that on the South African question Mr. Tarte was
perfectly right. The sending of a contingent to South Africa was a
constitutional departure of the gravest character, because under
no method of hair-splitting could it be described as an operation
for the defence of Canada. Tarte held that the Government should
immediately call parliament together and submit the question to the
representatives of the people--the course pursued by Borden in 1914
with reference to the Great War. The eminent Imperialist, Col. George
Taylor Denison, whom I interviewed at that time, said he was at one
with Tarte on this point. Though he refused to say so for publication,
he thought that such aid, coming as a parliamentary measure instead
of an arbitrary act of government would be much more impressive as an
imperial gesture.

I heard what is said to have been the only financial speech Sir
Wilfrid ever delivered on the stump. His great power lay in
elucidating and adorning questions of general policy; but just as the
comedian longs to play Hamlet (and _vice versa_) Sir Wilfrid aspired
to shine in a field in which men like Sir George Foster and the Hon.
W. S. Fielding were past masters. He spent a part of his vacation in
the summer of 1899 preparing notes from blue books for such an effort;
an unnecessary effort, be it said, for it had been arranged that Mr.
Fielding should accompany him in the speaking tour projected for the
autumn. The speech was made at Paisley, in the heart of Bruce county,
Ont., the occasion being Sir Wilfrid's first visit to that region of
Scottish Liberal stalwarts.

Sir Wilfrid thought it particularly fitting that he should address
a Scottish audience in terms of dollars and cents, and genially
announced his intention of making a financial address, though
disclaiming that he was a man of figures. It was magnificent, but
it was not war. It sounded well, but Mr. Fielding sitting at his
side was driven almost to profanity in his efforts to make whispered
corrections of the errors with which it bristled. The Scots listeners
were frankly puzzled, but woke up to enthusiasm when Sir Wilfrid got
back to his true oratorical _métier_.

After the meeting, which was held in the afternoon on the fair
grounds, Sir Wilfrid announced that he was going to call on a friend
or two, and entrusted his bag to Alexander Smith, the well-known
Ottawa lawyer, at that time Liberal organizer, to carry to the hotel.
This was Mr. Fielding's chance. "Get rid of that speech," he whispered
to Smith. The organizer fell in with the suggestion and, as he crossed
the picturesque bridge of Paisley, extracted the precious notes and
scattered them on the bosom of the Saugeen River. Presumably they
ultimately reached Lake Huron, and Sir Wilfrid never knew what became
of the fruits of his summer's browsing among the blue books.

Perhaps the best example of his quiet, and at times caustic wit,
was a rebuke he administered to an overzealous reporter at Ottawa.
The Prime Minister had requested the gallery correspondents to meet
him in his office at a certain hour, but his arrival was slightly
delayed. Among them was an able shorthand man, who had been as noted
for his intense Toryism while employed on the opposition press as for
his militant Liberalism after he became attached to journals of that
stripe. His ambition was to secure a civil service post. Sir Wilfrid
entered the room quietly, and this correspondent, affecting ignorance
of his arrival, commenced a vehement tirade against a colleague who
represented a Conservative newspaper, for alleged unfair treatment of
Sir Wilfrid. "Mr. X," interposed the Prime Minister with meaning in
his voice, "were you born a Liberal, or are you an Opportunist, as
they say I am?" The shot was effective and the reporter blushed to the
roots of his hair. A long preachment could not have more effectively
conveyed the leader's contempt for time-servers.

Sir Wilfrid never made a speech in Ontario without the declaration,
"I am above all things a Canadian!" This had a double meaning. To the
_habitant_ the word "Canadian" signifies a man of French origin, and
in Quebec it was a common saying, "Laurier is not afraid to tell the
Orangemen he is a Canadian."

I think that the plain records of Canadian history justify me in
holding Sir Charles Tupper to have been the greater man,--one of the
greatest and most far-seeing statesmen this continent has produced.
But when he resigned the office of High Commissioner in London in
the spring of 1896, and came back to Canada to take the post of Prime
Minister, he was attempting a hopeless task. Though he was originally
a doctor by profession it would have required greater skill than his
to restore to active life an organism so shot to pieces with internal
dissensions as the Conservative following to which he fell heir. The
group denounced by Sir Mackenzie Bowell as a "Nest of traitors", who
brought him back from London, were the ablest men in the government,
and the well-wishers of their country, but their action came too
late. They should have taken this course after the death of Sir John
Thompson, or better still have chosen the High Commissioner's son,
Sir Hibbert Tupper, a man of very high ability, who would in time
have made a Prime Minister of much distinction. Frankly, Sir Charles
was too old and had been too long out of touch with the politics of
his country to succeed, even had the task been less impossible. But
the exhibition he gave of first-class fighting skill in 1896, and the
diplomacy he showed in inducing men of eminence to enter public life
in 1900, proved his mettle.

The Liberals had reason to fear Sir Charles's fighting powers on
the stump, for he had worsted them in many an ancient fray. So they
devised a system of continuous interruption. He was reputed to be
an egotist who used the first personal pronoun too abundantly in
reviewing his notable past. So soon as he would open his mouth on
the platform a gang would start shouting, "I, I, I," and keep it
up all evening. In Orange centres also the populace was greatly
inflamed against him for his willingness to impose separate schools
in Manitoba, and heartily joined in the chorus. I shall never forget
the sight of the grand old stalwart on the platform of Massey Hall,
Toronto, for two hours declaming the speech he had set himself to
deliver against a constant din of meaningless interruptions, for the
Liberals had their "Cheer-leaders" to drown him out in every part of
the hall. It was almost impossible to hear him, even at a distance of
less than ten feet.

That was a tragic night for him. He had dined with a very old friend,
the Hon. John Beverley Robinson, like himself a doughty, splendid type
of old-fashioned Tory gentleman, who had been Mayor of Toronto and
Lieutenant-Governor of Ontario. They had come to the meeting together.
As the party were being ushered through the basement of Massey Hall
to take their places on the platform, Mr. Robinson dropped behind
and, leaning against the wall, said he felt ill. In a moment or two
he was dead. Sir Charles knew nothing of this until after he sat down
exhausted, when a friend whispered it to him. He braced himself, and
left the scene giving no sign of emotion. The reporters knew of the
incident, however; and it was horrible to think of the unseemly riot
going on above, while the body of one of Toronto's most distinguished
sons lay stark below.

As a reaction after battle, Sir Charles subsequently became very
popular in Ontario, and in 1900 turned what had been an adverse
majority of twenty-two into a majority of twelve. On the eve of his
second defeat at the polls I saw him in his private car, and brought
him the news that our correspondents from all parts of Ontario left no
doubt of a Conservative victory in that province. He shook his head.
"The Maritime Provinces, my own native country, will vote against me
to-morrow," he said. "I have not had time to give them much attention,
and I cannot win without them." His advices were correct. Nova Scotia
especially was offended that its most eminent native son should have
failed to come and ask for its support.

During the interim Sir Charles was in popular demand at political
picnics and non-partizan functions. Once I saw him savagely annoyed
at one of his own followers. It was at Woodbridge Fair, near Toronto,
where thousands of people of all parties used to gather, and where
the Hon. N. Clarke Wallace, member for West York, was master of
ceremonies. Sir Charles was a great stickler for the proprieties
and would never introduce political controversy where it was out of
place. An aggressive orator who had been drinking more than was good
for him was called on to speak and commenced to abuse the Grits.
"Shameful, shameful," exclaimed Sir Charles loudly, "Pull him down,
Wallace!" Mr. Wallace succeeded in suppressing the offender, and
Sir Charles restored good feeling with a most gracious non-partisan
address. Though he lacked the charm of Laurier on the platform, his
gallantry made him very popular with the ladies in private discourse.
Once we were coming home in a private car from a political picnic in
Haldimand, at which several noted party leaders had been guests. The
late J. G. H. Bergeron of Montreal had been monopolizing a very pretty
woman, wife of one of the guests. On the return journey, Sir Charles,
who was fit as a fighting cock despite the fact that he had spoken for
over an hour in a temperature of ninety in the shade, came down the
aisle and said: "Get up and move along, Bergeron; I'm not going to let
you monopolize the most beautiful woman in the party." The lady was
visibly pleased, and Sir Charles kept her delighted with anecdotes for
the rest of the journey.

Another great fighter in the 1896 campaign was Sir George Foster, the
man chiefly instrumental in bringing Tupper back to Canada, and leader
of the so-called "Nest of traitors". He was more suave in handling
interruptions, especially those of a Liberal stalwart named Jardine,
who had the loudest voice in Canada save that of the noted bibliophile
Albert Britnell, an adoring worshipper of Laurier. Jardine was later
sent to South Africa on a mission for the Canadian Government; and it
was said that at Umbala he heard lions roaring and went out and roared
them into quietude. At one meeting he rose and chanted in stentorian
tones, "Mr. Foster, will you answer me this question: Why did you
leave the cabinet and why did you return to it?" (The rumour was that
he had first disapproved remedial legislation for Manitoba and then
assented to it on securing Sir Mackenzie Bowell's promise to resign.)
Foster politely replied that he would answer the question at the
close of his speech. Several times Jardine repeated the query, always
with the same result. The speaker finally concluded, and started to
leave, but Jardine was at him again. Then Sir George quite suavely
said: "I have given my reasons to the representative of Her Majesty,
and it would be disrespectful to her, to disclose them here." And the
audience had to be content with that.

Whenever I read of Sir George Foster being received with honour in
Geneva or South Africa or the many places where his gift of speech
and high ideals have reflected honour on Canada, I think of poor J.
A. Macdonald, the clergyman who, as editor of the _Globe_, did much
to injure the prestige of that journal despite the efforts of fine
and able subordinates like Stewart Lyon to maintain it. Macdonald's
idea of editorship was to select each month some victim to "drive out
of public life" as he put it. He knew no scruple in the matter of
slanderous invective, though probably the mental disturbances which
finally wrecked him were even then active. Macdonald solemnly assured
many others as well as myself that he was going to drive Foster from
public life; and we know now how far he succeeded! He did not go to
the lengths of one Liberal orator at fall fairs who used to call
Foster "a slimy eel of Hell", but he went pretty far. He launched
a campaign against Foster in the latter's riding of North Toronto
which resulted in an enormous majority for the selected victim. In
the heat of the campaign I went to a meeting in a small hall to hear
what Macdonald had to say. He started off by putting the question,
"Why am I a Liberal?" and answered it thus, "Because it has made me a
Keng (Scottish for King); it has made you a Keng; it has made us all
Kengs." The assembled monarchs seemed a rather rummy lot to me, and I
suddenly laughed out loud. Macdonald looked in my direction, saw me
standing against the back wall, and his exposition of the audience's
royal derivation came to an abrupt end.

Another public man he assured me he would drive from public life
was Sir James Whitney. He got an opportunity when Sir James, going
to his hotel in a small town tired after speaking in an icy hall,
while suffering from a cold, ordered a "night cap" five minutes after
closing time. Macdonald argued that such a law-breaker was unfit to be
entrusted with public affairs and a disgrace to the nation. Whitney
forthwith obtained an enormous majority to which Macdonald's attack
materially contributed.

We resembled each other physically, and I was frequently mistaken for
him and complimented on my sermons. Often I was tempted to pretend
that I really was he and shock my flatterer with some unorthodox
expression, but I refrained. About the time of the episode of Whitney
and the "doc-and-doris", I was coming with a friend out of a bar-room
almost adjacent to the _Globe_ office. A passing stranger with a
valise in his hand stopped and stared. He went from one side of me to
the other and took a good look. Then with a look of grim determination
he hurried on toward the depot. "What's that fellow staring at!" asked
my friend. "Is he crazy?" "No!" said I. "He only takes me for the Rev.
J. A. Macdonald. I'll bet everyone in his home town knows the scandal
by to-morrow."




                             CHAPTER XIV

                    B. B. OSLER AND THE HYAMS CASE


In the nineties the man who really dominated the Canadian scene as
_facile princeps_ in his calling was the late Britton Bath Osler,
Q.C., by many regarded as the most brilliant of the four eminent sons
of Canon Featherstone Osler--his brothers being the great physician,
Sir William Osler, at that time a Professor at Johns Hopkins
University, Baltimore, and his junior by ten years; the financier,
Sir Edmund Osler; and the Hon. Featherstone Osler, afterwards Chief
Justice of Ontario, the eldest of the four. They were all tall,
stalwart men, and took their physique from their mother, a Cornish
lady who lived to be upwards of one hundred years old. The two
missionary clergymen who founded the Osler family in America, Canon
Featherstone Osler and Canon Henry Bath Osler, were very energetic men.

On occasions when I have spoken to student bodies on the ethics of
journalism I have cited as perhaps the famous instance of the evils
of garbled reporting, the newspaper fake by which Sir William Osler
was credited with having suggested that men and women should commit
suicide at sixty. The spread of the "Oslerization" story is evidence
that words have wings and that it is almost impossible to overtake an
interesting lie. Though Sir William and the members of his family took
the utmost pains to promulgate in Canada an accurate report of his
words, they never really succeeded in doing so. To-day after nearly
twenty years I frequently encounter allusions in plays and novels in
which the word "Oslerization" is used as a synonym for suicide. As
a matter of fact there was nothing in the speech to justify such a
misconception. At one time I had the gist of what Sir William said in
his own handwriting, and the matter is dealt with at length in Dr.
Harvey Cushing's recently published biography.

The speech was made in 1905 on the occasion of Osler's retirement from
Johns Hopkins University; and the most serious part of it was the
assertion that most ideas for the progress of the world originated
with men under forty, and most of the serious mistakes with men over
sixty. He touched jocularly on a fantastic story by Anthony Trollope
which suggested a chloroform club for those reaching the age of
sixty; and as an alternative suggested that teachers (like himself)
should be pensioned with double salary at sixty. Another suggestion
was that no man should be permitted to write a book until he was over
forty. A Baltimore reporter made the sensational charge that Dr.
Osler had advocated the chloroforming of men at the age of sixty, and
this stupid misrepresentation immediately went around the world. Its
survival proves that journalistic lies are as vigorous as weeds.

To the Osler family this falsehood was deeply distressing because
the great physician's mother was well over ninety and he had other
relatives of advanced years. At that time I was city editor of the
_Mail and Empire_, of which Sir Edmund Osler was a courtesy director
through the _Empire_ connection, and at his instance we did everything
possible to nail the lie so far as the Canadian public was concerned.
But letters continued, to arrive at the office for weeks which showed
that the reading public paid little or no attention to the denials.
The most preposterous was written by an eminent Anglican clergyman,
the Rev. Dr. Langtry, an energetic propagandist for the dogma of
apostolic succession and a man entirely devoid of humour. He denounced
Dr. Osler in extravagant terms, and wanted to know whether he had
forgotten the teachings of his father's church that suicide was a
crime against his Maker, and whether he was aware that murder, the
only alternative, was illegal. Of course the letter was not published.

Yet Dr. Osler's brother, Britton Bath Osler, did commit suicide at
sixty, but in a way that great lawyers not infrequently shorten their
lives--by overwork. Before his death he was internationally recognized
as the peer of any pleader in the world. For several years I saw much
of him in connection with many celebrated cases--because in every
important crime an attempt was made to secure his services on one
side or the other. He also was frequently sent for in connection with
litigations in the United States, where, because of his transcendent
abilities, he was permitted to practise in the courts of several
States. Before I knew him his fame had already been established in
England by two events--his speech at Regina in 1885 in pressing the
indictment against Louis Riel, and his address for the Crown at
Woodstock, Ont., in 1890 on the trial of Reginald Birchall for the
murder of a young Englishman named Benwell. The Riel brief came to him
when he was still a young lawyer practising at the small village of
Dundas, Ont., and was the result of the connoisseur's delight Sir John
Macdonald took in first-rate legal talent wherever he discovered it.

The trial of Reginald Birchall excited even more interest in England
than in Canada, for Birchall was a graduate of Oxford of sporting
tastes, who had spent a year of two in this country and had devised
a novel form of criminal activity: that of luring young Englishmen
of means to Canada to learn farming, and then killing them in order
to pocket their capital. On his first trip after formulating this
plan he brought two such selected victims with him, named Benwell
and Pelly. Pelly he left seeing the sights of Niagara Falls, while,
on the pretence of showing Benwell a farm, he took the latter to a
lonely swamp near Woodstock and shot him dead. He then went back to
the Falls and took Pelly for a lonely walk along the Niagara Gorge
with the clear intention of shoving him over the cliff at a hidden
spot he had previously selected. When they got to this spot an unknown
stranger was found observing the scenery, and the murder was "off"
for that day. Later the Crown tried to find that stranger without
success. Before Birchall could devise other means of getting rid of
Pelly, the newspapers came out with a description of the unknown
man found in Blenheim swamp near Woodstock, and Pelly recognized it
as that of his companion Benwell. The evidence against Birchall was
purely circumstantial, and the prisoner, because of his good looks
and education, excited the admiration of women and sentimentalists
generally; but so skilfully did Osler weave the chain of circumstance
around the murderer that he was convicted and hanged. So intense was
the interest in the case in Great Britain that the London _Times_
commanded that a verbatim report of the address be cabled. It filled
at least seven broad "blanket sheet" columns; and is said to have
been the lengthiest report of a legal address ever published by the
"Thunderer".

Though the Birchall trial was over before my entry into journalism,
I later came to know the final actor in the tragedy, the hangman,
Radclive, whose skill in despatching the criminal led to his permanent
appointment as official executioner for Canada--a most merciful
dispensation, for, prior to the revelation of his lethal technique,
there had been gross butcheries. Radclive had been a sailor, and
at the time of the Birchall case was steward for a rowing club in
Toronto. He took the job under an assumed name, and when his identity
was accidentally disclosed, it became impossible for him to earn a
livelihood in any other way. I once had occasion to interview Radclive
on a matter unconnected with his profession and found him a very
genial Englishman, who regarded himself as a public benefactor. He
said: "If there 'as to be 'angin's the only merciful thing is to do
'em right!" Asked where he learned his trade he said, "I used to be
a sailor on the China seas, and we common seamen was often detailed
to 'ang Chinese pirates from the yard-arm. I was sorry for the poor
blighters, they used to struggle and suffer so, so I figured out 'ow
to do it quick and mercifullike. When I took the Birchall job I was
'ard-up. He seemed a pleasant sort of man, and I figured that it was
kinder for me to do the job than to 'ave it bungled by one of them
farm 'ands up there, like lots of cases that used to 'appen."

All the time he was talking he was busy packing tools and ropes; and
apologized for the discourtesy, by saying that he had to catch a train
to go and hang an Indian in the West. He explained his technique.
"If they're heavy I drops 'em; if they're light I jerks 'em up." I
was very slender at the time, and he added, "Now if I was 'angin' you
I would jerk you up," and he indicated the spot on my neck where he
would place the knot. It was rather an uncanny sensation. Radclive
used to read criminal cases and had a great respect for B. B. Osler
(whom he had never seen) because he was fair and square. "When 'e's on
the case," he said, "I know that I won't be given the job of 'angin'
an innocent man."

Of the many cases at which I saw Osler as Crown Prosecutor the most
important was that of the two Hyams brothers at Toronto, which excited
interest throughout America at the two trials involved, in the autumn
of 1895 and winter of 1896. All the senior men connected with that
case are dead, except Francis L. Wellman, former district attorney
of New York, who was chief advisory counsel for the defence. In his
book, _Gentlemen of the Jury_, Mr. Wellman has presented a misleading
version of the proceedings which reflects on the methods of Canadian
justice. Canadian justice was indeed flouted in the Hyams case, but
not in the way Mr. Wellman indicates. I knew much of the inside of the
case, because I was at the outset responsible for the publication of
the original story, the greatest newspaper "scoop" in the history of
the _World_ newspaper.

The case was briefly this: The Hyams brothers were twins, Harry
and Dallas, and were commission merchants from New Orleans who had
come to Toronto in the early nineties. In 1893 they hired an empty
warehouse on Colborne street and installed a little furniture, though
it remained for the most part empty as a disused barn. They had in
their employ a 16-year-old lad named Willie Wells, hailing from the
village of Pickering, and also his elder sister, who was employed
as stenographer and who was engaged to Harry Hyams. Harry was a
heavy coarse type, but fine-looking in his way; Dallas, whom I knew
personally long before his indictment, was a little sallow fellow. One
day at the noon hour Willie Wells was found in the cellar at the foot
of an old-fashioned hoist shaft, with a two hundred and fifty pound
lead weight, used to operate the hoist, beside his shattered head.
A physician was called in and the surroundings were so disgusting
that he was nauseated, and did not make a very close examination of
the skull. He, however, took the precaution of summoning the police
and a coroner, who gave a cursory glance at the remains and issued a
death certificate. If an inquest had been ordered as should be done
in all cases of accident, however apparently trivial, the matter
would have been cleared up then and there. It subsequently transpired
that Wells's life had been insured by the Hyams brothers for $35,000,
and the policies made payable to his sister, the stenographer. The
insurance companies were suspicious, but did not like to take the risk
of making a charge of murder, since the coroner and the police were
sure it was an accident. Wells's body had been taken to Pickering and
buried in the cemetery there. After the policies were paid, Harry
married the sister; and placated another sister, whose husband was
suspicious, by handing her $5,000. This was in 1893; and not a word
appeared in the newspapers except a brief paragraph chronicling the
death of Wells, through an elevator weight falling on his head.

One evening in 1895 I was wending my way to the _World_ office after
a roving assignment which had yielded no news, when I met a young
lawyer whom I had known since childhood. "Look here," I said, "can you
give me an item? I haven't struck anything for days and will be losing
my job soon." "I know a big story," he said, "insurance conspiracy;
come and see me to-morrow."

I confided the secret to Walter Wilkinson, the news editor, who told
me to stick on the trail, and say nothing to anybody, not even a
member of the staff. I went to see my friend the lawyer next day and
found that he had suddenly cooled off. However, Wilkinson told me to
stick to him and to drop in every day. What had happened was this,
though we did not know it until later. Mrs. Harry Hyams had discovered
that her husband and her brother-in-law had tried to place policies
on her life in various insurance companies totalling the colossal
figure of $250,000, the premiums on which they were in no position
to maintain permanently; and were trying to induce her to sleep in
a new-fangled folding bed which snapped up against the wall. She
had become frightened and had gone to my lawyer friend to secure a
separation allowance. She had not the proof of crime, but had become
suspicious about her brother Willie's death two years previously. At
the time the lawyer threw out a hint of the story to me, it was no
part of his purpose to let me have the particulars, merely to use the
threat of exposure in the _World_ to enforce a settlement, for the
Hyams brothers had very wealthy relatives in New Orleans on whom they
could draw. Prospects of settlement having taken an optimistic turn,
he tried to fob me off. With the penetrating Wilkinson to goad me on,
this was not so easy!

On my second or third call at the law office, I saw a well-known
private detective, John Hodgins, in the ante-room. I knew him well
through the fact that while I was engaged in accountancy our firm had
employed him occasionally to trail dishonest insolvents. To draw him
out I whispered, "I guess we're both on this insurance case." He gave
a slight start that was an admission, and then changed the subject. I
told this to Wilkinson, and he then took a hand. He lived not far from
Hodgins, and the following Sunday took one of his boys out for a walk.
Hodgins was a pigeon fancier and he asked him to show the youngster
his birds.

Having disarmed Hodgins by playing on his hobby, Wilkinson said, "By
the way, Charlesworth tells me you are on that insurance conspiracy
case he is working up. He thinks he's got a big story, but it all
looks crazy to me. I told him to do his assignments and not bother
me with junk of that kind." The professional zeal of the detective
was stirred and he said, "It's not such a fake as you think." "Well,
who are the fellows anyway?" said Wilkinson. "Charlesworth wrote the
story, but I didn't pay much attention." Hodgins then mentioned the
Hyams brothers, and suddenly realizing that he had no right to talk,
turned the subject back to pigeons. He had said little, but he had
said enough.

The next step was easier. W. F. Maclean himself was taken into
confidence, and he sent for a life insurance agent named J. B.
Carlile, who knew all the ins and outs of the insurance business in
Toronto. Carlile, under pledges of secrecy, was instructed to find
out all he could without rousing suspicion. In three days he had full
particulars not only of the attempts to insure Mrs. Hyams, but of
the policies on the boy who had been killed in 1893. The insurance
companies were glad enough, as it turned out, to have the whole matter
exposed.

The next step was to collect all the information we could as to
the circumstances surrounding the death of Wells: and for this
purpose another reporter, E. Norman Smith, now editor of the Ottawa
_Journal-Press_, was called in. I remember Smith and myself going
after midnight to see a gigantic expressman named Fox, who, it
transpired, had called at the warehouse to get a box from the cellar
just about the time Wells must have been killed, and was sent away by
one of the brothers, who was in a very disturbed state. This was an
important circumstance. Fox first spoke to us from an upper window,
and at last consented to come down. After a long delay he opened
the door and covered us with an enormous revolver; though he was so
colossal that he could easily have knocked our heads together, for we
were both young and slender. We calmed his fears and got his story.
This was but one of many incidents.

One night when it was nearing the day when we could publish the story,
the police reporter, George Peart, since dead, sent a chill down the
spines of both Wilkinson and myself by saying, "Say, I was down on
Sunday to see my mother at Pickering. There's been some strangers down
there talking to the undertaker about a boy named Will Wells, whom I
went to school with; his folks always thought he was murdered."

Wilkinson beckoned me to follow him out, and then turned on me
fiercely: "Dammit, you've been talking," he said. I swore I had not.
"Well, how did Peart get next?" he asked, and after consideration we
agreed it must be a coincidence. Wilkinson then conceived the happy
thought of sending Peart away to Pickering to get a story at that end.
This served the double purpose of keeping him out of the way, so that
he would not gossip to other reporters, and would add interest to the
revelations that were to be made in a day of two. Peart was not told
that we had been working on the scoop for two weeks, and believed that
the Hyams story was a stroke of enterprise on his part.

On the night prior to publication I went to my lawyer friend, who
by this time had, we knew, become on friendly terms with the Hyams
brothers, and told him the whole story was to be disclosed next
day. Dallas Hyams happened to walk in the office, and after some
preliminaries, I was asked to convey a message to Mr. Maclean that
$5,000 cash would he paid him if the story was suppressed. I did not
carry the message. I kept it to myself until the story appeared in
print, because there is a divine mandate against leading anybody into
temptation.

The effect of the _World's_ disclosures was an immediate order for the
exhumation of the remains of young Wells at Pickering. An examination
of the skull showed that it had been smashed by one or two blows of
some blunt instrument--probably the haft of a hatchet that evidence
showed lay in the cellar on Colborne Street, though after more
than two years it was impossible to obtain conclusive testimony on
points like these. The physical testimony from the _corpus_ clearly
demonstrated the utter preposterousness of the theory that Wells
could have been killed by a 250-pound weight falling on his head, a
process which would have smashed it to a pulp. The late Dr. Harrison,
of Selkirk, long known as "the Nestor of the Canadian Medical
Association," said to me of the "expert" evidence called by the
defence in the Hyams case: "If they can prove to me that you can drop
a five-pound weight on a mosquito, and that the weight will bounce off
without smashing the mosquito--only hurting it so to speak--then I'll
say that Wells was not murdered." This was the best short summary of
the medical arguments in the case that could be conceived. B. B. Osler
was appointed Crown Prosecutor and was coached by his brother Dr.
Osler on the scientific phases, as he was in most murder cases. That
is to say, though William Osler did not leave his post at Baltimore,
he would put "B. B." on the track of scientific knowledge which made
his handling of murder cases wonderfully simple and lucid. In this
case it became the aim of the Crown to make everything clear; and that
of the defence to confuse everything as much as possible in order to
create the "reasonable doubt" which, if established, justifies a jury
in bringing in a verdict of "Not guilty".

I have been anticipating a little. Examination of the skull at once
led to the arrest of the Hyams brothers on a charge of murdering
Wells. They had a millionaire uncle in New Orleans, and he was not
satisfied that any Canadian lawyer was competent to handle their
defence. Apparently he had not much confidence that his nephews were
innocent, but he did not wish any hangings in the family. So he
engaged Francis L. Wellman, the leading criminal lawyer of New York,
who had just closed a brilliant term as District Attorney, under the
Croker-Tammany régime. Wellman and his partner, a Mr. Gooch, came
to Toronto, and engaged as Canadian associates the late E. F. B.
Johnston, K.C., whose fame was established by this case, the late
William Lount, K.C., a veteran orator of the bar, and quite a coterie
of junior counsel. Wellman already had friends in Canada through his
marriage to the beautiful prima donna, Emma Juch, a general favourite
here, who had been chief soloist at a great musical festival held
in connection with the opening of Massey Hall in the previous year
(1894). Though he was not permitted to plead in court, since he was
not a member of the Ontario Bar, Mr. Wellman was granted the courtesy
of sitting inside the bar as advisory counsel. Nearly every question
asked in behalf of the defence was at his prompting. It soon became
evident to observers that he was depending more and more on the
younger counsel, E. F. B. Johnston, than on Mr. Lount, who was the
senior and at that time a man of much greater fame.

The two trials--for the first ended in a disagreement, and the second
in an acquittal--were great battles of wits with legal talent of the
highest order pitted against each other. Mr. Osler had no associate
counsel, but was assisted in the constructive details of the case by
the two Crown Attorneys of York County, the late Hartley H. Dewart
and the late J. Walter Curry. In addition to his own studies under
the guidance of Dr. William Osler, he had the assistance of a noted
expert in medical jurisprudence, the late Arthur Jukes Johnson, M.D.,
afterwards Chief Coroner for Toronto. On the face of it the Crown's
case looked clear enough; motive could be proven up to the hilt,
and to any clear-headed man it was obvious that the death of Wells
was caused by a blow and not by the falling of the weight, which
would have inflicted far greater injuries than the body showed. The
technical argument set up by the defence through the mouths of a host
of "experts" was that the weight glanced off the side of Wells head,
without hitting his shoulder. In other words it was assumed that lead
would bounce. The defence counsel were shrewd enough to see that this
theory if argued in cold blood would not hold water, so the method
was adopted of creating confusion with regard to every detail of the
Crown's case. The defence also had a strong plea in that the doctor,
coroner, and police summoned to the scene immediately after the crime,
accepted the explanation given by the Hyams brothers as true.

I can still see the majestic Osler, talking to the jury with the
shattered skull held aloft in his hand, tracing for them the technical
causes of death; and the nervous, ingenious Johnston confusing the
issue with all the resources of a Scottish metaphysical mind. And
confusion triumphed. After their acquittal the Hyamses made the
extraordinary request that they be kept in jail until they could make
arrangements to leave Canada. A few days later a special train was
secretly sent to a siding near the prison. They were taken aboard and
sped away to New York. They were on board a steamer bound for South
America before the authorities disclosed the fact of their departure.
They have never been heard of since. Ten or twelve years later I read
in the London _Times_ of certain insurance conspiracies in Uruguay,
grave-yard insurance cases as they were then called, and privately
set an enquiry on foot. I learned, however, that the principals were
Spaniards, and there was no evidence that my old acquaintances, the
Hyams brothers, were connected with them.

In his book, _Gentlemen of the Jury_, Francis L. Wellman makes the
cynical admission that he did not rely entirely on legal processes
to secure the acquittal of his clients. He says that finding public
sentiment strong against them in Canada he paid the expenses of a _New
York Herald_ reporter to come to Toronto, and "moulded" the reports
of evidence wired nightly by that individual. These reports stressed
the idea that the "two American boys", as he calls them, were being
"railroaded", and he instructed the reporter to flatter the judge as
the embodiment of "British fair play", and procured a picture of him
in his robes which he induced the _Herald_ to publish. These reports
he took pains to have sent to the judge's chambers; and he adds:
"If the judge at the start of the trial, actually did share in the
general prejudice against the prisoners, I was sure that it had all
been removed when I heard his summing up to the jury. He gave us the
benefit of every doubt, and there was not a single incident in our
favour during the long trial that he failed to call to the attention
of the jury."

Mr. Wellman's narrative is somewhat confused because there were
two trials, at both of which reporters from the _Herald_ and other
New York newspapers were present. The jurist to whom he alludes
is, however, the late Mr. Justice Thomas Ferguson, who presided
at the second trial. But the inference he makes that the latter
was moved by flattery, and the publication of his portrait, is an
insult to his memory. Mr. Justice Ferguson was a man of remarkably
breezy personality, who had been a miner's judge in the days of the
California gold rush, in which he had participated as an adventurous
young Canadian. He was of enormous bulk, and he sometimes joked to me
when out on circuit about his personal appearance. "I'm one of the
handsomest men living," he would say, and then laugh a Gargantuan
laugh at the absurdity of the boast. But he had an exaggerated sense
of fair play, especially when dealing with aliens, which I knew him to
manifest on many occasions. Mr. Wellman was probably "tipped off" on
this when he instructed his journalistic henchman to talk of "American
boys" being "railroaded".

Mr. Justice Ferguson did exclude much new evidence, greatly to the
annoyance of Mr. Osler. I myself was one of the witnesses he told to
step down from the witness box, greatly to my relief, for I resented
the action of the Crown in calling me. I have spoken of the offer
of Dallas Hyams to bribe the _World_ through me to suppress the
original story--an offer I kept to myself until after publication.
This remained an office secret. Once, before the opening of the first
trial, Walter Wilkinson discussed with me whether I should go on the
stand and relate this damaging circumstance. But I was utterly opposed
to it. It would undoubtedly have injured the lawyer who had put me
on the track of the original "scoop", and I argued that if _World_
reporters got the reputation of disclosing private conversations
with their legal friends it would be an end of our getting scoops at
all. Wilkinson thoroughly agreed with me, and the first trial passed
without the incident being ventilated.

Just before the second trial Wilkinson left the _World_, and a
successor to whom I had told the story in confidence was appointed.
Saying nothing to me, he gave the information to Walter Curry, one
of the juniors for the Crown. A day or so after the trial opened the
late County Constable Boyd, afterwards killed by the Chicago bank
robber, Frank Lee Rice, came to me and placed me under detention.
I was taken to a private room in the Court House and "sweated" by
Curry in the presence of my new chief. Curry, since he had known me
from childhood, thought himself at liberty to bully me; and would not
listen to my objections that I would be injuring a man who had treated
me with confidence throughout the case, and had done me kindnesses in
other matters. My story was taken down, and I left the office in high
dudgeon. I learned afterward that I was trailed by plain clothesmen.
Through the lawyer's father I sent word that he must meet me at a
quiet rendezvous that night. There I told him what had happened.
"Well, Hector," he said, "I'm sorry, but if you tell that story in
the witness box, I shall be obliged to take the stand and swear that
you are a liar. I have too much at stake to do otherwise." To the
amazement of both of us we learned next day that our meeting had been
reported to the Crown by detectives, but fortunately for the lawyer
the conversation was not overheard. On the night before I was to
give evidence, a law student from Mr. Osler's office came to me, and
said that the latter wanted to see me before court opened. It was my
first meeting with him, and I never met a man more kind. He had the
copy of my story in his hand and he asked me if I were going to tell
the truth in the witness box. "Of course," I replied, but renewed my
protests. He said he knew my feelings and appreciated them profoundly,
but there were times when duty to the community must over-ride private
feelings. When I was called, the defence at once rose to object, and
a long private conference took place between the judge and the whole
group of counsel. Mr. Justice Ferguson was shown the _précis_ of my
evidence, and the defence while not admitting its truth held that
even if it were true the bribe was easily explained by the injury
and humiliation the publication of the story would cause the Hyams
brothers, assuming them to be innocent. Mr. Justice Ferguson agreed
with this view, and I was ordered to step down, greatly to my relief.
Had the evidence been taken, the defence would have proclaimed me a
particularly ruthless perjurer, and I would have had small chance of
being trusted with confidences by any member of the legal profession
thereafter.

This same lawyer, after the trial was over and the Hyams gone, gave
his opinion of the case quite candidly. "Of course Harry was guilty,"
he said, "but nobody will ever convince me that Dallas would hit
anybody with an axe. If anyone accused Dallas of slipping poison in
his tea, I would believe that, but he was too yellow to do anything
violent." This was their own confidential solicitor.

I am satisfied that the Hyams defence did not stop at bringing
reporters from New York, and "moulding" their reports, to use Mr.
Wellman's polite phrase. After the jury panel for the assize at which
the second trial was to take place was announced, a group of strangers
visited their homes in the guise of book agents, photo-enlargers,
and sewing-machine salesmen, and discussed the case, presenting
the arguments for the defence. The captain of this gang was an old
sportsman named Col. Foster, who had at one time been manager of the
Boston Ideal Opera Company. Foster was much in evidence in Toronto
hotels before and during the second trial. A theatrical man who knew
him happened to come to town and asked me if any important trial were
coming off. I said there was, and he told me that Col. Foster had gone
down hill and had become one of the most notorious jury-fixers of the
Tammany organization. Before he had come to Toronto Foster had boasted
around "the Rialto" of the "job he was going to pull off in Canada".
In addition to jury-fixing, Foster was notorious for two other means
of subsistence. He was an expert poker player, and was always willing
to teach "tenderfeet" the game. He was also an expert billiard player
given to betting on points when he had a less expert opponent.

I had a most amusing experience with him during the Hyams affair. My
theatrical friend was associated with the management of a beautiful
young actress who was making an unsuccessful attempt to star. She had
much talent, but shortly afterward retired and became the wife of
one of the most eminent of Western millionaires,--a marriage which
has turned out very happily. Col. Foster, like most old theatrical
managers, who have become failures, had not a good word to say for
the younger generation. On the evening I was introduced to him he
turned to my friend and said, "You're star isn't worth a curse. Just
a silly amateur." I interposed with the view that she was a lovely
and talented girl. "Who is this young cub?" asked Col. Foster, with a
whisper about as quiet as a brick going through a window. "Miss W.'s
backer," said the theatrical man in an exaggerated stage whisper.
Col. Foster at once became geniality itself. "Of course, I want you
to understand, I was just kidding, boy," he said, putting his arm
around me. "You may be losing a little money now, but you will get it
back and plenty more. She's a 'comer' all right." I said that this
was my own belief. Then he became affectionate. "Like to play a game
of billiards, boy?" he suggested insinuatingly. "No," I said. "Well,
let's get up a little game of poker--I'm sort o' lonesome to-night,"
he continued. "No," I said, "I must get over and see how the show's
going." My total wealth at that time was $2 and a few car-tickets,
insufficient for the backer of a theatrical venture. Personally I
think the insinuating Foster had as much to do with the acquittal of
the Hyams brothers as anybody.




                              CHAPTER XV

                          LAWYERS AND CAUSES


The sober but thrilling oratory of B. B. Osler; the penetrating
shrewdness of his cross-examinations, in which he was never the
forensic bully; the cogency of his arguments; and the scientific
care with which his cases were prepared--all these elements were
largely lost on the kind of persons which constitute the average
jury in a Canadian criminal trial. But they were extremely valuable
to the country in cases where it was necessary to speak to a vast
public beyond the court-room. They were also a great intellectual
stimulus and an education to his rivals at the bar. In the last decade
of Mr. Osler's life the late E. F. B. Johnston, K.C., whose fame
was established through the Hyams acquittal, was frequently pitted
against him and in the public mind they were rivals. But though Mr.
Johnston was a man of very acute intellect, he lacked the personal
authority and distinction of Osler, and he was less suave and fair
in cross-examination. Personally Johnston looked to Osler as his
master, a fact he himself revealed to me after the death of the great
pleader. In argument Osler was complete master of the Socratic method.
His case was unfolded to the jury in a lengthy series of questions,
which he insisted that the jurors must answer to themselves before
rejecting the view for which he stood. In criminal practice this type
of argument is usually met by _ex parte_ appeals to the emotions,
or by attempts to confuse issues--the time-honoured method of the
political platform. The task of creating confusion is not difficult
to a resourceful pleader, given a jury of average fumbling mentality.
After Mr. Osler's death it fell to the lot of Mr. Johnston to act as
Crown Prosecutor in another case of international importance, the
Clan-Na-Gael attempt to dynamite the Welland Canal, nearly a quarter
of a century ago. In his address to the jury he pursued the Socratic
method in a long sequence of questions, and asked me afterwards
whether I did not think he had presented the case precisely as B. B.
Osler would have done. When I said that the very thought was in my
mind, he told me that he regarded this as the highest compliment that
could conceivably be paid him as a lawyer.

Nevertheless Johnston used to irritate Osler extremely by expressing
admiration under conditions when it was likely to benefit his own
side rather than that of his great opponent. In addressing a jury he
would pay glowing tribute to the superlative abilities of the Crown
Prosecutor; and plead sympathy for his client on the ground that his
own humble abilities were, he feared, inadequate to secure justice.
This used to make Osler furious, for it was the kind of plea he could
not answer except by growls of deprecation. Never, except on such
occasions, was he ruffled in court. On several occasions in civil
actions I saw the Hon. S. H. Blake try to anger him in order to upset
his line of questioning or argument, but never with success. This was
a favourite trick of Blake's, especially when he had a weak case. He
would sit grinning at the counsel's table, and just when an opponent
was making a good point either in argument or cross-examination
break into a rasping laugh. This was too much for the nerves of many
lawyers, but Osler would remain unruffled. After court adjourned he
would take a sarcastic fling at "Brother" Blake, as he called him in
allusion to the latter's penchant for lay preaching.

Once I saw the aggressive Blake hit between wind and water and left
speechless, by a quiet remark from another able lawyer, Sir John
Gibson. The latter was then Attorney General and was acting as
Chairman of the Municipal Committee of the Ontario Legislature. A
small provincial town had issued a bond of $15,000 for some small
local improvement, and the bond had been bought by one of its aged
citizens whose total means were thus invested, the interest being
his sole means of subsistence. A burglar stole the bond, and after
waiting six months to see if it could be traced, the municipality came
to the Legislature to secure a permit to cancel the earlier bond and
issue a new one. It was assumed that the bill would go through without
opposition, but on the day it came before the Municipal Committee, the
Hon. S. H. Blake turned up on the scene to oppose its adoption. He
launched into a lengthy speech showing that the credit of Canada would
be destroyed in all the money markets of the world, if this $15,000
bond turned up somewhere and was found to be cancelled.

"Just a minute, Mr. Blake," said Sir John Gibson, when he managed to
get a word in, "who is your client? What do you represent?"

"I represent the vested interests of Canada and the bond buying public
of the world!" was the grandiloquent reply.

"That is very interesting," said the Chairman quietly. "I was under
the impression that you represented the thief."

Speechless with rage, Mr. Blake left the committee room, and the bill
went through amid laughter. It is more probable that he represented
some financial corporation which had bought the bond at a ridiculous
discount.

The quickness of B. B. Osler to catch a point in cross-examination I
saw demonstrated in a famous bank robbery case in Eastern Ontario. A
band of crooks and yeggmen had been "caught with the goods," in other
words some of the stolen money, a year or so after the occurrence.
They admitted their guilt, but claimed that it was an "inside
job"--that they had acted in collusion with a teller already under
suspicion. The crooks said they had buried most of the bank officer's
share at a certain spot by the railway tracks, two miles out of town,
selected by the young man himself. When, months after the robbery, the
detectives went to this spot to verify the confession, they found a
hole, and an old tin biscuit box with muddy paper still adhering to
it, in which the money was alleged to have been buried. At the trial
the defence put into the witness box a travelling umbrella mender,
who swore that he had been "walking the ties" and had thrown the box
there shortly before its recovery. I was sitting in court near Mr.
Osler and noted that when he rose to cross-examine he quietly shoved
the box under the counsel table, took a different position from that
habitual with him, and held out his silk gown in a way that entirely
screened the exhibit from the eyes of the witness. Then he gently
asked the latter what he had used the box for. The umbrella mender,
deceived by his pleasant manner, told quite a rigmarole about using
it to make soup in; and under the leading of counsel related the
numerous occasions when it had been in contact with fire. Suddenly
Osler wheeled around, whipped the exhibit from under the table and
thundered, "Is that your box?" There was not a mark of fire on it! I
have never seen a judge more infuriated than was Mr. Justice Ferguson
at what he termed the impudence of the defence counsel in daring to
put such a witness on the stand.

Osler's private hobby was botany; and I once heard him make use of
his knowledge of the subject in defending a Polish farmer in Waterloo
county charged with murdering a poor neighbour whom he had caught
poaching in his berry patch. Among the incriminating circumstances
were scratches on the forehead of the accused, supposedly made by
the victim in his death struggle. The prisoner claimed that he had
incurred them in brushing against the bough of an apple-tree; and
Osler in addressing the jury gave quite a learned discourse on the
apple tree, explaining that it was one of the rose family and that
on rare occasions it bore thorns. His acceptance of the brief for
the defence in this case was an interesting illustration of his
legal conscience. He had a standing brief from the Crown to act as
Prosecutor in all murder cases; but he had made the proviso that
unless he himself were satisfied that there was evidence to justify
conviction, he had the right to refuse a brief. In this case he was
not satisfied of the guilt of the Polish farmer and declined to act;
the Attorney General therefore retained Mr. Johnston. Mr. Osler took
the defence, and rumour had it that he wished to show his rival, who
had won several victories as defence counsel, what he could do in
that line. So skilful was he in smashing what seemed to be a strong
case for the Crown that Johnston came over to him before he commenced
his address for the prosecution and said: "Look here, Osler; I'm ready
to withdraw the charge of murder and change it to manslaughter."

"No," said Osler, "murder or nothing." And it took the jury only
twenty minutes to find a verdict of "Not guilty". Though the public is
not aware of the fact, the task of defence is much easier than that of
prosecution, because there is practically no limit to the license a
lawyer may employ to free a client, whereas the Crown is held down to
strict rules.

One morning about a year before his death I was breakfasting with
Mr. Osler at Napanee and he told me that of all the cases he had
handled the only one in which it gave him genuine satisfaction to
send a man to the gallows was that of a young wife-murderer named
William Hammond. Insurance was the motive as in the Hyams case,
and singularly enough one of the persons who was involved in that
conspiracy was also a friend of Hammond. The latter was a drug clerk
at Gravenhurst, Muskoka, who had secretly married a girl friend named
Katie Tough. The pair came to Toronto, the girl entering domestic
service and Hammond securing employment in a drug store. Clandestinely
he placed a policy for $10,000 on her life; and prepared a solution of
hydrocyanic or prussic acid, sufficiently weak to enable the victim
to survive an hour or two after taking. This he instructed her to
take on a certain date as a birth-control specific. Mr. Osler was of
opinion that wives were not infrequently murdered in that way, and the
guilt undetected. Hammond's position as a drug clerk would have made
the tracing of the poison impossible if his original plan had gone
through. The insurance policy, however, was in an American company,
and its issuance was held up at Buffalo. He went there to see about
it; and fearing that she might take the poison in his absence, wired
her, "Don't take medicine." This telegram was his undoing. By this
time the young wife had returned to Gravenhurst and having arranged
matters to his satisfaction he prepared another phial, and took it to
her there. He had not intended that she should take it until he went
back to Toronto, but the impulsive girl, in fear of her condition,
took it the same evening while out walking, and was found dying in
the snow. Those who picked her up noticed the smell of peach blossoms
on her breath, the sure sign of prussic acid; and after a thaw the
phial was found where it had been thrown in a snow bank. Among the
other circumstances was Hammond's peculiar behaviour at the girl's
home when she was brought in dying. Gravenhurst is a small place and
everyone knew of the occurrence in ten minutes. The murderer came in
with others and sneaked upstairs to her bedroom to search for the
earlier phial, but was detected while feeling under her mattress. He
claimed that he was looking for the marriage certificate, but this
was false since he had had it in his possession in connection with
the insurance applications. Through a friend, who had been connected
with Hyams case, he sought to secure possession of the girl's trunk
which was still at the Union Station, Toronto, and which contained the
insurance policies. But detectives arrived simultaneously on the scene
and seized it. Thus a motive was established.

E. F. B. Johnston made a wonderful fight for Hammond, and twice
secured disagreements of the jury, but at the third trial he was
convicted, and he was subsequently hanged. I saw him in the prisoner's
box at one of these trials; and while I do not take stock in all the
theories of Lombroso, the youth certainly bore the criminal stigmata
described by that authority, notably the ape-like ears.

The cruelty of Hammond's murder of a good-hearted, faithful wife who
had given him all her earnings, revolted the innate chivalry of Mr.
Osler's nature, and he told me that in no other case had he exerted
himself so fully to obtain a conviction. This chivalry was a notable
factor in his family life. When he was a young lawyer in Dundas his
home was burned; and at risk of his own life he saved his wife. He
bore permanent scars on his face thereafter and Mrs. Osler remained a
lifelong invalid. Her shattered nerves found little relief, and she
suffered from sleeplessness. After a long and wearing day in court
he would go home and read to her far into the night. After her death
his practice had become so enormous that he was compelled to burn the
candle at both ends. The first symptoms of his collapse came in the
form of an attack of amnesia at Philadelphia whither he had gone in
connection with some important litigation. He returned to the hotel
where he always stayed one afternoon, and asked the clerk his name
and address. His mind was blank as to his own identity. He was put to
bed, and Dr. William Osler was hurriedly summoned from Baltimore. With
the help of the best specialists in the United States he was restored
to health, and resumed practice. After a few cases in which he showed
undiminished powers, he broke down again and passed away a few months
later. The last time I saw him was when a seemingly aged man with a
grey beard leaned out of the window of his carriage and smiled at me.
I returned the salute, but did not recognize him. Then it suddenly
struck me that it was B. B. Osler, changed and shrunken.

The firm of McCarthy & Osler was assuredly a wonderful combination;
for his partner D'Alton McCarthy, though not at his best as a jury
lawyer, was a marvellous man in technical argument, and an expert
in corporation and contract law. There were several lawyers of the
nineties who were remarkably gifted in this respect (great "term
lawyers", in legal cant) and who, like McCarthy, shone in the various
appeal courts. Edward Blake was of course the greatest celebrity,
but there was also Christopher Robinson, K.C., the delight of judges
in Canada and Great Britain, because he could state in half an hour
an intricate case on which an ordinary counsel would expend hours.
The fame of the incisive Sir Allen Aylesworth was also made in this
branch at a comparatively early age. One of the most interesting
personalities among the appeal lawyers was the late Aemilius Irving,
K.C., who had a most singular habit of thinking aloud, of which judges
were well aware, though they ignored it. A judge, for instance, would
interrupt his argument with a remark that a precedent he had quoted
was faulty. Irving with great deference would say, "Just as you say,
my Lord, I defer to your opinion," and then, as he stooped to pick up
another law-book, murmur hoarsely to himself, "You damned old fool, a
whale of a lot you know about it."

One of the most remarkable instances of the fairness and detachment
of D'Alton McCarthy's mind was shown in the case of Fraser vs. Ryan,
involving an intricate question of contract law arising from a large
timber transaction. The plaintiff was a noted lumberman, Alexander
Fraser, and the defendant my father-in-law, Peter Ryan. It was agreed
that in order to expedite matters the dispute should be decided on a
constructive question submitted to a full bench of judges. On the day
before the hearing Mr. Ryan's counsel, James Haverson, K.C., himself
a legal technician of remarkable abilities, found that he would be
unable to attend, and it was too late to instruct other competent
counsel on so intricate a case. A request for a postponement was
contemplated when Mr. Ryan suggested that D'Alton McCarthy who was
acting for Fraser and fully conversant with the case in all its phases
be also entrusted with the task of arguing the case for the defence.
With the permission of the court Mr. McCarthy accepted both briefs,
and so fairly did he present both sides of the case that the result
was a victory for Ryan against the lawyer's own client Fraser. I am
told that this legal incident is almost without parallel.

How D'Alton McCarthy managed to carry on a great practice with the
highest efficiency and at the same time mix in politics in their most
contentious aspects was always a mystery; but he maintained his health
through his devotion to horsemanship. For so fine an equestrian he
met his death in a singular way. His mount was ambling slowly along
a city street, when something caused it to veer and stumble, and Mr.
McCarthy, who had been a daring rider in the hunting field, was thrown
and fatally injured.

It was in connection with a celebrated local murder, in which Osler
and Johnston were pitted against each other, that I first came in
contact with the famous writer, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This was the
case of Frank Westwood, a very fine young man whom I had known since
childhood and who was wantonly murdered by a mulatto girl, Clara Ford.
Young Westwood lived with his parents in a villa overlooking Humber
Bay, in the western part of Toronto. The girl, who had worked as a
seamstress in the neighbourhood, had become enamoured of his good
looks and pestered him with attentions at which he naturally revolted.
Clara Ford was a constant patron of the cheap melodramas then popular,
in which the heroine often dressed in boy's clothes and shot the
villain. She procured a suit of male attire and one night watched
Westwood enter his home toward midnight. She then rang the doorbell
and hid in a shadow. As he opened the door she shot him and fled along
the water front, making her way undetected to her room above a negro
restaurant in the heart of the city. Nobody who saw her identified her
as a woman; Westwood, who lingered for some days, died without knowing
who his assailant was. He described the assassin as a dark slender
young man indistinguishable in the shadows. The family in panic after
the attack did some peculiar things like shooting revolvers in the
air to give an alarm and the shots and movements were heard in a
schooner anchored out in the lake, which had some rough characters on
board. For some months the case remained a most extraordinary mystery.
Sherlock Holmes had but recently come into fame as a hero of fiction,
and in the _World_ office we collected all details of the Westwood
murder and sent them to Conan Doyle with a request for an opinion. We
did not expect anything tangible, but at the time it was a first-class
publicity "stunt". Doyle refused to suggest a clue, but wrote that he
was deeply interested, and his letter, reproduced photographically,
was a valuable feature, as he was at that time the most popular of
living fiction writers. Some months later he came to Toronto on a
lecture tour and asked that a reporter be sent to him who could tell
him all subsequent developments. When I talked with him he laughingly
said that he was the last man in the world to offer solutions in
murder mysteries, because in the Sherlock Holmes stories he always had
his solutions ready-made before he started to write and constructed
his narratives backward from that point. He also said that fiction
writers were not very good judges of evidence, because they were
accustomed to create facts to suit themselves, whereas detectives had
to take them as they were. His latter-day credulity in the matter of
spirit mediums indicates that he spoke better than he knew as to the
abilities of novelists to weigh evidence.

Clara Ford solved the mystery herself; for like all stage-struck
persons she could not help boasting of her exploits. She took into
her confidence a pickpocket who was wanted by the police; and to
curry favour with them he betrayed her. When arrested, the suit of
clothes she had worn was located in her room, and she made a full
confession. I personally heard her plead guilty in a very low whisper
when arraigned in the police court. But a group of sentimentalists
who imagined her "wronged" got around her and engaged Mr. Johnston as
counsel. At her trial she denied the truth of her confession, though
admitting having made it. She claimed that the detectives had told
her that if she confessed she would immediately be set free; and had
therefore made up a story. Incidentally, she falsely traduced her
victim. Mr. Osler, the Crown Prosecutor, was obliged by the death of
his first wife to drop the case and entrust it to a junior on the
night before the addresses were made to the jury. The jurors accepted
her tale, and she was freed. I saw her proceed in a carriage through
the streets followed by a cheering throng, and in gratitude she asked
the jurors to supper at the negro restaurant where she had boarded.
The invitation was accepted; and the presiding judge, Chancellor
Sir John Boyd, told me subsequently that it was the most disgusting
example of the weakness of the jury system he recalled in a long
experience.

Once free she was unabashed in admission of her guilt. Her first step
was to arrange for her appearance in a dime museum in the clothes she
had worn when she killed young Westwood. This was too much for her
counsel, Mr. Johnston. He sent for her and told her that but for him
she would be facing the gallows; and that if there were any remnants
of decency left in her she would immediately leave Canada. She took
his advice and joined "Sam T. Jack's Creoles", a coloured burlesque
show, and was advertised in the Western States as a damsel who had
killed a man in pursuance of "The unwritten law."

Clara Ford was probably the only one among the many criminals he
defended that Mr. Johnston ever consented to converse with. When he
accepted the defence of a murderer he refused to see his client or
any of his near relatives. All his instructions were conveyed through
solicitors. He would take the facts of the case and with the coolness
of a mathematician work out a theory of possible innocence, on which
he would frame a defence, and direct every question toward that end.
Sometimes questions which seemed trivial and irrelevant would take
on significance in the final argument. The minutiae of his defences
were amazing. He feared that a meeting with his client would disturb
the impartial direction of his thoughts. Once the wife of a farmer
of means who was tried on a fratricidal charge at London, Ont.,
forced herself upon him after the jury had disagreed, and demanded
to know what he thought her husband's chances of ultimate acquittal
were: "Well," he said, "since you insist, I would suggest that if my
application for bail succeeds, your husband at once depart and bury
himself in some obscure part of the globe, and never again communicate
with you or anyone else in Canada." The woman left the room sobbing,
but the bail application did not succeed, and at the next trial the
accused was acquitted.

Mr. Johnston was Crown Prosecutor in the two trials of one Brennan,
a half-crazy farmer, who murdered in cold blood Mr. Strathy, a bank
manager of Barrie, because the latter would not assist him to induce
his wife to live with him, she having deserted him because she could
not endure his eccentricities. Brennan was convicted at the first
trial, and obtained a new hearing on the ground that Chief Justice
Armour had improperly told the jury that it was not their prerogative
to exercise mercy. Brennan's counsel, William Lount, K.C., who loved
poetry, had quoted Portia's address from _The Merchant of Venice_.
Chief Justice Armour mordantly told the jury that their business was
not with Shakespeare, but with the plain fact that Brennan had killed
Strathy without reason. The appeal court held that this unfairly
prejudiced the minds of the jury and a re-trial was ordered, with the
same outcome, although Brennan was afterwards reprieved. A year or so
later Mr. Johnston, who had secured the two convictions, showed me how
he would have conducted the defence; and the constructive plan he
sketched would have undoubtedly led to acquittal.

There was a grotesque incident at one of the Brennan trials. Certain
reporters like to fraternize with murderers, and in small country
court houses where lawyers, officials, reporters, and prisoners are
often huddled together in close quarters, they get an opportunity to
gratify their tastes. There was one newspaper man who used to give
Brennan a cigar every day. At the first trial, when he was sentenced
to be hanged on a date which I do not recall, but which we will say
was March 15th, this reporter was very sympathetic with the dejected
and bewildered prisoner: "Too bad, old man,--hard luck, I call it," he
said, and then shaking the condemned man's limp hand, "Well, good-bye
for the present; I'll see you on March 15th."

Undoubtedly Johnston's finest effort in all his career was his speech
at Welland a quarter of a century ago in prosecution of the Fenian
dynamiters, Luke Dillon _alias_ Karl Dullman, a real estate man of
Newark, N.J., and two "physical force men" named Kelly and Walsh, who
had been sent from Dublin to aid him in an attempt to blow up the
Welland Canal. Dillon's identity as one of the most active members
of the Clan-na-gael was not revealed until years after he had been
convicted under the name of Dullman. In that case I had the good luck
to "scoop" all the leading newspapers of the United States and Canada
as to the character of the attempt. At sunset one Saturday night in
summer two strangers were observed by a little girl on the embankment
of the key lock of the canal near Thorold, sinking two large canvas
bags into the water. They immediately fled, and a great explosion
ensued. But they had done their work so badly that only slight damage
was done to the gates; otherwise the whole surrounding country would
have been flooded and many drowned, for the point of attack had been
selected with scientific care.

The two dynamiters fled by the roads of the Niagara peninsula, and
the alarm having been given, were arrested as soon as they reached
Niagara Falls, Ont., three hours later. They gave the names of Kelly
and Walsh, and were quickly identified as visitors who had been seen
in association with a stranger who had been staying at a hotel on the
Canadian side and throwing around a good deal of money. Suspected
of being engaged in a smuggling plot, this stranger had been under
constant surveillance by the frontier police on both sides of the
river, although he was quite unaware of this fact. He was registered
as "Karl Dullman, New York." He claimed to be a tourist and was
packing up his bags to depart when arrested; and he stuck to it that
Dullman was his real name.

Buffalo was the nearest large city to the scene of the crime, and the
Buffalo newspapers, whose reporters were first on the scene, at once
assumed that it had to do with a great strike of "grain-scoopers"
(elevator hands and longshoremen) then in progress in that city. The
chief of the elevator and shipping interests was one "Fingy" Conners,
a millionaire who had at one time been a grain-scooper himself and
had risen to great wealth, and the ownership of two newspapers,
the _Buffalo Enquirer_ and the _Buffalo Courier_. He had thousands
of employees on the Buffalo docks and when they went on strike, he
announced his intention of transferring his elevator interests to the
city of Montreal, and formed a Canadian company to use the Welland
Canal route. This would have meant ruin to thousands in Buffalo;
so that when the attempt to blow up the Canal took place it was
immediately assumed that it was the work of the strikers. Conners
firmly believed this, and the Sunday issues of his newspapers played
up the theory strongly.

I arrived at Niagara Falls early on Monday morning to write up the
developments of the case, with instructions to proceed to Buffalo if I
thought wise, and was in time to see the prisoners arraigned. A sorry
trio they looked after two nights in a veritable dog-kennel, as the
town lock-up was at that time. Dullman was a mystery, certainly not a
grain-scooper, and sitting near the prisoner's box I could hear Kelly
and Walsh whispering in very thick Irish accents. Walsh was silent
and morose, but Kelly, a smiling, bullet-headed little man, wanted to
talk, though silenced by the magistrate. Somehow I was not convinced
that they had anything to do with the Buffalo strike. The men were
committed to Welland county jail, and most of the great bevy of
reporters went with them to see the fun, for mobs were waiting to give
them a warm reception at every village en route. We had an occasional
correspondent at the Falls, and I said to him, "Do you know where
these men were stopping during the week they were around here,--Kelly
and Walsh, I mean." "Yes," he said. "They stayed at a little shebang
over near the railway yards on the American side." I suggested that
we go over there and find out something about them. The proprietor of
the dirty little hotel was a purple-faced man, a stupid and besotted
being who drank whisky copiously with porter as a "chaser". By buying
drinks freely I led him to talk. He had been so drunk the day before
that he knew little of what had happened to his late guests. Finally
he said, "Them fellows came from Dublin." "How do you know that?" I
asked. "Well, they told me so themselves. I was in Dublin last year
and we used to talk about the city every night." "How long have they
been out?" I asked. "Only about a week," he said. "They don't know
anything about America at all. A big fellow met them at the dock and
brought them on here. He was in to see them once or twice."

With my local friend I spent a very interesting afternoon around
Niagara Falls, N. Y., and picked up several interesting circumstances
afterwards used by the Crown. One was that they had checked the
canvass grips containing dynamite in the New York Central station
in the heart of the tourist region. A porter in one of the hotels
thereabout had seen Kelly accidentally drop one of the bags in the
middle of the leading intersection, while dodging a trolley car, and
both men jump away in fear. No explosion happened and the porter was
puzzled at their fright; but at Niagara Falls so many curious people
are always coming and going that unusual incidents excite little
attention.

When I got back to the Canadian side I ran into Inspector John Murray,
Chief of the Provincial Detective Department, and Chief Young, of the
Frontier Police, who had come back from depositing their prisoners at
Welland. I asked them their opinion of the case, and they replied,
"Oh, just grain-scoopers, as the papers say."

"Well, John," I said to Murray, a close friend of mine, "that may be
your real opinion or it may not; but I know better. Those chaps were
Fenians from Dublin."

Murray and Young took me into a back room, and I could tell from the
way Murray took down in the minutest detail everything I had to tell
him about my enquiries on the American side that I was on the right
track. Nevertheless he said: "If you quote me at all, say it's my
belief that the grain-scoopers planned it."

As a matter of fact it was known to the police that they were Fenian
physical force men from the moment of the arrest. Dullman or Dillon
had destroyed his papers, but the pockets of Walsh and Kelly were full
of inflammatory Irish literature. Walsh was a verse writer himself,
and had a printed copy of one of his effusions, which concluded:

    And if e'er I could see the dear Irish Green
      Wave in triumph o'er England's cursed red;
    How happy I'd be! All I'd ask is a grave
      Among Erin's dear patriot dead.

More important still, their papers included a green-covered booklet
containing rules of "The Engineers' Club", clearly camouflage for
some Eastern "triangle" of the Clan-na-Gael. So soon as these papers
were taken away from the prisoners Chief Young was shrewd enough to
see the advisability of keeping their nature secret; and letting
the impression go out that the plot was connected with the Buffalo
strikers. In that way the Crown hoped that the New York principals
of the attempted outrage would be trapped. But though the British
intelligence department made close enquiries, nothing was revealed.
Luke Dillon kept his secrets well, and his real name was not
discovered until long after, when his friends sought his release.

As I say, all this was known afterwards, but on the day I made my
investigations, the press of many cities was exploiting the strike
theory, and the enterprising millionaire "Fingy" Conners gave out
interviews that he had positive proof of that fact.

I wired the _Mail and Empire_ that I was coming home to write my
story, and when I got into the office late in the evening, I had to
face a strong argument with my chief. He could not believe that my
theory could be right against that of all the other newspaper men. I
was insistent that the "grain-scooper" theory should be dismissed as
a fairy tale; and that I should be permitted to write up the story as
a Fenian conspiracy. What turned the tide was a three-line despatch
from Washington, which ran about as follows: "The State Department
having made enquiries is disposed to think that the attempt to blow up
the Welland canal was of Irish origin." That was all the confirmation
needed, and we literally plastered the Fenian theory all over the
front page of the _Mail and Empire_. This was the best scoop I ever
got single-handed, in all the adventures of my career as a reporter.

When the case came to trial the evidence was so clear that it was
not necessary to introduce the Fenian phase at all. Kelly and Walsh
had been seen in the act. Customs officers shadowing Dullman's or
Dillon's every movement had tied him up tight to the pair, and he
had been seen to hand them money. However, for international reasons
it was necessary to make the case as water-tight as possible, and
the suppression of the Fenian evidence showed conclusively that they
had had an absolutely fair trial. Sir John Boyd sentenced all three
to imprisonment for life. Walsh, the verse-writer and dreamer, died
of consumption in the infirmary of Kingston penitentiary, and after
serving fifteen years or more the others were released. After the
trial Mr. Johnston showed me the papers to which I have above alluded
which established the nature of the crime,--the last Fenian attempt
against Canada. Next morning I rode to Toronto on the same train with
the prisoners, and as we ran alongside the key-lock they had sought to
destroy all three recognized it. "I wish I was at the bottom of it,"
was Dillon's only comment throughout the trip.




                             CHAPTER XVI

                       KING GEORGE V. IN CANADA


One of the most interesting of all the assignments I covered while a
reporter, was the Royal tour of Canada in September and October, 1901,
when the present King and Queen were known as the Duke and Duchess of
Cornwall and York. After the accession of Edward the Seventh it was
decided that the Heir Apparent and the future Queen should, so soon as
was convenient, make a tour of all parts of the Empire except India,
which was reserved for a separate visit. The ocean stretches of the
voyage were covered in a beautiful ship, the _Ophir_, and Canada and
Newfoundland were to witness the concluding stages of the voyage. It
was arranged that their Majesties should arrive at Quebec directly
from Capetown, South Africa, on Sept. 16th, 1901, and proceed across
Canada to Victoria, B.C., taking in the Maritime Provinces on the
return voyage.

Prince George, as he had been known while an officer in the Navy,
was no stranger to Canada, but all his visits had been unofficial,
and at a period of his life when he had no expectation of becoming
King of England. He had been simply a distinguished young officer who
sometimes took a furlough in inland cities when his ship happened to
call at a Canadian port. A complete change in his fortunes ensued when
his elder brother, the Duke of Clarence, died after a brief illness.
He was ordered to leave the Navy, marry and prepare for sovereignty,
and it was rumoured to have been not at all to his liking; for he
loved the sea, and his profession; and his mind had a peculiar
fascination for technical and mechanical problems, which the manifold
responsibilities of his new position gave him small opportunity to
indulge.

His Royal Highness's return was the most momentous event of its kind
that had occurred in Canada since the visit of his father as Prince
of Wales in 1860. In a sense it was more momentous, because "Baron
Renfrew" was a youth who came alone, whereas in 1901 the Heir Apparent
brought with him the future Queen, the first and only occasion on
which a princess destined to such supreme honours has visited our
shores. Peculiar interest attached to the coming of the Duchess, for
it was known that she had been chosen to be the future Queen, by Queen
Victoria, long before there seemed a chance that Prince George would
be King. That a woman so wise as the aged Queen should have chosen
Princess Mary of Teck, while a mere girl, from among a great multitude
of relatives and connections, for the greatest honour that could be
borne by one of her sex, gave a profoundly romantic interest to her
personality.

The last vestiges of the theory of the divine right of kings have in
our time disappeared among the white nations, and became dissipated
in Britain before Canada was a part of the Empire; but there is no
gainsaying the immense fascination that the idea of royalty exercises
over the average man and woman. Democracies are not more immune than
people living under other forms of government. The Canadian people
are heart and soul democratic in feeling, but the prospect of meeting
royalty has always set their emotions seething. The late Col. George
Taylor Denison, who commanded the Guard of Honour for King Edward
the Seventh on his visit to Toronto in 1860, recalled that the event
disturbed local society for months previously. The first visit to
Canada of the Duke of Connaught, nearly a decade later, when he was
known as Prince Arthur, also caused considerable excitement. A few
years ago when engaged in delving into the history of the Canadian
Bank Act I came across an amusing reference to it. I had in my
possession the letters written by one of the original members of the
Senate of Canada, with reference to a bank charter in which he was
heavily interested; and in one of them he complained that business
was interrupted by the visit of Prince Arthur. He had been at the
reception in Rideau Hall the night before, and as a religious man
reprobated the amount of champagne drunk, and the dancing in honour
of royalty. "Do these people realize," he wrote, "that there are
thousands of Canadians still living in log cabins?" In the next
paragraph, however, he had forgotten about the people in log cabins,
for he informed his board of directors that he had managed to slip
through committee a clause in the charter he had in hand, which he had
fully expected would be struck out; a clause of which the Senators, in
a rather sleepy and amiable mood, had evidently failed to realize the
purport.

I vividly recall the furore over the coming of the Princess Louise
as consort of the Marquis of Lorne, afterwards Duke of Argyle, when
he became Governor General in 1878. My mother and aunts were openly
disappointed because she was not more beautiful--for, never having
seen a princess, they had apparently cherished a theory that beauty
was part of the inheritance of such an exalted being. I was taken at
night to see the "illuminations" in their honour,--gas flares showing
crowns, and maple leaves, and scrolls of "L. & L.", sometimes extended
to "Lorne and Louise". Paltry indeed were those illuminations, for
that was before the age of electric light; but forty-seven years ago
they seemed very grand. Even in 1901 the illuminations for the present
King and Queen were much less dazzling than those now seen nightly in
the central sections of leading northern cities.

In the matter of "staging", the Royal Tour of 1901 discounted anything
previously attempted; and its significance was unique, for it was part
of a world journey in which their Royal Highnesses had almost circled
the globe, without once having set foot on soil other than British. I
was at Quebec with a host of other correspondents two or three days
before the arrival of the _Ophir_ on Monday, Sept. 16th, and one of my
most interesting experiences was going out on a small tug with three
or four other reporters to look for her, on the day previous. On the
morning of Sunday the 15th the little torpedo boat destroyer _Quail_
of the North Atlantic squadron, ran up into Quebec harbour, took
soundings and sped away again without communicating with anybody. She
was of course seen by the thousands of visitors on Dufferin Terrace,
and presently the rumour spread all over Quebec that the royal ship
with her naval escorts had already arrived and was anchored a few
miles below Quebec. Since wireless did not then exist, there was no
means of confirming this rumour. The _Ophir_ had come direct from
South Africa and it was quite possible that she might have steamed
ahead of her schedule. The only course open to correspondents was to
go out and see for ourselves, and the only craft available was a
small tug which happened to be rather fast. So we started off through
drizzle and mist, and about ten miles down the river ran across the
_Quail_ anchored near shore, and the probable cause of the rumour. It
was then that I obtained my first knowledge of naval etiquette. We
hailed some sailors on deck and asked if it was true that the _Ophir_
was down stream a mile or two. They paid not the slightest attention
to us, but one went below, and presently there emerged amidships a
very handsome young officer in full dress uniform who advanced to the
side of his little vessel and saluted majestically. Such honours to
our dirty little craft were ludicrous, and he seemed to preserve a
solemn countenance with difficulty. We told him our mission, and he,
with great formality, replied that he had no information to convey. We
were rather annoyed and not at all displeased when the French Canadian
who ran the tug swung her around so quickly that he scraped a full
twenty feet of fresh paint off the side of the _Quail_. Nevertheless
the young officer preserved his poise under what must have been trying
circumstances. Later his men must have gotten busy with paint and
brushes for the streak had disappeared when I saw the _Quail_ next
day. He may be a famous admiral to-day, for aught I know.

Five miles farther down we gave up our mission as hopeless; and being
cold and wet started on another quest--for some kind of stimulant.
The tide was out, and we had to climb up a long ladder to get upon
the wharf of a near-by settlement. We found that it was a temperance
village with no hotel, but the telegraph operator on the wharf told
us we could get a drink by applying at the hardware store. Though it
was Sunday afternoon the store was open, for the _habitants_ in the
back country could only shop on that day, after mass. The purse-bearer
of our party, who was no Iscariot, was secretly escorted to a loft
back of the store, where hay was stored, and came back grinning with a
parcel, which he had been enjoined not to open until we disembarked.
Once unwrapped it proved to be a bottle with a garish label, "Sir
Wilfrid Laurier Scotch Whiskey". It had a picture of Laurier evidently
"after taking", judging by the expression of his countenance, for
the stuff was as vile and fiery as any I have ever tasted. But it
fortified us for a cold run home through the rain.

On our way back we encountered a Government vessel steaming down the
river, and seated side by side on the deck, looking very gloomy and
uncomfortable, were Lord Minto and Sir Wilfrid Laurier. They too had
heard that the _Ophir_ had arrived and considered it only civil to
go out and meet her. When we shouted that the story was apparently
groundless they lost no time in putting about. We were destined
to be good Samaritans to others that day. Five miles from port we
encountered two yachts becalmed and to these we gave a tow. Both were
manned by prominent citizens and military officers of Quebec who
insisted on our visiting their cabins alternately; and the hospitality
they had to offer obliterated the fiery taste of the whiskey which
dishonoured the name of Laurier.

When the _Ophir_ did arrive at her anchorage next day the weather
was better; and a beautiful effect transpired. Just as the handsome
white vessel with attendant warships rounded Indian Cove, and became
visible to the waiting throngs on the mighty palisades of the old
city, the sun burst from the clouds and made her iridescent as a
jewel. Propitious as this omen should have been, it may, after nearly
a quarter of a century, be confessed that the Royal tour of 1901 was
not so successful from a sentimental standpoint as it should have
been. The first news that was conveyed to the Duke, as I shall for the
sake of convenience call His Majesty in this chapter, was that the
President of the United States, the Hon. William McKinley, had fallen
before the bullet of an assassin at Buffalo a fortnight previously and
had died on Sept. 13th. The funeral was to take place at Canton, Ohio,
in a day or so, and out of respect for his memory His Royal Highness
at once decided that all purely social functions should in connection
with his visit be cancelled until Ottawa was reached. Since the ladies
of both Quebec and Montreal had spent vast sums on toilettes for
display at these functions, the feminine heart-burnings involved may
be imagined, and the husbands and fathers who had to foot the bills
for expenditures thus rendered unnecessary, were in no amiable mood.

Worse still, the assassination of McKinley had produced one of those
anarchist scares which used to arise periodically a quarter of a
century ago, when assassinations or attempts thereat were more common
than they are to-day. The Canadian Department of State was in a
condition of panic, and insisted on surrounding the Heir Apparent with
a vast body of detectives in all sorts of disguises, a condition which
he detested. Some of these men I recognized at many points and no one
could have regarded them as other than farmers dressed in their Sunday
clothes in town to see the sights. Their make-up was perfect; not too
obtrusive or stagey,--the real thing.

A minor cause of dissension in Eastern cities was an aggressive demand
in certain quarters that, while in the Province of Quebec, the Duke
should use the French language. The Hon. S. N. Parent, who was both
Premier of the Province and Mayor of Quebec, and consequently the
most important functionary in connection with the earlier ceremonies,
showed the utmost good taste, and conducted the welcoming proceedings
in English, and when the Duke and Duchess visited purely French
institutions like Laval University the royal replies were delivered in
French. At Montreal The Hon. Raymond Préfontaine was less courteous.
Despite the fact that the English-speaking element in that city was
much larger than in the provincial capital, his address of welcome
was in French. The Duke replied in English, and was strongly censured
for this course in _La Patrie_, a government organ owned by The Hon.
Israel Tarte.

Prior to the arrival in Canada there had been some controversy as to
what Mayors should wear. The traditional garb of the Chief Magistrates
of British cities is that of the masters of the trade guilds of the
middle ages with gold chain of office; but it has never been generally
adopted in Canada and in 1901 a silk hat and frock coat was deemed the
proper wear. This simple adornment was sufficient for Mr. Parent of
Quebec, but at Montreal Mayor Préfontaine blossomed forth in a robe of
purple broadcloth trimmed with sables, and looked truly magnificent.
The Mayor of Ottawa, a little insignificant man, who had won
prosperity selling coal oil, was not to be outdone. He shone forth in
a bright vermillion robe, trimmed with some kind of yellow fur, and a
big gilded chain of office. That evening a newspaper friend candidly
informed this Mayor that his conduct made him "despair of democracy",
but the little fellow was so oblivious to his meaning that he gripped
him by the hand and said, "Thanks, old man, glad to hear you say so."

In 1901 the present King and Queen were both still youthful. The Duke
was bronzed after his long voyage, and what struck me particularly
was the leonine tinge of his beard. I have never seen coloration just
like it in anyone else,--the precise tint of a lion's mane. For a full
month I saw him every day in all sorts of costumes, often several
different ones in a single day; and though he looked well in the blue
uniform of an admiral which he wore by choice for official ceremonies,
the garb which really became him best was an ordinary grey sack
suit, with the grey bowler hat he favoured. This set off his trim,
well-knit figure and gave him a jaunty bearing altogether attractive.
The pictures of Queen Mary, either as Queen or Princess, have never
done her justice. At the age of 34 as she then was, she was a blooming
young matron with several babies at home in Sandringham, whom she had
not seen for months and for whom I was told both she and the Duke
were very lonesome. Her face was rather heavy in repose, but the
loveliness of her fair complexion, the warm and almost dazzling blue
of her eyes, and the elegance of her _svelte_ figure, made her more
interesting in a purely feminine sense than anyone, judging merely by
old photographs, might believe. Her teeth were very beautiful also,
and her smile was particularly gracious. I had occasion to experience
this graciousness once under difficult circumstances. During the stay
in Quebec one of the functions was a reception at Laval University, a
quaint old building, full of dark, narrowP stairways and mysterious
doors and corridors. After the ceremony I was in a hurry to get to
the street from the gallery in which I had been placed. I ran down
a little stairway that seemed handy for my purpose, and at the foot
bumped clear into the Duchess, who was being escorted along a lower
corridor by the Archbishop of Quebec. She was obviously frightened
for a second, for the anarchist scare was active, but when she saw my
confusion and caught the purport of my nervous apologies, she smiled
most sweetly as she went on her way.

Throughout the tour her interest in what she saw seemed more animated
than that of the Duke. One of the prettiest of her actions I witnessed
at Poplar Plains, Manitoba, where on the return journey we were
detained for four hours one sunny October day, awaiting the Duke, who
had left the party earlier for a few days duck shooting. All around
the railway tracks the wheat was stacked and about half a mile away
a threshing machine was at work. It was not etiquette to follow Her
Royal Highness about, but seeing a party of correspondents looking on
at the threshing, she with her ladies strolled across the stubble to
enjoy the sight also. She struck up a friendship with a bearded old
pioneer who was conducting operations, and did not mind the dust and
chaff she gathered in her minute inspection of the big machine. The
sleeves of her gown were so contrived that they could be opened to the
shoulder and unhooking one of them she plunged her beautiful white
arm deep in a bag of wheat as it was filling under the separator. She
seemed to revel in the sensation of the fresh wheat pouring on her
snowy skin.

A very old theatrical man, E. E. Price, told me a story of Queen
Mary as a girl that illustrated her interest in mechanical things.
Price managed the first visit to London of the famous actor, Richard
Mansfield, after he became a star. This was in the late eighties,
and Irving had leased him the Lyceum Theatre. Mansfield, though
critics praised his Richard III., was an unknown actor from America,
and naturally the public did not throng to see him. A mad egotist,
he insisted that this was due to a plot hatched by Irving. He was
incensed that there were no royal visits, and pestered his managers
to kidnap the Prince of Wales and drag him to the Lyceum. Finally
Mr. Price was told of the Duchess of Teck and her family who though
of royal blood were "poor relations", so to speak, and not averse to
accepting invitations of the kind. To placate Mansfield he arranged a
visit to a matinée performance of _Richard III_. by the Duchess and
the young people of the family. Among them was a fair and gracious
girl in her 'teens, Princess Mary. Very tactfully, Price asked her if
she would like to come behind the scenes, and like any other girl, she
was delighted at the prospect. She was highly excited and enthusiastic
as the mysteries of "back stage" were explained to her. Finally Mr.
Price asked if she would like to meet Mr. Mansfield, and she was as
eager as any lowly matinée girl for that honour. Mansfield, a really
cultured man, was in one of his most gracious moods and the visit was
a great success. It restored contentment to the actor's mind, for
royalty had at last come to see him; and he would have been even more
exalted in spirit had he known that he was receiving the future Queen
of England.

The Duke himself was ill during the greater part of the Canadian
tour of 1901, and often seemed far from happy over the multitude of
formal engagements he was obliged to fill. This was an unfortunate
circumstance and began in this wise. On the day after his arrival in
Quebec a large military review was arranged, to take place on the
Plains of Abraham. Just as the march past was about to begin a
brutal gale and rainstorm blew up from the east and everyone save
the Duke himself, retreated to a temporary shelter, erected at the
reviewing point. He, in his uniform of a colonel of the Grenadier
Guards, sat out in the open on his horse and got the full force of
the storm. At the suggestion of the Duchess, the chief equerry, the
Hon. (now Sir) Derek Keppel, rode out and quietly slipped a great
military cloak around his shoulders, but the Duke impatiently threw it
off. He was stubborn in his determination to endure all the rigours
of the storm just as the marching soldiers were obliged to do; but
his condition was worse, for they were on the move and he was sitting
still, soaked to the skin and freezing cold. The outcome was an attack
of influenza, which he had no chance to cure by resting up until
he reached Banff, nearly three weeks later. There the mountain air
restored him, but during his visits to many of the leading cities
his appearance was deplorable; watering eyes, nose inflamed and
voice choked and hoarse,--all the consequences of refusing the cloak
proffered him. At Vancouver and Victoria he was in fine form and as
his next official reception after leaving Victoria was at Toronto, he
had more than a week in which to do as he pleased, and that put him
in good spirits. Royalty is always subject to mean slanders, and when
I got back to Toronto I was amazed and indignant to learn that on
all sides it was alleged that he had been partially intoxicated at
Montreal and Ottawa and throughout his tour of the West. This I knew
to be false, for I had seen him on all public occasions throughout the
tour. On King George's accession I published the facts in an article
in the _Canadian Magazine_, but the tale did not down. It will be
recalled that the Archbishop of Canterbury himself ultimately decided
to issue a refutation of the alleged bibulous habits of the sovereign.
In 1901 he may have taken an occasional Scotch and soda (he would have
been mad to refuse considering his physical condition) but in 1908
when he visited the Quebec Tercentenary as Prince of Wales he drank
only oatmeal water.

There was an amusing incident at the old Highland Scottish settlement,
Alexandria in Glengarry county, the first point in Ontario at which
the Royal train stopped. The local brass band was at the station to do
honour to the Royal pair. A bearded old piper, who thought they should
be received with Scottish honours, was also on the scene, and started
a pibroch in rivalry to the band's performance of the National Anthem.
He blew, and he blew, and he blew, but the brass was too much for him,
so finally he tucked his pipes under his arm and marched off with
offended dignity.

Of all the functions in the East, that which the Duke enjoyed most
was one at the capital, arranged by the lumber magnates of the Ottawa
valley. It included a run down the rapids of Chaudière in rafts,
which, were then towed to a patch of primeval forest near Rockliffe.
Here, French-Canadian rivermen gave a marvellous exhibition of dancing
on revolving logs and other water sports; and later a demonstration
in the woods of the felling, trimming, and loading of trees. On most
occasions we accredited correspondents were expected to wear frock
coats and silk hats, but the night before this outing the Duke sent
word to us that we were to wear ordinary clothes, with bowler or soft
hats. His message was that if anyone appeared in a silk hat he would
go home, and the whole party was to mingle without formality. Part
of the entertainment offered him was a lumberman's meal in a shanty
specially erected. He was not feeling well and did not wish to taste
the pea soup and sea-pie provided for him, but the Duchess took the
upper hand and made him eat a little, and she tackled the viands with
apparent relish. Afterwards there were _chansons populaires_ by the
workers, and as a _piece de résistance_ Senator Edwards called on
his foreman, a colossal French Canadian, Bill Huissel (pronounced
"whistle"), to make a speech. Most of the rivermen had but a vague
idea of who the Duke was, and one was heard to say that he must have
a "pull with Laurier". "Bill Whistle," a famous character, was quite
unabashed in the presence of royalty, and told the story of his past
life; how he had once been ambitious and started in business for
himself, but had gone $14,000 in debt. "So," he said, "I go to de
Church at Hull and I kneel down and I say, 'Oh, Lord, I have nothing
else to give, so I give you my debts,' and den I go back and work for
Mist' Edwards." His final wish was that the royal pair would live long
and have plenty of money and lots of babies.

I have never seen any man so overcome with laughter as was the Duke
at this speech, and his mirth had an infectious heartiness good to
recall. He came up to another newspaper man, Martin Egan, and myself,
almost doubled up with laughter exclaiming, "Wasn't that the funniest
thing you ever heard?" and under the circumstances it was. What His
Royal Highness seemed to like most about "Bill Whistle" was his
complete unconsciousness of the Duke's rank.

Both in 1901 and 1908 I saw many evidences of his democratic tastes.
Once at the Quebec Tercentenary, when he had become Prince of Wales,
he slipped in quietly at a lacrosse match and quite astonished the
players by strolling out to talk to them at half-time. On that visit
also he caused some heart-burning by refusing a Guard of Honour during
the eight days of his stay except in connection with his arrival and
final departure. The military authorities had had much difficulty
beforehand in adjudicating the claims of many officers to command
guards of honour, and had arranged for a full score of them, but their
trouble was in vain. Quebec at that time was thronged with countless
visitors from the United States who did not know the Prince by sight,
and once I saw a motor car thread its way through a vast crowd on
a plaza near the Château Frontenac, conveying only himself and Sir
Charles Cust in addition to the chauffeur. In all the crowd only
myself and the late Seymour Butler of the Pinkerton Detective Agency
noted his presence. For this same detective he had a great liking.
Butler had accompanied him across Canada as a personal safety agent
in 1901, and the Duke said to him: "I like you because you don't look
like a detective." Butler to his dying day carried in his inside
pocket two tie-pins, gifts of His Royal Highness. One, given him in
1901, was a replica of the arms of the ancient Ducal house of York,
a red rose with a diamond centre. The other, given in 1908, was a
replica of the three feathers, arms of the Prince of Wales, with a
diamond bar. Butler owned a pair of race horses, and during the Royal
tour of 1901, when they were often thrown together, they would talk
horseflesh, I was told.

From the mere standpoint of retrospect the tour of the West was a
great experience for me. I saw places which are now well-equipped
modern cities with beautifully paved streets and fine buildings,
in their embryonic state; though decorated and dressed-up for the
occasion. It was nearly twenty years since the Manitoba land boom, but
Winnipeg was still in a village state with regard to hotel and station
accommodation. The depot was a wretched little building erected at the
time of the original construction of the C. P. R., and in the rush of
visitors it was difficult to get a decent meal. Regina was still in
the pioneer stage with narrow wooden sidewalks and streets of black
mud deeply rutted. Calgary had a few brick and stone buildings, but
its population was only 2,500, and it was the typical Western town of
the motion picture drama with cowboys in town for the royal visit,
galloping wildly up and down its main street. At Calgary we saw a
sight which deeply fascinated the Duke, a review of three squadrons of
the Royal Mounted Police, and the sight of these plainsmen charging
in column on their swift and beautiful horses was thrilling. Some of
them were but recently returned from the South African War and the
Duke insisted on a Guard of Honour, chosen from among them, travelling
as far as the Coast. These men had humorous stories to tell of the
City of London Regiment, largely composed of clerks who had never seen
open country until they got to the Transvaal,--and their bravery and
endurance was admitted. One "Mountie" told me of a London lad who said
to him: "The beastly Boers came and shot at us, while we was eatin'
jam behind a kopje." "Well what do you expect; what brought you out
here anyway?" asked the plainsman. "Oh! I enlisted because father
wouldn't buy me a top-hat," was the reply.

The most magnificent sight of the whole tour was an assemblage of two
thousand Indians in full war paint, assembled from all the tribes of
the West, on a great plateau near Calgary. The chiefs made orations
in their various tribal languages with much oratorical power and
imperturbable dignity; and these were translated by a young Métis
interpreter with a magnificent voice and command of poetic English.
Of all the Indian types I saw, those which most impressed me were the
Sarcees--splendid, wiry men with beautiful aquiline features, who
were dressed only in loin clothes and had rubbed ochre into their
skins to keep themselves warm. Their horses were fine animals, and on
the tail of each, arranged with gum and chrome yellow paint, was a
representation of the sun. Impressive as were the chieftains of the
Bloods, Blackfoots, Crees, Stonies, and other tribes, two of them
succumbed to temptation that night, and were sentenced to confinement
in the Mounted Police Barracks for ten days for being drunk and
disorderly. When the news of this aftermath reached our party at
Banff, some of the English correspondents, who seemed to view them as
of the same quality as Hindu princes, lectured Canadians severely on
the folly of treating distinguished potentates with such indignity.

I need not dwell on the glorious sensations of the impressionable
visitor who sees the Canadian Rockies, the Selkirks, and the Coast
Range for the first time. At Vancouver we witnessed the most memorable
and picturesque illuminations of the whole tour. The great trees of
Stanley Park, on a high bluff over Burrard Inlet, were filled with
lanterns which looked like great luminous oranges; and the spectacle
as our ships passed out into the Gulf of Georgia bound for Victoria
was indescribably lovely. In Vancouver and Victoria were to be seen
the most beautiful of the many arches built in all parts of Canada
for the occasion. At Vancouver, the taste of the Japanese population
revealed itself in an arch covered with gorgeous, sober-tinted silks
and great vases filled with flowers. The imaginative quality of the
Chinese arches was more striking. The happiest thought was an arch
with a host of Chinese babies, brilliantly clad, in countless niches,
located in front of the chief joss house of the Oriental quarter
of Victoria. With Victoria I fell deeply in love. I have thought I
should like to end my days there if I should ever be relieved of
the necessity of earning a livelihood. I conceived a liking for the
Chinese, and one of the pleasantest evenings of my life was spent with
an Oriental musical society composed of cooks and waiters employed in
the upper city, who entertained themselves with a great variety of
quaint instruments. Incidentally I learned more of Chinese musical
modes in that two hours than I have ever gleaned from books.

So far as public enthusiasm was concerned, the visit to Toronto was
the most successful episode of the tour, and after the return to
England, Lord Wenlock, Comptroller of the Royal party, stated that in
this respect Toronto outdid every city of the Empire. The part of the
Ontario trip which the Duke and Duchess enjoyed most was the visit to
the Niagara Peninsula. They were permitted a brief week-end holiday
at Niagara-on-the-Lake and Niagara Falls, and some members of the
party who could slip away went to see the Pan-American Exposition
at Buffalo. On the American side an untoward incident happened. The
Hon. Mr. Odell, Governor of New York State, had come from Albany with
his daughters, expecting the Royal party to cross the river, and was
prepared to extend an official welcome to American soil. But to have
done so would have destroyed one of the sentimental purposes of the
tour--that of sending the Heir Apparent around the world without his
once leaving British soil, a practical demonstration of the existence
of an Empire on which the sun never sets. I doubt if the British
public itself fully realized the true significance of this phase of
the royal tour, because never before had an heir apparent made so
extended a voyage covering every quarter of the globe. Naturally the
Governor was annoyed, and some Buffalo papers were rather insulting at
the failure of the Royal visitors to cross the river.

In order to convey the Royal train to Niagara-on-the-Lake a "Y" had
been hurriedly constructed outside Niagara Falls, Ont., and since it
was not very secure we had to wait a long while at dusk in a great
field, while additional spikes were being driven. The field was filled
with curious spectators from the American side, and when I went out on
the steps of the press car to get a little air, I heard one girl say
to another, "There's the Prince."

The other responded, "No, it ain't! He ain't good-looking enough!"
Next morning one of the Buffalo newspapers had an article ridiculing
the royal visit, and said that the only sight of the Duke vouchsafed
was that of a jaded, stupid looking man standing on the steps of the
train. That was I! The same reporter claimed to have seen a homely
looking woman whom he said was the Duchess, bending over to pack a
trunk. She was, however, a robust maid in the service of the Countess
of Minto, who accompanied the party.

The alleged resemblance of myself to the Royal Family,--a resemblance
founded solely on a beard and fresh complexion,--was the subject of
amusing incidents while on the prairies. There the Royal train ran in
two sections with an interval of twenty minutes between. The first
half contained the correspondents and officials, who would naturally
be the sufferers if an accident occurred,--as was proper. The crowds
in the various prairie towns were unaware of this arrangement, and
many of them had waited for hours for a sight of the Royal pair.
At various points we stopped to take on water or enable the second
section to catch up, and if I stepped out on the station platform for
a little exercise, a band or a chorus of children would strike up "God
Save the King" or "The Maple Leaf". I would usually slink into the
telegraph office until the mistake was discovered.

On the day of His Majesty's arrival at Quebec in 1908 to attend the
Tercentenary I was down on the King's wharf, and, after the welcoming
ceremonies, had to fight my way back through a surging mob of
Frenchmen in the lower town. I was with a rosy Cornishman, the late
Tremenheere Passingham of Montreal, and finally we sought refuge from
the broiling heat in a little French-Canadian bar. As we went up and
ordered beer, a crowd at the other end of the room shouted, "There he
is!" and seemed highly pleased that the Prince of Wales should reveal
such democratic habits. They flocked around and Passingham explained
in French that we were just newspaper men. "Well, he looks like King
Edward anyway," they said, and on that account wished to treat me to
more beer. The change in feeling among the French-Canadian populace
in the seven years between 1901 and 1908 was marked. In 1901 the
South African war was in progress. The attitude was pro-Boer in many
quarters, and relations between England and France were strained. By
1908 the Entente had been effected, and King Edward and his son were
immensely popular with the Quebec people at large.




                             CHAPTER XVII

                     CORONETS AND CORRESPONDENTS


The two visits of the present king to which I have alluded in the
preceding chapter, brought contacts with many interesting and
picturesque men. His personal entourage in 1901 included two men who
have ever since been associated with him, Sir Derek Keppel and Sir
Charles Cust, both members of old naval families, and the latter a
pal of His Majesty in the days of active service at sea. Then there
was the brother of the Duchess, Prince Alexander of Teck, now the
Duke of Athlone, a very striking figure in the hussar uniform he
habitually wore and a superb horseman. The Duke of Roxburghe, a
tall Scottish nobleman, who later married Miss May Goelet of New
York, was an equerry. But the handsomest and merriest man of the
party was Viscount Crichton, who subsequently became Earl of Erne.
Good looks seem characteristic of his family, for his sister Lady
Evelyn Ward, who lived in Canada some years later, was one of the
most beautiful of women. Viscount Crichton was a most charming and
insouciant being. He and the Duke of Roxburghe used to ride on either
side of the royal carriage in the state processions, and in their
guardsmen's uniforms--high boots, doe-skin breeches, and glittering
steel cuirasses and helmets, with flowing white horse-tails--they
gave a marvellous effect of magnificence. The Earl of Erne went to
France with the "Old Contemptibles" and was killed in the first weeks
of the war. His body was not recovered, but more than a year later,
soldiers digging a trench, found a skeleton, and the identification
disc showed it to be the Earl of Erne. I do not know anything that
produced in me a deeper sense of the folly and tragedy of war than
this little episode, for he was physical perfection, and a most
attractive personality. I was at the Citadel, Quebec, on the night
of the arrival of the party, as emissary of the press to receive
the official text of the Royal replies to various addresses, when
Viscount Crichton came strolling in, dressed in tweeds, and glad to
relax after wearing his cuirass all afternoon. The telephone rang,
and the orderly who answered the 'phone seemed puzzled at questions
put him. Seeing Viscount Crichton he saluted and said: "Beg pardon,
sir, but the Consul General of France wishes to know whether he should
wear knee breeches at the state banquet to-night." "Tell the Consul
General of France he may wear whatever he damn pleases," was the
response. The orderly modified the message in this way: "His Royal
Highness's equerry says your Excellency may please himself." At Ottawa
an official investiture was held at which several prominent Canadians,
including the late Lord Shaughnessy (newly created Sir Thomas),
received the accolade. An Ottawa reporter went to Rideau Hall to get
advance details of the ceremony. Viscount Crichton took him into the
chapel, and showed him the paces and forms and finally made him kneel
while he touched his shoulder with the sword of state. I do not know
whether the Heir Apparent ever learned of this usurpation of Royal
prerogative.

In the party also were Sir Donald Mackenzie Wallace, officially
historiographer of the party, who afterwards chronicled its
experiences in _The Web of Empire_ and who had been a diplomat in
Spain during the Spanish-American war. He was very handsome, with
a silver beard, and a man of rare simplicity. Once he asked me to
write down for him the text of the Canadian song, "The Maple Leaf",
and when I could not get beyond the first verse said: "Well, I
don't think I know the second verse of 'God Save the King' myself."
There was a pleasant meeting between Sir Donald and E. F. Knight of
the London _Morning Post_, a famous war correspondent. During the
Spanish-American war, while on the staff of _The Times_, Knight had
tried to slip into Havana in an open boat; and had been captured and
imprisoned as a spy. It was Sir Donald, who, as an official at Madrid,
had obtained his release, and Knight was eternally grateful, for
Havana dungeons differ somewhat from the Hotel Cecil. Still another
member of the party was Sir John Anderson, representing the Colonial
Office, and a noted agricultural expert, who enjoyed himself hugely
among the wheat-fields of the West. There was also Lord Wenlock, a
very quiet man who was kept very busy with business details, and Sir
Arthur Bigge, long in the service of the Royal family as private
secretary, and at all times obliging.

There was another very unobtrusive member of the party who had no
official status, yet who occupied a very intimate relation to the
royal couple. He was a Mr. Jones, at that time schoolmaster of the
village of Sandringham, and had known Prince George from boyhood. The
latter, thinking that a trip around the world would be a boon to a
man of his humble means, contrived to have him travel with the secret
service men. Mr. Jones performed a very charming personal service
for the future King and Queen. They were passionately attached to
their children, but owing to their multifarious engagements had no
time to write home. Each day Mr. Jones would write a lengthy letter
to the royal children, describing everything their father and mother
were doing and submit it to their Royal Highnesses, who would add a
message of love, and send it to Sandringham. He also kept a scrap book
of newspaper reports and pictures for the royal youngsters. Mr. Jones
was himself, I suspect, rather lonely and uncomfortable, inasmuch as
he was generally regarded as a detective; and we got on confidential
terms. From him I learned much of the democratic sympathies of King
George. In Sandringham, he told me, it was not etiquette to treat
the Royal family with obeisance, other than the cordial respect that
the British villager feels toward the family of the squire; and it
was the pleasure of the future King and Queen to drop into his and
other cottages, while out strolling on fine evenings, and take a
cup of tea on neighbourly terms. It is my surmise that Mr. Jones
fulfilled another function. He was a keen observer and probably made
an independent report on everything that happened during the tour
from the standpoint of the outsider. Some things were mismanaged in
connection with the Canadian visit, and I gathered from Mr. Jones
that His Royal Highness regretted them deeply. The chief companion
of the Duchess was a sister of Earl Beauchamp, Lady Mary Lygon, who
had a tie with Canada, since she was a grand-daughter of Sir Allan
MacNab of "Dundurn", Hamilton, Ont., the man who suppressed the
Mackenzie Rebellion in Upper Canada and who was Sir John Macdonald's
predecessor as leader of the Tory party.

The most interesting visitors, however, were the correspondents, all
noted London journalists, some of whom had accompanied the party to
all parts of the Empire. They had been too long thrown together in
close quarters and were disposed to quarrel over small matters, but
individually they were very attractive. The most interesting was the
splendid old pagan, Melton Prior, for many years artist-correspondent
of the _Illustrated London News_, who had seen every part of the
world, and under a cynical exterior cherished a very sensitive nature.
I remember he was deeply wounded by the official artist of the
party, whose position gave him special privileges, and who was the
only snob in the entourage. Melton Prior had befriended this man on
many occasions, but when he joined the party at Quebec, the official
artist, obsessed with his special prestige, elected not to notice
him. However, Melton Prior in many quarters received almost as much
attention as the Duke himself, for he had countless friends in every
quarter of the globe. Lord Minto was especially glad to see him, for
once when, as Lord Melgund, he had been an officer in Egypt, Prior had
helped to save his life when he was utterly exhausted. Prior, who had
campaigned with Frederic Villiers, Archibald Forbes, and all the old
time war-correspondents, before censorship took the romance out of the
calling, was full of humour and yarns and could make excruciatingly
funny caricatures. Of the celebrated campaigners of the party the
one I liked best was E. F. Knight, to whom I have already alluded.
He was a born adventurer, and a man of colossal physique. A year or
two previously he had lost an arm in the South African war, through
venturing farther into the danger zone than any man responsible to a
newspaper had a right to go. The adventure at Havana had cost him his
position with the London _Times_, but his services had at once been
requisitioned by the _Morning Post_. He had an intense dislike for
the late Moberly Bell, at that time managing director of _The Times_.
Knight, three or four years later, went to Manchuria as correspondent
in the Russo-Japanese war. One day the cable despatches announced his
death near Port Arthur, through having gotten within range of fire
from the forts, and I wrote a glowing obituary editorial about him in
the _Mail and Empire_, only to learn six months later that he was safe
and sound. Among the stories he told me was of having swum across the
Zambesi River with a bottle of Scotch whiskey under each arm. These he
had gone to procure in order really to enjoy Christmas. A tornado came
up and he was nearly drowned, but he managed to reach land safely with
his cargo.

_The Times_ correspondent was a Mr. Vincent, who had enjoyed few
of the exciting experiences of some of his comrades, but who was
in favour with the Royal family owing to his judicious handling
of an assignment in connection with the last illness and death of
Queen Victoria. Vincent was a very handsome man and had been editor
of _Country Life_, but to the other correspondents he was rather
a nuisance. He had an especial pull with Major Maude, afterwards
Major General Sir Aylmer Maude, the heroic conqueror of Mesopotamia.
Major Maude, as Military Secretary to Lord Minto, had been placed in
charge of the arrangements for the tour, and so far as the press was
concerned left matters largely to Vincent. Thus if _The_ _Times_ man
decreed that the correspondents should cut certain towns, because he
wanted to stay in a city he liked, the press car was detached. To
Canadian correspondents, who were expected to send reports from these
towns covering local celebrations, this sort of thing was a serious
hindrance and exasperating. It was almost as annoying to English
correspondents who resented the favouritism shown _The Times_.

Moberly Bell, managing director of _The Times_, happened to be in
America when the tour commenced and came on to Quebec to see the
spectacle. He was of Levantine blood, a very tall man with hawk-like
features and a loud manner of attire that suited his Oriental
appearance. Just previously he had gone to Buffalo to cover the
assassination of President McKinley. He was a guest at the first
State dinner in Quebec and, I was told, disgusted Sir Wilfrid
Laurier and Arthur Guise, at that time Comptroller of the Household
for Lord Minto, very much. The entire membership of the McKinley
cabinet had moved from Washington to Buffalo, and were holding a
cabinet meeting at the home where the President died. Bell, who had
plenty of assurance, broke in on the assemblage, and was by courtesy
permitted to remain. At Quebec he related the whole proceedings. Such
proceedings are supposed to be of inviolate secrecy, and the verdict
of his auditors was that Moberly Bell, whatever his abilities, was not
a gentleman.

Among the correspondents who had been around the Empire was William
Maxwell of the London _Standard_ and afterwards of the London _Daily
Mail_. Maxwell had been a reporter in Glasgow who had risen very
rapidly and had been present as a correspondent at the taking of
Khartoum by Lord Kitchener. He told us of having one day entered the
Madhi's Tomb and discovered a band of Egyptian soldiers looting it.
Though armed only with a walking cane he commanded them to stop, and
being a Britisher he was obeyed. He told of the wonderful chain mail
the Tomb contained; shirts so fine that they could be held in the palm
of the hand, one of which he was permitted to retain as a reward for
his peremptory action.

Another Scotsman was Douglas Story, who had won much fame by his
descriptive articles on the South African War, written for the London
_Daily Mail_. The late James Gordon Bennett liked them so much that he
engaged him for the _New York Herald_, permitting him to retain the
Northcliffe connection for a time, so that he represented two great
newspapers _en tour_. Story, a long dour Celt with a brilliant style,
elected to remain in America and was for a time editor of _Munsey's
Magazine_, and I have often wondered since what became of him.

The Canadian among the group of correspondents who had enjoyed the
most adventurous career was Marc Sauvelle of _La Presse_, Montreal, a
gigantic man, who in youth had been a member of the Garde National of
France, and had, I believe, fought in the Franco-Prussian war. Later
he had conducted a French newspaper in Mexico City, and had run foul
of one of Mexico's many upstart governments. Instead of being placed
against a wall and shot, as his knowledge of Mexican custom had led
him to expect, he was deported. He finally settled in Montreal, where
he was the most distinguished figure on the French-Canadian press. He
still wore the "imperial" of an old soldier of Emperor Napoleon the
Third, and with his towering inches was the most impressive figure in
the whole party.

The quietest, and as time has shown, the ablest member of the whole
group of correspondents, was a young man not yet thirty, who a few
years previously had been a cub reporter on the Victoria (B.C.)
_Colonist_, and whose name was Martin Egan, now of the great banking
house of J. P. Morgan & Co. Egan was a native of San Francisco and
had entered newspaper work as a mere lad and served in various coast
cities. In the late nineties he returned to his home city and joined
the staff of the San Francisco _Chronicle_. On the outbreak of the
Boxer troubles in China he was sent thither, and the terseness and
accuracy of his news despatches led to his being engaged by Melville
Stone of the Associated Press. Some of the British correspondents on
the Royal tour were destined to meet Egan within three years at Tokio
where he represented the A. P. in the Russo-Japanese war. I saw him at
Toronto in the early autumn of 1903 when he was en route to the Far
East. He said that his chief was satisfied that there was going to
be war, and was sending him to Tokio to await events. If war did not
eventuate, there were plenty of other matters in the East that needed
attention from an American standpoint. The result of his early arrival
was that the Japanese Government which had not only resolved to fight
Russia, but to abolish the old-fashioned type of war correspondence by
the establishment of a rigid censorship, decided that all news should
be transmitted to other correspondents through him. Thus he became
known as "The Mikado's press agent". It must have been a surprise to
some of the august war-correspondents from London, who had known him
first as a modest young reporter on the Royal tour, to discover that
their activities were subject to his discretion. It was at Tokio he
married a young and gifted girl correspondent, Eleanor Franklin, of
_Leslie's Weekly_, whose travel articles subsequently became known to
millions of readers and whose death in January, 1925, removed the most
brilliant of women news-correspondents.

I know of no other newspaper man who has been more fully on the inside
of things in the present century than Martin Egan, and if he ever
writes a book it will be one of first importance and brimming with
humour as well. When the Japanese Government reached the conclusion
that though victorious in a military sense it was financially at the
end of its tether, and must make peace on the best terms possible,
it was through Egan that the request for President Roosevelt's
intervention was first conveyed. It was transmitted in cipher to
Melville Stone, President of the A. P., who laid the situation before
the great Theodore, and the Treaty of Portsmouth, New Hampshire,
so bitter a disappointment to the millions of Nippon, was the
ultimate result. Subsequently, when J. P. Morgan became financial
representative of the European Allies in the Great War, it was Egan
who stood between the great financier and the reporters, so that all
important disclosures with regard to war finance from this side of the
Atlantic came through him.

While we were chumming together on the Royal tour in 1901 Egan told
me of having witnessed the looting of the Empress Dowager's Palace at
Peking, during the Boxer troubles a few months previously. He said he
had never been so much disgusted with white men in his life; and he
thought those few hours when an orgy of theft reigned among the troops
of the intervening nations, must have had a deplorable effect on the
Chinese mind. Of all the whites in China during that hectic period,
those who disgusted him most were the Russians. He said that at
Tien-Tsin he saw a Russian officer take away a bowl of candies from a
Chinese child, who was selling sweets on the streets, and when the boy
asked for payment, knock him dead with the hilt of his sword. Egan,
a man of fine physique, was about to rush in and knock the murderer
down, when an American officer restrained him with a sharp word; and
told him he would probably be shot, if as a civilian he assaulted a
European officer.

Before leaving the subject of the interesting men who girdled Canada
in that most important and extensive of Royal tours in this country,
I should mention a young soldier named Capt. A. C. Bell, one of
the household of Lord Minto, who had been in charge of the Maxim
Gun Section with the First Canadian Contingent in South Africa. He
later became A. C. Morrison-Bell, M.P., whose efforts to reform the
inequalities of electoral representation in the British House of
Commons are known to all political students. He fought through the
Great war as a major in his old regiment, the Scots Guards.

When the present King came to Quebec for the Tercentenary in 1908
there was not only an enormous influx of tourists from the United
States, but a visitation of eminent Britons. Lord Grey, the then
Governor General, had been particularly anxious that the celebration
should be not merely a harking back to the achievements of the French
régime, but a demonstration of the modern status of the British
Empire. Consequently military and naval displays took equal place
with the historical pageants and nationalist ceremonials. The result
was a spectacle that for variety and vividness will not be equalled
in Canada in this century at any rate. A figure who attracted even
more attention than His Royal Highness was Lord Roberts. The great
soldier had one especial quality; and that was personal distinction.
Most military commanders lose something of impressiveness when in
mufti, but Lord Roberts's appearance was possibly even more arresting
in a silk hat and frock coat than in the uniform of a Field Marshal,
a fact which may perhaps be attributed to his height, which was below
the average. A tour of Canada, independent of the Tercentenary,
had been projected for him, and this became a sore trial for the
correspondents from other parts of Canada. Quebec was overflowing with
delegations from all the cities of Ontario requesting a visit from
him, and as each new coterie arrived he would courteously receive them
and promise to include their town in his itinerary. His willingness
to oblige everybody kept Major Septimus Denison, who had been his
A.D.C. in South Africa, and was again serving in that capacity, almost
frantic with efforts to frame a schedule which was being almost
hourly altered. I was myself in receipt of many telegrams relayed
to me from the _Mail and Empire_ office at Toronto asking for exact
information as to when Lord Roberts would be in Orillia, or Sarnia,
or Niagara Falls, as the case might be. Sometimes these would arrive
in the middle of the night, with a demand for an immediate reply,
and my news editor was anxious for an official itinerary. The heat
was intense, and I surmised that it was affecting the old soldier
seriously, and that he was making promises in a bewildered state of
mind, with small realization of the responsibilities he was incurring.
One night I wired my office; "R. is mad with the heat; itinerary is
useless; it won't be observed." How this message got about I know not,
but before I left Quebec several persons reproached me with having
wired disrespectful language about a great hero. Yet events turned out
exactly as I had predicted, for after trying to fill one engagement at
Montreal, Lord Roberts's health broke down, and he was ordered home by
physicians.

Of the many notabilities at Quebec one of the most interesting was
the late Duke of Norfolk, the leading Catholic nobleman of England,
who went about with a smile and a kindly word for everyone. The
Duke's clothes were a wonder to look upon, for his position in the
world permitted him to please himself in the matter of attire, in
which he had much wider liberty than royalty. He wore a battered old
square-topped felt hat, at least five years old. I sometimes see these
hats in Canadian cities, but have never found out where they may be
purchased. His square-cut sack suit seemed to have been made by his
housekeeper; his beard was neglected, and yet he had a very striking
and rugged personality. After seeing him at Quebec I could believe the
yarn told afterward that he went to the Coronation of King George, of
which as hereditary Garter King of Arms he was chief functionary, in a
tramcar, carrying his coronet under one arm in a newspaper parcel and
his robe over the other.

In a physical sense at least the two most attractive celebrities
who accompanied their future sovereign to Quebec, were the late Sir
Reginald Pole-Carew, scion of two great English families of the middle
ages; and his Irish wife, a daughter of the Duke of Ormonde, who
as Lady Beatrice Butler had been known as the most beautiful woman
in England. I have never seen a more perfect embodiment of physical
loveliness, with a complexion of rich apricot hue, glorious chestnut
hair, eyes of warm grey tint, perfect form and features, and pearly
white teeth. Even Mrs. Langtry in her prime could not approach Lady
Beatrice Pole-Carew for beauty, and she looked her very best in a
simple mauve muslin frock as I saw her one Sunday in a little Anglican
church, the oldest of that communion in Quebec. And Sir Reginald,
though not quite so tall, was a match for her in physical perfections
of a masculine order. On horseback he and his mount seemed one
creation.

One of the smaller disconcerting episodes which always mark great
celebrations arose in connection with the coming of M. Léon Herbette,
chief representative of the Republic of France. His selection
was singularly tactless, for he had been one of the politicians
responsible for the recent expulsion of religious orders from France;
and to four hundred of the dispossessed Quebec had given shelter. The
Tercentenary celebrations opened with a great open air mass, and when
the Archbishop of Quebec learned of Herbette's political history he
refused to invite him among the other guests of honour. As envoy of
France, Herbette was the guest at Spencerwood of the late Sir Louis
Jetté, the Lieutenant Governor. Sir Louis at once informed His Grace
that, rather than violate the rules of hospitality by attending the
open air mass without his guest, he would stay away, and so he did.

The American envoy was the Hon. Charles W. Fairbanks, Vice-President,
who arrived on the U.S. Warship _New Hampshire_. He was a popular
figure in Quebec, where some years previously he had presided over
a joint high commission to settle certain outstanding international
disputes; and in conversation I found him a very pleasant man. But he
annoyed the New York correspondents and other of the American visitors
very much by standing erect in his carriage in the official procession
and seeming to claim greater honours than the Prince of Wales himself.
To some of his fellow-countrymen his aspiration to succeed Roosevelt
as President, on which he later expended a fortune, was known.
Frank Jones of the _New York Herald_ and Sam Williams of the _New
York World_, two of the ablest men in the metropolitan journalistic
fraternity, were especially annoyed; and I have frequently noted that
American newspaper correspondents are particularly sensitive with
regard to any compatriot who "shows off".

On that visit I encountered another international celebrity, none
other than the famous pickpocket, "The Bald-Faced Kid". With the great
influx of visitors scores of pickpockets and crooks also arrived, and
in their wake followed a host of detectives, who realized that gentry
they had long been looking for, would probably appear at a celebration
which offered unique professional opportunities.

His Royal Highness came on H.M.S. _Indomitable_, the great battleship
cruiser which played a distinguished part in the Battle of Jutland,
and in 1908 the _dernier cri_ in naval construction. Half an hour
before the time scheduled for arrival I took up my position in the
octagonal room of the Château Frontenac, which I knew would command
a capital view of the spectacle. A beautiful sight it was to see
the ships round Indian cove, for the North Atlantic squadron was
supplemented by two French cruisers and an American warship. The
room was filled with spectators, and beside me stood a clean-shaven
man in a black lustre coat, a white tie, and the general make-up of
a preacher from the Middle West. As the ships appeared he asked me
which was the _Indomitable_ and I was able to identify her by the
tripod masts, which I knew had been revived when she was constructed.
He continued to chat pleasantly and just as the royal convoy dropped
anchor and the firing of salutes commenced, he apparently noticed for
the first time a young lady with a camera. In a very polite manner,
he asked her whether she would like to get up to the windows and
escorted her through the crowd, his pleasant address making an easy
path for her. He then made his way back to his former post at my side
and was resuming conversation, when a hard-faced personage, standing
behind us, leaned forward, tapped him on the shoulder and whispered:
"Come along!" My clerical friend protested that he wished to stay
and see the disembarkation. "Come along," said the other in sinister
undertones, "Don't make any fuss or, damn you, I'll show you who I
am." With an air of resignation the ministerial person departed.
No one among the two hundred people in the room had noticed the
episode except myself. A little later I made enquiries at the office,
and found that the courteous gentleman with the white tie was the
illustrious "Bald Faced Kid", master pickpocket. "I've been trailing
him for two days," said the detective, "and I knew he would get busy
as soon as the guns started firing. You didn't see it, but he dipped
into three pockets on his way back from the window. We caught two of
his pals working crowds at other windows just at the same time."
It was the neatest and quietest achievement in thief-taking I ever
witnessed. Throughout the fifteen minutes I had been talking to the
stranger a large sum in expense money had been in a pocket almost
under his hand, and I still wonder why he spared me. Possibly the job
looked too easy for an expert of his calibre.




                            CHAPTER XVIII

                        A SHEAF OF CELEBRITIES


The past twenty years has witnessed a great change in Canadian cities
in the number of celebrities who come to their gates. The twentieth
century is the age of globe-trotting; and for eminent Britons Canada
is now part of the Imperial pathway around the world. But in my
boyhood and early manhood the visits of famous men were few and far
between, and were talked of for weeks afterward. The same condition
prevailed throughout most of the nineteenth century in the United
States. Witness the great amount of reminiscent literature that has
grown up around the single visit of Thackeray. That early American
institution, the public lecture, was in the past responsible for most
of the visitations that relieved the smaller civic communities of
their parochial atmosphere. In glancing through old newspaper files I
have encountered references to visits to Canada by Ralph Waldo Emerson
and Matthew Arnold. In one of the essays of the latter there is a
satirical jibe about Torontonians who whiled away long winter evenings
in theological discussion, a fruitless pursuit in Arnold's eyes. I
am not old enough to recall these events; but I distinctly remember
the furore, forty odd years ago, over the coming of the apostle of
aestheticism, Oscar Wilde. Sir Johnston Forbes-Robertson has since
revealed that this American tour was an advertising dodge devised by
D'Oyly Carte to advertise the forthcoming production of Gilbert and
Sullivan's _Patience_, in which the aesthetic vagaries of Wilde were
satirized. But in most cities his lectures and his costumes were taken
quite seriously. I remember my mother describing his sage green velvet
suit with knee breeches, silk stockings, buckled shoes, lace cuffs and
shirt ruffles, and voluminous velvet cloak, which he unfastened and
laid aside as he commenced to speak in studied dulcet tones. Whether
his visit was an advertising dodge or not, it assuredly did much good.
He fascinated women and started them thinking about making their
deplorably ugly homes more attractive. To-day the poor salaried man
as a rule lives in a more attractive interior than did the wealthiest
citizens in 1880. It is my privilege to relate an episode with regard
to Wilde which has never been published. The heroine was at that time
a spindle-legged little girl with gypsy eyes, and hair that would not
stay in place, who later developed into a very handsome woman and
met a tragic end when the _Lusitania_ was sunk. She had the run of
the Queen's Hotel, Toronto, the most historic caravansary in Canada,
in whose "Red Parlour" many celebrities have reposed during the past
seventy years. This lass, with her autograph album, was in the habit
of holding up notabilities for their signatures, and because of
her youth was never refused. So when she heard everyone talking of
Oscar Wilde, she made up her mind to add him to her list of victims.
The hotel clerk sent up word to the Red Parlour that a young lady
wished to see him; and Wilde, who in those days was susceptible to
feminine attentions, replied that he would receive her. In answer to
the child's timid knock came a request to enter; and as she opened
the door, she saw a majestic, cloaked figure posed gracefully
against the marble mantel-piece. When, instead of a love-sick maiden,
Oscar descried a scraggy elf, he gave a start of surprise, and the
frightened youngster had difficulty in stating her errand. He wrote
his signature, and then commenced to unbend.

"What are your favourite studies, my child?" he asked in gentle tones.
She was the kind of little girl who had no favourite studies, and was
immediately at a loss. But realizing that it was up to her to name
one, she gave a gulp and ejaculated "'Rithmetic!"

In after years she recalled the look of pain that swept across Wilde's
ample countenance. "Ah! my child, that is not well," he said. "You
should study history and poetry."

Then he continued, "What is your favourite flower, my child?" In her
embarrassment, she had difficulty in thinking of anything, but finally
an inspiration came to her:

"Geranyums," she whispered.

This was too much! Oscar seized a large bunch of calla lilies from his
desk and presented them to her with the words: "Good-bye, my child;
consider the lilies!"

Certainly he must have felt that there was room for aesthetic
evangelization among the youth of Canada.

       *       *       *       *       *

When I read of the rubbish that is now being written about
"Fundamentalism", it brings back to mind the pow-wow there arose,
the echoes of which reached childish ears, over a visit from the
great preacher and orator, the Rev. Henry Ward Beecher, who took
as his subject "Evolution and Revolution" and espoused mildly
modernist ideas. My mother and her friends fell in love with his
noble appearance, his rosy clean-shaven countenance and silver hair,
and his glorious voice. But for weeks parsons were busy writing to
the newspapers denouncing views which were then deemed radical. The
women of our circle were loyal in their admiration for Beecher when,
about that time, an attempt was made to smirch his name with a dirty
scandal. They would not believe that so noble a being was guilty;
at any rate, if it was true, they argued, it was the woman who had
trapped him, and he was really blameless. I am afraid that a man less
handsome and charming would not have fared so well.

Beecher as a personality and speaker was many notches higher than
his successor at Brooklyn Tabernacle, the Rev. T. DeWitt Talmadge. I
reported one of the latter's last lectures in this country, and a more
raucous type of professional "spell-binder" I have never heard. He
lectured on his recent travels abroad, and of that journey a curious
but authentic story was told. Part of his itinerary included a tour
of Greece and Palestine; and before leaving New York he wrote out a
series of sermons to be syndicated and released at intervals. These
sermons were to be preached on the same spots as various sermons
mentioned in the New Testament: a sermon on the Mount of Olives; a
sermon on the steps of the Temple at Jerusalem; a sermon on Mars
Hill at Athens (_vide_ St. Paul); a sermon by the waters of Jordan,
where after the manner of St. Philip he baptized an Ethiopian. The
Ethiopian in this case was said to have been a wandering Arab whom he
bribed with a piastre to submit to being ducked. The fact that all
the syndicated sermons were "staged", and had no audiences except
Talmadge's party, apparently did not discredit him with his admirers.

He had a gift for seeming to weep, and allowing his voice to break
with emotion, which could not fool anyone acquainted with the
technique of acting, but moved many listeners. I watched him bring
forth this bag of tricks in describing the scenes of the Indian
Mutiny; but the richest part of his discourse was an account of his
visit to the Czar and Czarina of that time (_circa_ 1890). "I had been
instructed in all the forms of court etty-quette," he said, "but when
I saw that magnificent man; I forgot them. I was so overcome with
emotion that I rushed up to him and gave him a good hearty Amurrican
handshake, just like that" (suiting the action to the word).

Then he went on to relate that the Czar had said he was proud to meet
an "Amurrican", and had added, "The Czarina wants to see you." He told
how he had interviewed "that bee-utiful woman" in a garden of roses,
and had also given her a good Amurrican handshake. Shouted at the
top of his voice, this kind of tosh was appalling, but apparently it
delighted his admirers.

I also heard the renowned orator, Robert G. Ingersoll, on his final
lecture tour; but on the night in question it was pouring rain and he
had such a heavy cold that I could not judge of the "silver voice"
which had been famous for a generation. The mere fact that he was able
to speak at all showed, however, that he was a master of modulation
and did not abuse the ears of his audiences with the raucous flights
of many other popular speakers. He had Lloyd George's ability to make
himself interesting even when very sick. His subject was "Burns", and
the thing about the Scottish poet that seemed to interest him most
was his war against conventions and "Holy Willies". He declared that
it was the aim of organized religion everywhere to destroy the freedom
of the spirit, but did not touch on questions of orthodoxy, or say
anything to indicate that he was an "atheist".

Of all the public lecturers and entertainers of the eighties and
nineties, the most popular so far as I was able to judge was Mark
Twain. I did not hear him myself, but after his visits my elders would
exchange notes for days on his quips and stories, and discuss his
dry and solemn mode of delivery. Incidentally I may relate that Mark
Twain had enjoyed a community of bad judgment with the Hon. George
Brown, the famous Liberal leader and editor of the _Globe_. When Prof.
Graham Bell perfected his invention of the telephone at Brantford,
Ont., he approached Mark Twain with a request for financial backing.
The latter not only laughed at the proposal, but made the telephone
the subject of bitter ridicule in a short sketch published in the
_Atlantic Monthly_ in 1878, which I have read, but which I think
was suppressed in his collected writings. About the same time Bell
approached the Hon. George Brown, to whom he owed money for promotion
advertising in the _Globe_, and offered him a block of Bell Telephone
stock in payment. Brown roughly ordered him from his office with the
words: "Take away your toy, I want money." When Brown was assassinated
in 1879 he was in financial difficulties and he left his newspaper
in a sorry plight. That block of stock would have been a permanent
endowment. Mark Twain had similar hard luck. He advanced a great deal
more money than the sum Bell requested, on another and worthless
invention, which helped to bankrupt him ultimately.

After Mark Twain left the lecture and entertainment rostrum the most
popular platform figure among the American literary coterie was the
Indiana poet, James Whitcomb Riley, whose verse enjoyed immense vogue
thirty years ago. The distinction of Riley's work lay in the fact
that though written in "Hoosier" dialect it was real poetry, and
the best of it will live for that reason. During the twenty years
between 1880 and 1900, fostered largely by Richard Watson Gilder,
editor of the _Century_ Magazine, there was a veritable scourge of
dialect in American fiction and verse, most of which is utterly
forgotten; some, like the Tennessee novels of Miss Murfree (Charles
Egbert Craddock), undeservedly. But Riley, who as a young man was a
deep student of Shakespeare, Herrick, and Keats, knew how to make
music out of the crude speech of his own people. Of the host of verse
writers whom he inspired to similar efforts, only one succeeded in
capturing his spirit. That was Dr. W. H. Drummond, of Montreal, whose
French-Canadian lyrics and ballads were clearly inspired by the
methods of Riley.

On the public platform, Riley was a wistful little figure with an
owlish face, a soft drawling voice that nevertheless carried very
well, and a personality that instinctively won his listeners. He
could evoke tears by the unexaggerated tenderness of his utterance
in such a line as "Well, good-bye, Jack, take keer of yourself". He
had a failing for alcohol, which I believe was conquered in after
life, that made his engagements uncertain; and quarrelled with his
platform partners on that account. One of his tours was with the
annalist of the Louisana creoles, George W. Cable, who, however, made
no impression as a reader of his own tales. Bill Nye, the humourist,
with whom he subsequently toured, was a better drawing card, but was
guilty of a very brutal action when, at Rochester (I think), he went
out on the platform and said, "I regret to announce that my colleague,
Mr. Riley, is drunk," and was hissed for his pains. On one of his
visits to Toronto it was necessary to rush Riley to a Turkish bath
and delay the opening of the programme until half past nine, but when
he did arrive he so charmed his hearers that they felt well repaid
for their waiting. Afterward I had supper with him and he must have
drunk at least three quarts of strong coffee, but was full of droll,
philosophic comment on things in general. He had taken a great fancy
to some nature verses of mine, and afterwards wrote me urging that I
should not allow the poet in me to be submerged by newspaper work. But
unfortunately few verse-writers are so fortunate in securing popular
support as Riley, who earned a substantial income from his poetry.

I do not suppose any popular poet has been so soon forgotten as Sir
Edwin Arnold. Thirty years or so ago everyone was reading and talking
of _The Light of Asia_, and his later volumes commanded a wide market.
He was a very fine-looking man with a rosy face and short white beard,
but a very dull reader of his own work. In connection with one of
his appearances, I heard Goldwin Smith perpetrate a most bare-faced
example of possibly ambiguous flattery. As Chairman he said: "I once
said to another Arnold, Matthew Arnold, that he was the last of the
great poets; to-night I amend that view in favour of a later Arnold,
the poet who is with us to-night."

Very few literary men are interesting interpreters of their own work.
I omit references to the later men who have come across the ocean
since the war, but for sheer dulness it would be difficult to equal
Conan Doyle's readings. Even the most dramatic passages from some of
his fine romantic tales seemed incredibly tedious as he read them; and
Sir Anthony Hope Hawkins was almost as bad.

Nearly all the celebrities I have mentioned toured under the direction
of a typical Yankee showman, the late Major Pond. A close friend of
mine, Will J. Wright, at one time Paris correspondent of the _New York
Herald_, was for a time his European representative. He was in the
habit of cabling Wright to book such and such a celebrity; and when
Wright would cable back that the task was impossible his sole retort
was: "Pay him what he wants!" Major Pond's motto was "Money Talks",
and Wright knew it meant dismissal if he failed to make an effort to
carry out orders. Once he was instructed to book Lord Tennyson for one
hundred appearances. He knew that he might as well attempt to book the
Angel Gabriel. In addition to Tennyson's dislike of public appearances
he had learned that the laureate, though he had written movingly of
the sea, was afraid to trust his life on it. However, in obedience to
orders he went to the Isle of Wight where the laureate was making a
temporary sojourn and discovered that he was in the habit of sitting
for an hour every morning on a stone overlooking the English channel
and meditating while he smoked evil-smelling shag. Next day Wright
took possession of the stone and, when the poet arrived and hovered
about with a look of annoyance, at once offered to vacate. Tennyson
was pleased at this courtesy from a stranger and entered into
conversation. Wright told him he was an American and gently broached
the question of whether he contemplated visiting the United States
before he died, assuring him of the enthusiastic receptions that would
be accorded him. The laureate seemed pleased, but said he could not
think of it at his age. Wright had performed his duty, and Tennyson
never knew that he had been sounded by a lecture manager.

Another order Wright received from Major Pond was to book Ibsen for
a lecture tour. "Pay him what he wants, and tell him we will provide
an interpreter," was the instruction. Wright, knowing that he might
be received with insult, went to Christiania, and had the good luck
to run across a Norwegian whom he had known in Minneapolis, who,
having accumulated a fortune, had returned to his native land. This
friend said he knew Ibsen and would introduce Wright to him in the
café where the dramatist was accustomed to sit for an hour or two
every afternoon. Ibsen proved to be in a pleasant mood and, after
champagne had been served once or twice, grew expansive. Wright then
made his proposition, and the dramatist at once flew into a rage: "No,
I will not go to America," he said, "it is a nation of thieves." Then
he drew from his pocket a list of managers, actors, and actresses,
very comprehensive, who had produced plays of his without paying
him royalties. He had probably obtained these through his son, Dr.
Sigurd Ibsen, at one time an attaché at Washington. "All thieves, all
pirates!" he said. "If I went there they would rob me again." But
presently he calmed down and said he meant no reflection on Wright,
who had made him a very generous offer. Then he did something quite
unprecedented with him--ordered another quart of champagne--so that
the waiters wondered who the hypnotic stranger could be.

Thirty years ago when the Ibsen craze was at its height I got a cold
_douche_ with regard to the great genius of the modern theatre. A
young Danish count came to Canada from Aalborg, to study agriculture,
and knowing that Ibsen had lived for a time at Copenhagen I asked if
he had ever seen him. "Yes," he said, "both he and Bjornsen were often
guests of my father when I was a child." "What was he like?" I asked.
"He was an old bore," said the count; "he used to tell stale stories
and get angry if everyone did not laugh." Even genius has its foibles
and frailties.

Major Pond, who wanted the big end of the stick in all his dealings,
met his match in the present Chancellor of the Exchequer, the Rt.
Hon. Winston Spencer Churchill. Pond recognized that the latter, as
the son of the most famous of America's international beauties, Lady
Randolph Churchill, would be an immense drawing card on this side of
the Atlantic, and engaged him to tour and lecture on the South African
War, in which he had had many exciting adventures. Churchill, who knew
nothing of the economics of the lecture business in America, made an
improvident contract which gave Pond about nine-tenths of the profits.
He had not been on tour very long before he realized that he had been
duped, and at Toronto he went on strike. Pond smoked many long cigars
over the problem. "Churchill is a genius," he said to the reporters,
"some day he will be Prime Minister of England,--but like all
geniuses he is temperamental,--very temperamental." But he found that
temperament was combined with a good deal of obstinacy, and finally
conceded a fair division of profits.

One of the most interesting of British public men whom I encountered
in my early days as a reporter, was the famous pioneer of the
parliamentary Labour party, James Kier Hardie. In the early nineties
a petty controversy in which Hardie was involved excited world-wide
attention. On his election to the House of Commons he entered that
august chamber wearing a workingman's tweed cap. Mr. Speaker took
exception to his head-gear, ruling that any kind of a hat was
admissible, but not a cap. Hardie refused to remove it and was
suspended. It was one of the silly things that used to happen before
the Great War made the world serious, and Hardie's cap became an
international sensation. A few months after the incident he came to
America to attend a Labour convention, and dropped off in Toronto
at midnight, took a stroll around the city, and left early in the
morning. But by good luck I happened to get an exclusive interview
with him. He laughed at the cap episode, and I found him quite
different from the ruffian he had been painted by some ponderous
leader writers. He spoke a broad Glasgow accent, but I found him very
well versed in Swinburne and other poets. Modern poetry, he said,
was the poetry of revolt, and he made predictions as to the part
that Labour was destined to play in British politics. At the same
time he had good words to say for the British land-holding classes.
At that time the doctrines of Henry George and Edward Bellamy were
to the fore, and the "mortgage on the homestead" was much discussed
in America. It was Hardie's opinion that the British farmer under
leasehold to ancient territorial magnates like the Earl of Derby
was better off than the American or Canadian farmer paying interest
on a mortgage. Of course Hardie had no means of knowing how much
exaggeration there was in the propaganda for a single tax on land.

At that time also the Fabian essays of George Bernard Shaw were
being widely read, and I was also deeply interested in the dramatic
criticisms signed "G. B. S." which were appearing in the _Saturday
Review_. I asked Hardie if he knew Shaw. "Of course I do," he said,
"he is one of the symptoms of the spirit of revolt that I just spoke
of, and which is influencing all the younger writers. I can give you
an interesting bit of news, too, since you seem to follow the theatre.
Shaw has written a play!"

He then told me all about _Arms and the Man_, which he said had
been privately printed, but which no manager would dare produce as
a commercial proposition. The play seems tame enough in comparison
with Shaw's later dramas, but such was the benighted condition of
the London theatre thirty years ago. Hardie advised me to write to
Shaw and ask for a copy. "He will certainly send you one," he said,
"because, between ourselves, he is rather vain, and will be delighted
beyond words to get such a request from a stranger in Canada." I wrote
the letter, but was too diffident to post it, for Shaw even in those
days was a great figure in my eyes; and I have since deeply regretted
it. To-day a privately printed edition of _Arms and the Man_ would be
a precious possession indeed.

Among other reformers whom I accidentally met in skirmishing about
the hotels was the noble little man, Jacob A. Riis, who did more to
alleviate the possibly incurable evils of the New York tenement-house
system than any other man. He was a Dane with eye-brows like long
antennae and heavy spectacles, so that he looked like one of Hans
Christian Andersen's characters. His work of reform was accomplished
largely while he was police reporter of the _New York Sun_, and he
knew whereof he spoke, for he had himself been a penniless immigrant
on the East Side. His book _How the Other Half Lives_ was a revelation
which awakened the public conscience so effectively that it has been
functioning on this matter ever since. When I met Riis he had been
brought to Canada on a fishing trip by some wealthy and eminent New
Yorkers, and he seemed honestly puzzled that I should prefer to
interview him instead of his companions. He was full of enthusiasm
for a certain rising politician, and asked me if I had ever heard of
Theodore Roosevelt. I said I had. "Well," he said, "New York State is
going to do the grandest thing for itself that it has ever done; it is
going to elect him Governor this autumn." His enthusiasm for Roosevelt
was based on the reforms that the latter had put into force as Police
Commissioner of New York, which were largely based on information
furnished by Jacob Riis. As some are aware, the latter became the
biographer of the reforming President.

The name of Roosevelt brings to mind that of other American public men
of yesterday. From my own point of view and that of many Canadians
the most attractive of all was and is the Hon. William H. Taft, Chief
Justice of the United States. His personality is better known to
Canadians than that of most of the eminent men of his generation; and
the combination in him of dignity with geniality and good fellowship,
the sense he conveys of profound scholarship untouched by pedantry,
makes him unique. By long odds the most interesting lectures I have
ever heard were his addresses on the constitutional history of the
United States, in which he made a dry subject radiant with human
interest. But to realize Taft to the full it is necessary to meet him
in a small coterie where he is entirely free to express himself as he
will. In Toronto, in years gone by, we used to have a dining club of
newspaper men, which occasionally entertained visiting celebrities,
and in which it was a strict rule that nothing a guest said should
be reported unless he so desired. Personalities as diverse as Sir
Johnston Forbes-Robertson, Edward S. Willard, Mrs. Patrick Campbell,
Henry B. Irving (an eminent criminologist as well as actor), William
Jennings Bryan, and Mr. Taft were our guests. The most charming and
entertaining was the present Chief Justice of the United States.
Mr. Taft is unique among American public men because in Cuba and
the Philippines he won by his ability and wisdom the same type of
distinction as was accorded great pro-consuls of Great Britain like
the late Lord Milner and Sir Frank Swettenham. When we entertained
him we asked the orchestra to play "The Star-Spangled Banner" as an
international courtesy, and he afterwards amused his listeners by
saying that we might have spared him this. He gave an imitation of
the attempts of Filipino school children to sing it, wherever he went
during his term as Governor of the Philippines. It will surprise many
to know that the vast, august Chief Justice is a capital mimic.

His great predecessor, Chief Justice White, was also a great lover of
Canada, but came and went in such an elusive way that few were aware
of his identity. I never saw him to my knowledge, but I ran across
his trail in two Ontario towns that he loved, Orillia and Port Hope,
at both of which he spent several summers. In both he was known to
the populace as a well-to-do genial Louisiana gentleman whose chief
interest was fishing, and only one or two were in the secret that he
was Chief Justice of the United States. At Orillia his confidant on
this point was a dentist who used to get his summer cottage ready for
him. At Port Hope a young druggist enjoyed a similar honour. On his
comings and goings he would stroll about Toronto, and nobody knew him,
else there would have been ceremonies by the bench and bar, newspaper
interviews, and other things he wished to avoid. At Port Hope he
once went into the drug store of his friend and stood aside while an
emergency prescription was being made up. When the druggist came to
look for him he discovered the great authority on Roman law sitting on
the ground in the back yard mending a toy wagon for a child.

The contrast between such learned yet simple men and William Jennings
Bryan was wide. In close contact there was something flashy and
insincere about Bryan that was disconcerting; and a sort of uneasiness
as though he were continually interrogating himself, "Am I putting
it over?". Two things stand out in the recollection of my first
meeting with Bryan, first that he had the flabbiest, fishiest hand
that I ever shook; second that he employed as "go-getter" as drunken
a secretary and publicity agent as I ever encountered. This was when
he was lecturing on "The Prince of Peace", and before he had become
celebrated as a prohibitionist orator and shirt-sleeve theologian.
A man more adept in sensing the temperature of an audience I have
never listened to. When he spoke to our newspaper club he started off
by saying that he honoured us as British subjects because Dickens
had been a British subject. Then he hastened to assure us that as a
boy and youth he had been too serious-minded to read novels. This
serious habit of mind had continued in him, but of Dickens he made
an exception because of his high moral purpose. This confession
of literary asceticism was frigidly received by the hard-boiled
newspapermen around him. Suddenly he got a sense of this and commenced
to tell funny stories. And to his credit be it said that he told them
exceedingly well; and that they were both clean and humorous. The
famous minstrel, Lew Dockstader, could not have done better; but when
Bryan saw an auditor, as he thought, taking notes he suddenly froze up
and his mouth became grim: "I thought I was not to be reported," he
said. When the offender held up a sketch and showed that he had been
making a drawing, the peerless one was placated. Obviously he felt
that it would not do for one who was posing as the thirteenth apostle
to be known as a humourist.

Bryan's puritanical attitude toward novels struck me as amusing in
view of what I had been told of him in 1896 when he stampeded the
Democratic Convention and became famous over-night. There was at
that time a Canadian theatrical man, Duncan B. Harrison, well known
all over the continent as a manager of small troupes. When Bryan's
portrait appeared in the newspapers, Harrison at once identified it
as that of a young Westerner whom he had engaged under the name of
William Jennings to support a well-known barn-storming idol, Ada
Gray, in _East Lynne_, and whose fine stage appearance and splendid
voice had impressed him. Harrison was also able to state the origin
of the most famous sentence in the speech which won Bryan his first
nomination for the Presidency:

"You shall not crucify mankind upon a cross of gold; you shall not
press upon the brow of labour this crown of thorns."

The speech comes from a forgotten melodrama, _Jack Cade_, full of
turgid dialogue which the renowned and robustious American tragedian
Edwin Forrest, used to spout, and which was used by barn-stormers
on small rural circuits long after it was forgotten in the cities.
Harrison published these statements openly in New York during the
campaign of 1896, and so far as I am aware they were never denied.
"Whether Bryan was ever an actor or not, I have no personal knowledge,
but, whatever his attitude toward novels, he was certainly in his
youth acquainted with crude melodrama."

The contrast between Bryan and Col. Henry Watterson, of Louisville,
Kentucky, long regarded as the brains of the Democratic party, was
remarkable. Watterson was a typical fighting man, but had long
backgrounds of culture and at one time aspired to be virtuoso pianist.
He was short, but very handsome. "When I met him I was startled to
discover that he had but one eye. His portraits, always taken in
profile, gave no suggestion of this defect, and it is said he lost
the eye in one of the last duels fought on American soil. The nervous
raciness and elegance of his speaking was a delight to listen to,
but some of the things he said were depressing to a writer. He told
us that the day of the individual journalist as a personal force was
done in America; that never again would men like himself be able to
win personal fame and distinction with the editorial pen; for the
simple reason that the counting-house would not let them. He held
that the destiny of the daily press was counting-house control. His
words were prophetic, even with regard to himself, for within a few
months the counting house had driven him out of his own sanctum in
the Louisville _Courier-Journal_. Another distinctive type of the old
fashioned Southerner, with whom I once had a chance meeting, was the
late Henry Clay Evans, of Tennessee, who succeeded Joseph H. Choate as
U.S. Ambassador to Great Britain. He dropped into Toronto from Niagara
Falls one Sunday afternoon, and confessed that he had been astounded
at the development of the Canadian towns and cities he saw en route.
He said he had been ignorant of the fact that Canada had any cities at
all. It reminded me of a story of a man who went to Tennessee to buy
horses. When he told a hotel proprietor that he came from Canada, the
boniface replied: "Canada, Canada, who's keepin' hotel up there, now?"

The young genius, Rupert Brooke, who died untimely, took a unique
view of Canada, or at any rate of Toronto. Some years before his
death he was sent to this country to write descriptive letters
for the Northcliffe press, and he reported that Toronto was the
hardest-drinking city in the world. It was not true, but it was
a rather pleasing variation on such epithets as "The Belfast of
America", "The city of churches" and "The choral capital of North
America". The gentleman to whom he brought letters of introduction,
and whose guest he became, was a hard-bitten Scots business man, the
soul of hospitality, as (_Punch_ to the contrary) most Scotsmen are.
This gentleman was of the type who says: "I've got a bottle, let's
split it," and his guest, the young poet, had much of this kind of
hospitality thrust upon him. The weather was exceedingly hot, and in
connection therewith an amusing incident happened. Brooke's host,
who was a lover of pictures, sent for the noted landscape painter,
Archibald Browne, R.C.A., and asked him to look after the boy. One
night Browne took the poet to the home of the late D. R. Wilkie,
a famous banker, who was also honorary president of the Canadian
Art Club. Mr. Wilkie was a fine, hospitable, but somewhat formal
gentleman. The group sat in the darkness on his veranda, and Brooke,
whose feet were very sore from walking about in the heat, slipped
his shoes off, unnoticed as he thought. But the act did not escape
the sharp eyes of Mr. Wilkie. Encountering Browne a few days later
the banker said: "Browne, your Bohemian friends may be all right,
but they have no manners. That young man dropped his shoes off the
other night." A year or two later when the English-speaking world was
ringing with the name of Rupert Brooke, Mr. Wilkie became very proud
of having entertained an angel unawares.

Rupert Brooke, with his tall frame, rich complexion, fine eyes, and
red gold hair, was a glorious creature physically, and he was the
first man I ever saw wear a green felt hat, though such head-gear
shortly became very fashionable. There was nothing of the brooding
aesthete about him, as some critics seem to imagine. His was a robust
personality, and though many of his poems are etherial in quality, his
one-act play _Lithuania_ is as sanguinary and brutal an example of
realism as ever was penned.

Another Englishman whose personality was profoundly moving in close
contact was the late Sir Ernest Shackleton, the great explorer of
the Antarctic. Shackleton had already sisters in Canada and came
here quietly to try to induce the Canadian government to commission
him to unravel the mysteries of the northern magnetic pole, which he
said would be a great boon to mariners on seas north of the tropics.
Conditions were at that time very favourable to such an attempt, but
the government could not see its way clear to accept his services, and
therefore he set off on his last voyage to clear up certain mysteries
in Antarctic waters. I met him at a luncheon given by the famous
surgeon, Dr. Herbert A. Bruce, and I have never met a man whose eyes,
black and sombre, expressed more of fire and resolution. To hear him
tell with his own lips his adventures on one of his last voyages,
when he lost his ship on uncharted waters and drifted for months
on ice-floes with his crew, was more thrilling than any recital of
experiences within my recollection. Shackleton had everything that
makes for greatness but luck.

More rugged but almost equally striking in a different way was his
rival, Roald Amundsen, the Norwegian explorer, who actually discovered
the geographical south pole, though Shackleton, if I mistake not,
discovered the southern magnetic pole. Amundsen in the late nineties
accomplished one feat of importance to Canada which passed almost
unnoticed. He was the first mariner to run the Northwest passage
from the Arctic Ocean to the Pacific. All through the mid-nineteenth
century British scientists and explorers discussed the possibility of
finding the Northwest passage, and on that quest Sir John Franklin
lost his life. Yet when Amundsen actually accomplished the feat, the
world was so occupied with other matters that it attracted little
attention, and he did not actually become famous until he discovered
the South Pole. Among the very first to hear of Amundsen's successful
venture was a veteran Canadian, Elihu Stewart, D.L.S., formerly of
Collingwood and now a resident of Toronto. In 1897 Mr. Stewart induced
the Laurier government to send him on an expedition to explore the
country between the head waters of the Athabaska and Yukon Rivers, and
wrote a most interesting narrative of his journey through wildernesses
not previously penetrated by white men. At a post in the far northern
part of the Yukon territory overlooking the Northwest passage, he
learned that Amundsen's ship had sailed through a short while before,
and had successfully made the passage for the first time in history.
When I told Amundsen of this he was deeply interested to learn that a
Canadian explorer had, unknown to him, been so near.

I leave these Nordic personalities, for one who, a quarter of a
century ago, excited more attention than any living man who up to that
time had visited America,--the great Chinese statesman and soldier, Li
Hung Chang. Eminent gentlemen from the Orient when they travel to-day
adopt the dress and customs of the Occident. But the super-mandarin
travelled as he was accustomed to do in China, though he consented
to be conveyed by special train. When he went abroad he was borne in
a great gilded chair which because of his great bulk demanded four
lusty bearers. He brought his own food with him, including a great
consignment of live ducks. In his commissariat was a vast pile of
clay cubes that looked like cement bricks, each of which contained
an egg several years old which he esteemed a palatable delicacy. His
silken robes and head-dresses were a wonder to behold. But he was very
genial and expansive with reporters, and indeed with all strangers
presented to him. His first query, irrespective of sex, was, "How
old are you?" and his second, "Have you any children?", which was
often disconcerting. He had an alert little companion and secretary,
a complete contrast physically, Lo Feng Loo, afterwards Chinese
Ambassador to Great Britain, and a man who spoke many languages. It
chanced that his arrival in Canada _via_ Niagara synchronized with the
time of the Canadian National Exhibition at Toronto, and Li Hung Chang
was fully convinced that the whole display was arranged in his honour.
Lo Feng Loo did not disabuse the mandarin's mind on this point, and he
was highly pleased. Nor was he aware that the question of who should
be his chair-bearers while in Toronto had been a serious problem.
The civic authorities decreed that the task should be undertaken by
the police; but many of the husky Ulstermen of that body threatened
to strike if they were detailed to carry a "Chink". However, four
stalwarts at last volunteered and were the subject of much derision by
their comrades. Later they became subjects of envy when His Excellency
conferred on them the Order of the Double Dragon. An amusing incident
occurred when he was brought to a platform in front of the grand
stand in order that the thousands of citizens might see him receive a
civic address. A large number of girls had been engaged for a ballet
in connection with the spectacle annually given at this Exhibition,
and were peeping from behind the scenery to get a glimpse of him.
So soon as Li Hung Chang caught sight of them he turned his back on
the civic dignitaries and started to go behind the scenes to obtain
a closer acquaintance with the pretty girls. It required some very
rapid argument from Lo Feng Loo to turn him about; and his face, which
had been wreathed in smiles, expressed boredom. Aldermen, all things
considered, are a less delectable sight than ballet girls.




                             CHAPTER XIX

                        MUSICIANS AND PAINTERS


In all the years that I was immersed in reporting politics, crime,
and electrical development, and in the hurly-burly of daily newspaper
routine, I was as it were, leading a double life. For when a boy of
sixteen I had made Beauty my mistress, and whatever my pursuits I
have never lost sight of her. Though I had a capacity for interesting
myself in almost anything which demanded my attention, my primary
interest always lay with the arts. Often in the courts or in the press
gallery I have caught myself turning over some problem of aesthetics
with one side of my brain, while following an argument of merely
ephemeral importance with the other. That, of course, was not the
way to get rich, but I think perhaps this duality of interest has
helped my journalistic work, such as it is. Thus I viewed most of the
incidents in the daily news, and the personalities of public men, from
the detached standpoint of the artist, as though this terrestrial
scene and its actors were matters arranged for my entertainment. On
the other hand, the multitude of other interests born of the routine
of newspaper work enabled me to view artistic affairs with some sense
of perspective and proportion. Though I have been engaged in criticism
for over thirty years, I have never desired to be known as a critic
_per se_--much less as a censor--merely as an interpreter and analyst
of artistic effort, even in its humblest manifestations. My duties
as a writer on music, the theatre, and the plastic arts came to me
at first by chance--as newspaper assignments to be covered to the
best of my ability. For instance, although music had been a passion
with me from boyhood, I never anticipated becoming a music critic
until in 1898 W. J. Wilkinson, news editor of the _Mail and Empire_
commanded me to become one, and when I expressed diffidence said, "Go
ahead and try, anyway!" Seven years earlier E. E. Sheppard told me I
must report the theatres and art exhibitions, and so I did, educating
myself as I went along. Like Topsy, "I wasn't bawn, I jest growed." I
think perhaps this is how most so-called critics happen. But before
I was twenty-one my dramatic articles signed by my old pen-name of
"Touchstone" had attracted some little attention, and I have the
honour of being the first man to establish a week-end theatrical
causerie on the daily newspaper press of Canada, first in the _Sunday
World_, and then in the _Empire_.

The eighteen-nineties--the _fin de siècle_ period, as they were
called--were a glorious and stimulating time for young men with
artistic predilections,--a period of awakenings throughout the
English-speaking world in connection with all the arts; of recognition
of earlier awakenings in other lands such as Russia, Germany,
Scandinavia, and Spain. In English-speaking countries all the
more excellent work in various fields of artistic endeavour owes
its existence to seeds sown three decades or more ago in that new
springtime of the closing century. This is not the place to discourse
upon the _fin de siècle_ period, but I commend to all readers Holbrook
Jackson's superb survey in his book _The Eighteen Nineties_. Even
such parochial centres as the cities of Canada felt this awakening,
and in the end have profited by it.

Forty years ago the sons as well as the daughters of gentlefolk were
supposed to study music and drawing,--often much against their will.
An old lady gave me a quaint reason why I should practice my piano
lessons. If I acquired music, she said I would be able to turn the
leaves for young ladies who played and sang, and thus become a youth
of true social accomplishments. But at the pianoforte I could never
accomplish anything that really sounded like music to me. I executed
in crayon certain copies of dogs and horses by Landseer which I dare
say were bad enough, but served as an initiation to an art which has
ever been a source of delight to me, and my interest in painting was
stimulated by a friendship, dating from childhood, with one of the
most enthusiastic of connoisseurs, the noted architect, Ernest R.
Rolph.

The first musician of real eminence with whom I came in contact was
an Englishman, Arthur E. Fisher,--a man of profound learning, though
still under the shadow of the cathedral, like most English musicians
of the eighties. One of Fisher's compositions, a cantata, "The Wreck
of the Hesperus," is still performed in various parts of the world;
and he also composed a very fine "Te Deum". His cantata, originally
designed for women's voices was later expanded into a full choral
and orchestral work and was performed at the great music festival in
connection with the inaugural of Massey Hall, Toronto, in 1894. He was
a short stout Englishman with mutton chop whiskers and a massive brow
that bulged at the sides, as do the brows of most gifted musicians.
He taught piano and theory simultaneously. His assistant would take
junior pupils over the ordinary work and once a month or so Mr. Fisher
would sit down beside the pupil and explain the why-and-wherefores.
He was also a gifted teacher of sight singing, as I learned through
experience under him as a choir boy. But he was destined to be a
wanderer, not that he was idle or dissipated, but because of his
extreme tactlessness. He had a theory that whenever he accepted a
church appointment it was his first duty "to go to the mat with the
Rector",--to state the case in modern vernacular. If that functionary
suggested that a certain hymn, to which he wished to make an allusion
in his sermon, be sung, Mr. Fisher would peremptorily refuse and give
the Rector to understand that the musical selections were exclusively
his business. He was first brought to Canada by St. George's Church,
Montreal, and at various times he took up the challenge of battle
with such doughty foes as the Rev. Edward Sullivan, the Rev. Septimus
Jones, the Rev. John Langtry, and I know not how many others. Yet
he was a most progressive man, and it was he who suggested to the
late Dr. F. H. Torrington the idea of holding local examinations in
Ontario and the West, a policy which has proven a great factor in the
development of Canadian music. He was the first official examiner
of the Toronto Conservatory of Music on its foundation in 1887 by
Dr. Edward Fisher, who was a New Englander and no relation of his.
He was most versatile, and one of the pioneers of chamber music in
Canada. He played the viola in the Toronto Chamber Quartette, a fine
organization of forty years ago, which also included John Bailey,
afterwards first violin of the splendid orchestra of the Henry W.
Savage Grand Opera Company Henry Jacobsen, for many years the leading
musician of Rochester N. Y., and Ludwig Corell, a violoncellist of
international experience who has played in many famous orchestras. Mr.
Fisher also made one of the earliest attempts to interest Canadians
in the beauties of _capella_ or unaccompanied singing (an art later
brought to perfection by Dr. A. S. Vogt with the Mendelssohn Choir),
by establishing the St. Cecilia Choral Society, of which my father was
secretary treasurer. The musical tastes of the times may be judged
by the fact that once, when in order to keep up interest in the
society it was decided to give a concert in a near-by town, the local
authorities said it was useless to expect an audience unless a comic
singer were included in the programme.

My father engaged a young lawyer, who had aspirations in that
direction and who could be, he thought, trusted to show some
discretion. When the humorist sang as an encore a ditty containing the
lines:

    "When the pigs begin to fly
     O, won't the pork be high!"

just before the lovely old motet, "Matona Lovely Maiden", was to be
rendered by the choristers, there was almost a fistic encounter in the
dressing-room.

An illustration of Mr. Fisher's tactlessness was his apologizing at
the opening of a concert for "the wretched instrument which Messrs.
Pedal & Keyes have so kindly loaned us for the occasion". Messrs.
Pedal & Keyes were a noted piano firm who exercised a widespread
local influence, and as both leading members of the firm were present
the conductor made two powerful enemies at one shot. Finally, after
various adventures in Canadian cities, Arthur Fisher joined the staff
of Florenz Zeigfeld (father of the impresario of the "Follies") at the
Chicago Conservatory, and whether he fared better there I know not.

At the period of which I speak, Dr. F. H. Torrington, conductor of
the Philharmonic Society, dominated the local scene, and had done so
since coming from Boston in the early seventies. The story of Dr.
Torrington, who did so much to promote good music in Toronto and
Canada at large in the last three decades of the nineteenth century,
would require a chapter in itself. Like Arthur Fisher he was one of
those all-round English musicians who could teach singing, play the
fiddle, the piano, the organ, and the tympani, if need be,--a type
which filled a most important place in the musical history of both
Canada and the United States. Though English to the core, the chief
object of Dr. Torrington's admiration was the late Carl Zerrahn
of the Harvard Musical Society, Boston, under whom he had been
concert--master for three years. Indeed Carl Zerrahn's popularity made
the road hard for the Boston Symphony Orchestra, during the first
years of its existence, and certain celebrated critics of "The Hub"
wrote attacks that in after years they must have blushed to remember.
In the late nineties, when Lieut. Dan Godfrey came to Canada with
his Guards Band and was given civic receptions wherever he went, Dr.
Torrington, though not opposed to such a recognition of a conductor,
expressed indignation to me that, when some years previously "a really
great man" like Carl Zerrahn had come to Canada, no such honours had
been accorded.

In his way, Dr. Torrington was as outspoken as Arthur Fisher, but
his nature was so kindly, and the respect in which he was held so
great, that he could, as the saying goes, "get away with murder".
The German prima donna, Lilli Lehman, who was chief soloist at the
first great Canadian music festival in 1887, records in her books of
memories, an encounter with him. Since it took place in the presence
of a chorus of hundreds of school children, present for rehearsal, it
yielded great delight. Prima donna and conductor disputed over the
interpretation of the orchestral part in an aria she was to sing;
and the air resounded with phrases like "Gott im Himmel", as the
singer emphasized her views. Dr. Torrington had not enough German to
understand half the invective she poured on his head; but many of the
orchestral performers, who were Germans imported from other cities,
did, and laughed and applauded; which of course increased the anger of
the conductor. Finally the great Lilli seized the baton and conducted
the number herself as she desired it to be rendered, singing her part
at the same time.

Dr. Torrington had an unhappy experience with another great German
musician, the eminent Hans von Bülow, pianist and conductor. Von Bülow
had been booked by his managers as a pianist for an entertainment at
Toronto, the character of which was unknown to them. It turned out a
very mixed affair; half spectacle, half concert, a feature of which
was a tableau showing the ladies and gentlemen of the Toronto Hunt
mounted on their steeds. Von Bülow had to pick his way to the platform
among horses which had been manifesting stage-fright in natural but
unpleasant ways. He followed the old-fashioned custom of the salon
pianist of coming on with his opera hat under his arm and gloves in
hand. As he set them down he looked daggers at the audience, and then
his eyes chanced to fall on the large sign attached to the side of the
pianoforte, announcing the name of its manufacturer. Removing it, he
deftly kicked it into the wings, and then settled down to business.

Dr. Torrington, who was distressed that so great a man as Von Bülow
should appear under such disconcerting circumstances, went behind the
scenes afterward to utter a word of appreciation on behalf of the
musicians of Toronto, and to invite him to supper. But the infuriated
pianist slammed the door in his face. He was very foolish, for Dr.
Torrington was the soul of hospitality, and his entertainment would no
doubt have atoned for the earlier annoyances.

When I look over the long list of famous works which the conductor of
the Philharmonic Society performed in Canada for the first time, with
scratch orchestras, largely trained by himself, and with choruses, not
all of whom were sight--readers, his energy amazes me. For instance,
he gave Gounod's oratorio "Mors et Vita" nearly twenty years before
it was heard in New York; and many of the great works of Handel, like
"Israel in Egypt", which for some reason or other conductors shun
to-day, were at his fingers' ends. When he was conducting he was
seemingly unconscious of auditors; and if choristers or orchestra made
a bad attack, he would stop them and make them do it over again, as
though at rehearsal. Those under him knew him so well that it did not
upset them, but it was sometimes disconcerting to the uninitiated. On
one occasion my wife was singing the soprano solos in the "Messiah"
and an old gentleman who had known her since childhood and who was
entirely ignorant of music, went to hear her. Afterwards he said, "You
were fine, but what was that old fellow doing up there, confusing
everybody with his stick?"

I daresay many of the public regard the conductor as a fifth wheel
to the coach at public performances. In presentations of musical
entertainments of all types the conductor does most of the work, but
seldom sees his name mentioned by the newspapers unless he is a great
celebrity.

A staunch friend of mine from youth was the late Eliott Haslam, who
really did provide Canada with its first experiences of the higher
order of unaccompanied choral singing, an art which requires more
finesse than work with orchestral accompaniment. Haslam, though an
Englishman, and a relative of Sir John Haslam, Bart., always suggested
a Frenchman in grace of manner and volatility of wit and address. He
had been educated in Paris and had at one time been a flautist in
the orchestra of the Opera Comique. I never knew a man who took more
enjoyment in the oddities of the human scene than he,--when in good
spirits. The Toronto Vocal Society founded by him in the late eighties
gave beautifully expressive interpretations of English madrigals, but
he was a bundle of nerves and eccentricities. Once at rehearsal his
chorus so got on his nerves that he ran away from the hall without his
hat. These brain--storms of his ultimately split his organization into
two camps; and finally he went away to become Professor of Oratorio
in Mrs. Thurber's National Conservatory, New York, then under the
direction of the Bohemian composer, Antonín Dvořák. Dvořák thought
highly of his abilities, but Haslam disliked oratorio and came back
to Toronto to teach singing, a task which he really enjoyed.

I was lunching with him the day after his return when a young lawyer,
who had been a rebellious member of the Toronto Vocal Society,
suffered under his tongue. This lawyer's ambitions outran his
abilities; he was notorious for having taken the defence in a murder
case and by incompetence materially assisted in sending his client to
the gallows. "Ah, Haslam," he said, "still in the land of the living
I see." "Yes, my dear sir," replied the musician, "fortunately I have
never had to employ you to defend me on a charge of murder."

Haslam's great discovery while a singing teacher in Toronto was a
young motherless English girl, daughter of a poor organist, now
the noted prima donna, Florence Easton. She was then as a child of
fourteen singing in a small choir in Toronto, though English relatives
subsequently brought her home and gave her an education at the Royal
Academy of Music. About 1900 Haslam went back to Paris and opened a
studio in the region of Parc Monceau, and here presently Florence
Easton renewed her studies with him. Until he was driven from Paris by
the war in 1914, and even during the years when she was prima donna
at the Royal Opera, Berlin, she always went to Paris to be coached
in each new role by him. He was an Officier d'Académie, with a host
of friends in Europe, but the need of earning a livelihood brought
him back to Canada in 1915. He arrived in Toronto on a Sunday night,
and found the city so utterly changed that loneliness struck into
his heart. Though pupils flocked to him, he was the constant victim
of nostalgia for his beautiful studio in Paris and the artistic life
with which he had been surrounded. One morning he was found dead in
his studio with a bullet in his brain. He had ample funds, but in
the excitements of war times it had been impossible to re-establish
old friendships on the delightful Bohemian basis of the nineties.
He really perished of homesickness,--one of the gayest and most
enchanting companions I ever knew.

Haslam had a gifted nephew, Percy Mitchell, a violinist, who
thirty-five years ago taught music at Upper Canada College. When the
uncle went to New York to join the staff of Dvořák at the National
Conservatory, he took Mitchell with him, and the latter obtained a
position as musical and theatrical reporter on the _New York Herald_.
His duties were to make the rounds of the theatrical district and
pick up news, not to write criticism. With regard to the Metropolitan
Opera House he was in luck, because Willy Parry, an old Paris friend
of Elliott Haslam's, was stage manager, and able to give him many
tit-bits of news. Parry, by the way, assisted Frank Lascelles, the
noted pageant master, in staging the Quebec Tercentenary Pageant in
1908. By Parry's friendship Mitchell and his uncle were allowed back
of the stage at the opening of the Metropolitan season, to write a
special article from that point of view. The bill was _Faust_, with
Melba as Marguerite, Jean de Reszke as Faust, and Édouard de Reszke
as Mephisto. Haslam told me of a charming instance of the affection
between the two brothers. Jean, despite his greatness, was always
nervous before a performance; and on that occasion when, disguised
by the white beard and doctor's robes of the aged Faust, he could be
seen to tremble as he took his place on the stage while the first
mysterious notes of the prelude were sounding. Édouard, ready in
scarlet attire for the sudden appearance of Mephisto, which occurs a
few minutes later, noticed it and cupping his hands whispered tenderly
in the soft French pronunciation of the phrase, "Courage, Jean!"
Presently Jean commenced the opening soliloquy with steady, beautiful
intonation, and the episode gave Mitchell a splendid "lead" for his
first big newspaper "special".

Percy Mitchell's luck stayed with him. A few months later James Gordon
Bennett cabled that he had engaged the great French actor Febvre to
write a series of impressions of the American theatre, and ordered
that a reporter who could speak French be assigned as his cicerone.
Mitchell, though a mere beginner, was the only man on the staff who
could speak French fluently and was chosen for the task. So well did
he direct the French actor's movements and translate his articles,
that Febvre gave a glowing account of him on his return to Paris.
Bennett, following one of his famous impulses, at once appointed
Mitchell editor of the Paris edition of the _Herald_ and cabled him
to sail for France next day--a sudden promotion for a youth who a
year previously had been a music teacher in a Toronto school. Though
he did not remain editor for a lengthy period Mitchell managed to
retain Bennett's good-will (no easy task); he was Madrid correspondent
through the difficult period preceding the Spanish-American War, and
later served in other European capitals.

My first acquaintance with the name of Dr. Augustus Stephen Vogt,
founder of the Mendelssohn Choir of Toronto, who for twenty-five years
has been the most eminent figure in the domain of Canadian music, came
in a curious way. As a boy I was visiting a relative in Hamilton, who
before her marriage had resided in St. Thomas, Ont. I was turning
over the leaves of an old photograph album and observed the picture
of a clever-looking youth with a trim moustache. Asking who he was I
was told, "Oh, he's Mr. Vogt. He was the organist of our church in St.
Thomas. He's awfully clever. He's over in Germany now, and some people
think they'll keep him over there."

Dr. Vogt's life-story as one of a large family in the little rural
village of Elmira, Ont., who fought his way up and provided the means
for his own education, is one of the most inspiring to a native-born
Canadian that can be imagined. All the other eminent figures in the
earlier history of Canadian music came to us from abroad; but he,
the most famous of all, is truly native, and his history is quite as
romantic and characteristic of a new country as that of any self-made
captain of industry. It is more striking, because, with the abundant
opportunities that the natural resources of America provide, it was
much easier to make a great career in commerce than in the field of
music. The prestige that Dr. Vogt gradually won for himself and for
the Mendelssohn Choir, after its foundation in the mid-nineties, is
a tangible thing. Many a Canadian has found a mere mention of either
a pass-word in the musical centres of Great Britain and Europe.
Apart from his musical abilities, Dr. Vogt, now Dean of the Faculty
of Music, in the University of Toronto, and Director of the Toronto
Conservatory of Music, has in a remarkable degree the gifts of winning
respect and of holding the affection of those he chooses to make his
friends. I once heard a singular tribute to him from an old school
friend of mine who had become an eminent manufacturer. His boy had
developed musical gifts and he consulted me as to whether he should
let him go on with music or put him into the factory. "I was brought
up to think musicians were mere freaks," he said, "but when I met Dr.
Vogt I found out that they weren't at all. They're just as intelligent
as the average business man!"

Before I rose to a wide acquaintanceship among musicians I already
knew most of the Canadian painters, although they have become so
numerous that nowadays I can no longer make such a boast. I have
already mentioned a few, and it should be said that the path of a
musician of even mediocre talent is much easier than that of the
most gifted painter, though the widespread development of commercial
art has offered a livelihood to many who would have starved in days
gone by. I have no intention, at present, of discussing conditions
and tendencies, but on one point there is need of enlightenment. The
idea has been promulgated in Great Britain and the United States that
Canadian painters have but lately developed a national individuality.
That is a Fleet Street discovery entirely unrelated to the truth.
As long ago as the Chicago World's Fair of 1893, the individuality
of Canadian painters, especially in the matter of mountain-scape
was noted by international critics. In nearly thirty-five years'
association I have always found Canadian painters striving for
independent expression with more or less success, and speaking of
their aims in precisely the same terms as do the younger painters of
to-day. They were compelled to do that even in spite of themselves;
for the artist if he has temperament at all is a chameleon-like being,
profoundly influenced by his surroundings, who must interpret what
he sees, even though his faculty of interpretation may be infirm or
commonplace.

It is rather ludicrous to note references to "European influences" in
the work of painters who never saw Europe; and even in the case of
men trained abroad competent craftsmanship invariably adjusts itself
to surroundings. Many years ago I was introduced to George Theodore
Berthon, who died in Toronto in 1892 in his eighty-sixth year.
Berthon, a Frenchman born in Vienna and son of an artist, actually
recalled Napoleon I, whom his father had painted. He was nine years
old at the time of the Battle of Waterloo; he came to Canada in 1841
and lived here for half a century. In his day he painted most of the
eminent Canadian jurists and public men of the nineteenth century, and
many of his portraits adorn the walls of Osgoode Hall, Toronto, seat
of the Ontario law courts. Though Berthon spent the entire formative
years of his life in Europe, no one would mistake his subjects
for Europeans. They are sturdy Canadian gentlemen of the ruling,
nation-making class, and convey an ineffaceable impression of their
environment.

Earlier I have spoken of another venerable artist, O. R. Jacobi, and
I also met on one or two occasions the patriarchal Daniel Fowler,
a great colourist and aquarellist whose pictures have commanded
increasingly high prices since his death in 1894. Fowler, born in
Kent, England, in 1810, had a singular history. Like David Copperfield
he had been destined for Doctors Commons, but finally broke away
and studied with Harding, the watercolourist, who was one of the
earliest advocates of pictures painted directly in the open air.
One of Fowler's fellow students was Edward Lear, inventor of that
metrical form known as the "limerick", and a musician, traveller, and
topographical artist, as well as humorist. Lear and he went to Italy,
but Fowler's health breaking down he gave up painting altogether
and came to Canada to take up farming. He settled on Amherst Island
at the head of the St. Lawrence River in 1843, and never touched
a brush again until he was forty-seven years of age. A visit home
in 1857 brought back all his old artistic longings, and from then
on in the leisure he could spare from farming painted steadily,
exhibiting first in Montreal in 1862. The veteran painter, J. W. L.
Forster, tells a characteristic story of O. R. Jacobi and Fowler.
At this display the judges awarded the silver medal for the best
watercolour to a picture by Jacobi. The latter insisted that a picture
of Fowler's, "Hollyhocks", was better than his and on his urgence
the judges divided the prize. Fowler knew nothing of this and since
Jacobi was president of the society which organized the exhibition,
took a wrong view of the division. He went to the latter's studio and
demanded an explanation. The German painter gently referred him to
the committee on awards. An hour later, Fowler came back and in deep
dejection apologized. Jacobi's enthusiasm with regard to "Hollyhocks"
was justified fourteen years later when it received a medal at the
Centennial Exposition of 1876 in Philadelphia. As many are aware,
Fowler's pictures of Canadian bird and game life are surpassingly fine
in solidity of effect and beauty of texture, while in delicacy and
loveliness of colouring they are beyond praise.

The most singular thing about Fowler's fame is that it was practically
unknown to his family and neighbours. His son, the late R. W. Fowler,
was a farmer in Lennox county on the mainland, who became an active
rural politician, warden of his county and later a member of the
Ontario Legislature. One day he came to see me with a photograph of
the old homestead on Amherst Island showing the tall, white-bearded
Daniel Fowler in his garden. He had shown it to an official in the
Parliament Buildings who said he thought I would like to see it and
would probably publish it. The son opened his eyes with amazement when
I told him of his father's eminence in the world of art, and that the
Toronto Art Gallery had deemed itself fortunate in procuring one of
his small game pieces at the bargain price of $800. A friend who ran
a country paper in Lennox county for several years told me that no
one there knew of Daniel Fowler's eminence, and that had R. W. Fowler
realized it, the facts would certainly have been heralded, for he was
a keen politician who knew the value of an advertisement.

Another noted character among the artists, although of a younger
generation, was the late William Cruikshank, a relative of the great
Dickens illustrator, George Cruikshank. "Cruik", as he was known to
the fraternity, was a black, beetle-browed, bearded Scot, and a great
draughtsman, who in New York before coming to Canada taught Charles
Dana Gibson to draw. He was a recluse who, as it was said, seemed to
live on the smell of an oil rag. Yet when he died it was found that
he had accumulated over $20,000 safely invested, though he had worked
very little and had mainly subsisted on his salary as a teacher,
than whom there was none better. "Cruik" was a discerning critic of
the works of other men and his views were highly valued by them; and
his own pictures were thoroughly national. Nothing more typically
Canadian could be imagined than his "Breaking the Road", showing
floundering oxen driven through snow drifts, according to the old
pioneer method.

The rugged Canadianism of Homer Watson's landscapes was discovered and
admired by English artists like Whistler, before the birth of some
of the London critics who imagine Canadian art was first revealed
at Wembley in 1924. Homer Watson's home at Doon in the heart of the
beautiful pastoral country of Western Ontario has for many years been
a meeting place for artists. One summer Cruikshank and the brilliant
landscape painter, Carl Ahrens, were Watson's guests, and on a fine
day were proceeding along a country road and arguing about art. The
eyes of all three were fascinated by the sight of a farmer plowing in
a perfect setting for a picture. "Cruik" began to rhapsodize in this
wise: "Look at yon man! He is a man of sense! He is not worrying about
art! He is thinking of his land, and of the harvest he will reap. He
is a useful man,--the true citizen." The farmer just then reached
the end of his furrow and waited to talk to the pedestrians. As they
came up he said in German accents: "Say, wouldn't it be fine if Doon
could get a prass pand?" "Cruik" walked on in a brown study and after
several moments ejaculated mournfully: "Yon man was a damn fool after
all!"

Canada was at one time the home of a very distinguished school
of water-colourists, which was created a half a century ago in
connection with the old photographic firm of Notman & Fraser of
Montreal and Toronto, when the tinting of photographs was an art in
itself, and miniature painting was a commercial pursuit carried on
in connection therewith. Two of this group, Henry Sandham and John
A. Fraser, were among the illustrators assembled when the _Century_
magazine was established as the most beautiful of American monthly
periodicals. Their work, together with that of several American
painters, is also embalmed in a fine pictorial work, _Picturesque
Canada_. Malcolm Fraser, for many years art editor of the _Century_
under Richard Watson Gilder was, I think, one of this coterie; and
so was the veteran R. F. Gagen, who has long been Secretary of the
Ontario Society of Artists. But the most brilliant graduate of all
was Horatio Walker, whose genius was for oils, and whose pictures are
world famous. Ten years ago I took a very able English decorative
artist, Ernest Wallcousins, to see an exhibition of Walker's sketches
and paintings. He paused before a cattle piece in amazement. "I don't
care much for the colour," he said, "but believe me, Michael Angelo
himself never drew better than that." Walker was a crude country
boy, son of a poor preacher in Western Ontario, when he came to
Toronto in the seventies to learn the trade of colouring photographs.
After some months' apprenticeship he had a "scrap" with a son of
one of the partners and the father, it is said, threw him bodily
down stairs. He wandered in American cities painting little picture
cards and selling them to support himself. Gradually he acquired his
superb craftsmanship by some power within himself. Presently he was
exhibiting both in the Royal Academy and the National Academy of
Design, New York, and the strength, depth, and beauty of his work,
especially his marvellous technique in the handling of "planes", are
universally recognized. His love for the French-Canadian people,
among whom he has long lived on the Island of Orleans, for a part of
each year, is reflected in his work; and when you see Walker coming
down the street it is as though Cyrano de Bergerac had come to life.
Once a Canadian painter, much heavier in physique, announced that he
was going to pull Horatio's nose for some fancied wrong. The threat
reached Walker's ears and when he next came to Canada he chanced
to see his enemy in the distance. The latter also saw Walker and
hurriedly darted into a public building. The bristling little painter
followed him up and said: "I say there, Bill, I understand you intend
to pull my nose. Now here's your chance." The other smiled sheepishly
and said, "Oh! that was just one of my jokes." "Well, I would advise
you not to make any more of them," said Walker, "I might take it
seriously the next time."

Another celebrated artist who left Canada with bitterness in his
heart, but whose affection did not return so warmly as in the case
of Walker, was Ernest Seton Thompson, or "Thompson-Seton", as he
later called himself, much to the indignation of his father. Thompson
spent his boyhood in Toronto, and the early nature stories which made
him famous were based on eye-witness material that he collected in
its environs and in Manitoba, where for a time, about 1890, he was
government naturalist.

I first became acquainted with Thompson and his work in 1892, when
he had returned from a year or two of study in Paris, whither he had
gone to brush up in technique. At that time he intended to become a
painter, and his fame as a story-writer, illustrator, and lecturer
was yet undreamed of. He was almost the earliest of Canadian painters
to treat the problems of snow in the analytic manner of the French
impressionists. His chief picture was a large piece, "Awaited in
Vain," which showed three wolves devouring the last remnants of a man
they had slain. The time was evening, and the light in a distant hut
showed the significance of the title. Though the subject was ghastly,
and candidly handled, the beauty and veracity of the colour effect,
and the perfect painting of the animals, gave the picture a haunting,
sinister beauty I have never forgotten. The obvious cleverness of
Thompson was rather disconcerting to his fellow painters. Shortly
after, the assembling of paintings for the Canadian collection at
the Chicago World's Fair began, and the jury of selection promptly
rejected "Awaited in Vain" on the ground that it was too realistic
and brutal. I was one of those who were convinced that that was not
the real reason. Artists are as a class poor, and for that reason art
politics sometimes get rather near to the gutter. The painter of real
brilliance and originality who suddenly appears on the scene is apt
to fare much as does the boy with a new suit of clothes who gets into
a gang of urchins. So with my pen I made a fight for recognition for
Ernest Thompson, and his other friends took up the cry. The result was
that the jury of selection was forced by the government to reconsider
its decision, and "Awaited in Vain" went to Chicago. But when I saw
it there some months later it had been hopelessly "skyed" by the
Canadian hanging committee. Thompson, who was a very handsome, slender
young man, later spoiled his appearance by letting his hair grow too
long, at the suggestion, it is said, of his lecture manager, who also
may have been responsible for his change of name. Shortly after the
episode just related he left Canada disgusted with the unkindness of
his fellows, and his subsequent career is known to many. I have often
wondered since what he did with the collection of animal pictures that
was the work of his early years as painter and naturalist.




                              CHAPTER XX

                         STARS OF OTHER DAYS


In opportunities for amusement, the world of to-day compared with
that of forty years ago is much changed for children and, indeed, for
people of all ages. Motion pictures, recording musical instruments,
and the radio have made the personality of Gloria Swanson or the voice
of Galli Curci as familiar in the villages and on the farms as in
great cities. In the eighties there were no motion-picture theatres,
and even in cities of 100,000 or 200,000 no "family vaudeville".
In the great school which I attended, the parents of half of the
children did not think it right to go to the theatre, and had somehow
managed to make their offspring think that the practice was forbidden
in the Bible, which did not make it the less tempting. In 1885 when
the _Mikado_ craze was at its height, some of these boys were rather
wistful and peevish about the good fortune of those whose parents had
allowed them to see that most popular of entertainments. One little
chap in bravado boasted of having seen _The Mikado_ seven times, but
his veracity could not stand the test of cross-examination by those
of us who had seen it. Fortunately there was no prejudice against the
theatre in my own home; and I heard actors and plays discussed from
earliest childhood. But my parents did not think too much playgoing
good for youngsters, so, until I was nearly sixteen, my allowance was
four "shows" a year, carefully selected.

Of all the actors and actresses of the past fifty years I think
the artist who captured the greatest share of public affection, on
this continent at any rate, was the Shakespearian actress, Adelaide
Neilson, who died in 1880 at the age of thirty-two. From the time I
remember anything, I recall Adelaide Neilson being talked of with
adoration. My mother wept, and my father was unable to control his
voice because of the lump in his throat, when on a summer day news
came of her untimely death. The circumstances were doubly tragic, for
she died suddenly while alone in Paris; and her body lay unidentified
in the Morgue for a full day or longer. The older generation of
playgoers still talks, after nearly half a century, of the loveliness
of her presence and the music of her voice. I have several photographs
of her, and though her features were not very regular, one may imagine
the magic of her soft, dark eyes. Juliet's first line in the prompt
book she used was, "How now, who calls?" uttered off stage; and the
music of her utterance of that exclamation used to thrill playgoers
before they got a glimpse of her. Adelaide Neilson was a native of
Leeds, born Elizabeth Ann Brown, and had been a bar-maid when a young
girl. She had been befriended by a naval officer, to whom she left
the fortune she rapidly accumulated after she became famous. In his
book of memories the late Henry A. Clapp, of Boston, one of the ablest
dramatic critics of his time, says that at the outset some of her
pronunciations were provincial, but that she so rapidly overcame this
defect, that in a few seasons her diction was unique in beauty and
distinction. Not long ago I was reading an account of a visit of the
leading artists of the Comédie Française to London in the seventies,
written for the _Athenaeum_ by the celebrated critic Joseph Knight,
in which he said that among the contemporary artists of the British
theatre, Adelaide Neilson alone measured up to an equally high
standard of excellence. When we recollect that in the period of 1880
the London stage was much richer in talent of a high order than it is
to-day, this was praise indeed.

There is little doubt that William Winter, the most eminent American
critic of the nineteenth century, who writes so eloquently of her in
_Shadows of the Stage_, was deeply in love with Adelaide Neilson, like
most others who came under her spell. Once during my incumbency as
critic of the Toronto _Mail and Empire_, an old foreman-printer told
me that he had set Winter's copy in connection with a performance of
_Romeo and Juliet_. I asked him if he had ever worked in the composing
room of the _New York Tribune_, and he said, "No, it was right in
this office." It appeared that Winter had come to Toronto to see
Miss Neilson, and the editor had thought it would be a good stroke
of business to ask him to write the review,--a task which the critic
joyfully accepted.

Of all the stage doors in America, the one (with the exception of
that of the Metropolitan Opera House, New York) that is richest in
associations is probably that of the now disused Grand Opera House,
Toronto, the walls of which have been standing for fifty years though
the interior was burned in 1879. There are a few other theatres as
old in various American cities, but the associations are greater in
connection with "the Grand", because it was the one theatre where
nearly all the noted artists of the quarter of a century from 1875 to
1900 appeared, and the weather-beaten door that still remains, has
opened and closed on their comings and goings. And so when I pass
it I think of Adelaide Neilson, Irving, Terry, Patti, Edwin Booth,
Coquelin, Bernhardt, Modjeska, Mary Anderson, and a host of idols of
other days who had stepped across its dingy threshold. A sinister
atmosphere hangs over the old theatre now, for within its walls its
millionaire manager, Ambrose J. Small, was possibly murdered in 1919,
and the mystery of his disappearance has never been solved.

It was here that the radiant Adelaide Neilson came in 1879 to
re-open the theatre, renovated after the fire; and it was in
front of this stage door that the students of the University of
Toronto took the horses from her carriage and drew her to her
hotel. This demonstration, absolutely spontaneous, proved so great
an advertisement, that managers subsequently worked up similar
demonstrations in connection with lesser stars until the public
commenced to jeer.

There was, until a few years ago, another theatre in Toronto of much
older associations--the Royal Lyceum Theatre, which, when burned
in 1922, was used as a mattress factory, and earlier still as a
spoon factory. It was there that Clara Morris, a native of Toronto,
afterwards celebrated as an emotional actress, made her first
appearance on the stage as a child in pantomime. There also Mrs.
Charles Walcott, one of the most distinguished of comédiennes, made
her début, under the direction of her father, John Nickenson, who
was manager of "The Royal". It was there I saw the first play that I
remember, some time in the early eighties. It was a very crude affair
called _Uncle Josh_, but its author, the late Denman Thompson, later
built it up into _The Old Homestead_, the most popular and successful
of all American plays except _Uncle Tom's Cabin_. In the seventies
Thompson ran a not very reputable saloon and dance hall on Bay Street,
Toronto. He had been a variety actor and was anxious to get back into
the profession, so he began with a one-act rural sketch in which he
played the role of Joshua Whitcomb, a Yankee farmer. By the time I saw
it it had been expanded into a full-length play. The episode in it
which remains most vividly in my memory was afterwards toned down when
the piece became _The Old Homestead_ and a highly moral entertainment,
praised from many pulpits as a sermon against drunkenness. Uncle
Josh was seen praying at the bedside of a poor woman; and during his
devotions her drunken husband came reeling in. Uncle Josh abruptly
rose from his knees, picked the bully up in his arms, and threw him
out of the window; the property man dropped a box of glass behind the
scenes to make an effective noise; while Uncle Josh knelt down and
with much demonstration resumed his prayer. To a boy of ten, this
episode seemed the pinnacle of humour.

One of the most delightful of my boyhood memories of the theatre
is of the celebrated soubrette "Lotta" (Charlotte Crabtree), who
retired from the stage while still comparatively young and died at
Boston in 1924, leaving an estate of four million dollars to American
soldiers wounded in the great war. Managers have for forty years been
trying to find another Lotta; one who could play girlish parts and
command the love of the entire community in equal degree. The only
parallel to Lotta's vogue has been disclosed in a different field,
Mary Pickford, whose first performances as the little child, Gladys
Smith, I witnessed at the Princess Theatre, Toronto, a quarter of
a century ago. As I recall Lotta she was a petite, black-eyed,
sprightly creature, full of nervous energy and undeniable witchery.
She appeared in a charming French operetta _Mlle. Nitouche_, but her
earlier successes had been in American plays of a cruder type; and she
had first come into fame in the mining camps of California and Nevada.
Contemporary with Lotta was another soubrette of immense popularity,
Maggie Mitchell, whom I never saw, but who made a fortune out of a
stage version of George Sand's idyl, _Fanchon the Cricket_. She was a
native of Elgin county, Ontario, and on her comparatively early death
made provision that she should be buried in the village where she was
born.

I am satisfied that the long-sought successor to Lotta would have
developed in a child actress of the period of 1890, known in the
smaller towns of Ontario as "Little Gladys". Thirty-five or forty
years ago there were several stars, well known in the towns and
villages of Ontario, northern New York State, Ohio and Michigan,
who kept alive many forgotten plays. There was Ida Van Cortlandt, a
wholesome personality, who played famous old pieces that had been
discarded in the cities. For instance, in a small centre I saw her
play _The Honeymoon_, by John Tobin, a once famous comedy of the
Kemble era. There was Josie Mills, still living, who ran the gamut of
comedy and emotion and presented old pieces like _Lucrezia Borgia_ and
_Forget-me-Not_. There was the redoubtable Ada Gray, whose acting was
absurdly exaggerated, yet whose performance of Lady Isabel in _East
Lynne_ made her as popular, in what actors call "the tank towns",
as were Ellen Terry in London and Ada Rehan in New York. One of the
best of these small-town combinations was headed by Mr. and Mrs.
George Woodward and Mr. and Mrs. Wilson Day. Woodward and Day became
well-known actors. Mrs. Woodward (Eugénie Lindemann) subsequently
became chaperon and character-actress in the company of the youthful
Julia Marlowe. The Woodward-Day Company included the child actress
"Little Gladys", who at the age of about sixteen adopted her own
name, Gladys Wallis, and made successful appearances on Broadway.
After the death of Maggie Mitchell, she was starred in the latter's
vehicle _Fanchon_, and her grace, charm, and intelligence amounted to
something like genius. While still a young girl she married a young
Englishman and retired from the stage. Unlike some unions of the kind
it turned out very happily, and the young Englishman became the great
Chicago capitalist, Samuel Insull.

The great event of my boyhood, and it was a great event for adults
also, was the advent of Gilbert and Sullivan's _Mikado_. The three
"P's" (_Pinafore_, _Patience_, and _The Pirates of Penzance_) were
much talked of in the early eighties, and as wee lads my brother and
I had sailor caps with "H. M. S. Pinafore" on them, in recognition
of the popular craze. But it was not until _The Mikado_ came out in
1885 that our minds were deemed mature enough to appreciate Gilbert's
wit. Recollections of my original hearing of the immortal operetta are
more vivid than of the many revivals in the subsequent four decades.
The Ko-Ko was a young elongated Oxonian, the late Joseph W. Herbert,
one of the most finished of singing comedians, with a perfect gift
for patter. I subsequently saw Herbert in many comic roles, the most
memorable of which was his irresistibly funny performance of the
Scottish town-crier in DeKoven's _Rob Roy_. In 1922 I met Herbert in
the Lambs' Club, New York, and it seemed strange to encounter in the
youthful and debonair actor, one who as a boy had seemed to me ages
older than myself. Another member of this first _Mikado_ cast was a
comedian named Nathaniel Burnham, a stout, unctuous actor with a very
ugly face, who was the best impersonator of the title role I have
ever seen; and who seemed a veritable ogre when he spoke of "boiling
oil or melted lead". Later Burnham gave a wonderful impersonation of
Shadbolt, the loutish turn-key in _The Yeomen of the Guard_. The Pitti
Sing was a sprightly and tiny comédienne, Ida Mulle, and thirty-five
years later she was giving a most amusing performance of the fat
little female slave-dealer in _Chu Chin Chow_.

_The Mikado_ has very tender memories for me. In the early nineties I
reported by long odds the ablest amateur performance of the classic
that has been given in this country. I wrote of the "beautiful,
raven-haired Yum-Yum", and spoke of her glorious voice. Her name was
Katherine Ryan, and though I did not at that time know her personally,
I fell in love with her. I did not meet her until four or five years
later, and would not be denied until she married me--to my lasting
happiness.

The very first entertainment, an appreciation of which I wrote for
publication, was a delightful legitimate burlesque, _The Seven Ages_,
in which Henry E. Dixey, who united a brilliant comic talent with
a romantic personality, starred, after having won much fame in an
earlier burlesque, _Adonis_. In _The Seven Ages_, presented in as
many episodes, Dixey impersonated every one of the types outlined in
Jacques' immortal speech. He was delightfully amusing when wheeled on
as an infant in a great perambulator, and had obviously studied the
ways of a restless child minutely; but his greatest achievement was
in the final episode,--"sans everything". He took the course, very
daring in a comic entertainment, of playing a bereft, senile man in
a quasi-tragic way, and it was unforgettably touching and graphic.
Dixey was by long odds the most versatile actor I ever knew, equally
facile, whether as Malvolio in _Twelfth Night_ or as a comic juggler
in vaudeville. In his company he had an exquisitely lovely singer
named Yolande Wallace, and recollection of her brings back to mind
many of the vanished beauties that thrilled the senses of the youths
of the eighties and nineties. "Where are the snows of yesteryear?"
asks Villon in a similar mood. What _does_ become of the lovely
beings that are for a time the "toast of the town", and then vanish?
The same question arises in every generation. Some go on and on and
become celebrated artistes; some marry into the British peerage or
the American plutocracy; and some re-appear as old women in motion
pictures.

Of all the singing beauties of my boyhood and youth the one who best
preserved her loveliness from decade to decade was Lillian Russell,
who for more than thirty years carried with her the same suggestion
of honey and roses. The richness of her beauty as a young woman, in
whom golden hair, delicate complexion, and classic features were set
off by sapphire eyes and a dreamy, gentle smile, was vast. I sat near
her at a war entertainment in 1917, and despite advancing years, she
seemed on close inspection almost as lovely as she had been behind
the footlights twenty-five years previously. The preservation of her
beauty was in part due, no doubt, to the sweetness of her disposition,
for the tales of her kindness to women less fortunate were many.
Despite the sweetness of her voice, there was but one part in which
she revealed vital artistry. It was that of the street singer in
Offenbach's charming, but almost unknown operetta _La Perichole_, a
touching role composed for Hortense Schneider.

A year or so ago in an American magazine Carl Van Vechten asked what
had become of another vision of blond loveliness,--Adam Forepaugh's
"Ten Thousand Dollar Beauty," Louise Montague. I happen to be able to
answer that question. She married a very able Shakespearian actor,
Arthur Elliott, and the exploitation of her beauty in youth left
her unspoiled; for he told me after her death that she had been the
best of wives. The only occasion on which I saw her was when she was
playing Portia to the Shylock of Thomas W. Keene in 1890, and she
gave a commendable but not brilliant performance, overshadowed by the
piquant Nerissa of Emma Sheridan (said to have been a niece of Gen.
Phil Sheridan), who also shortly afterward left the stage.

In the nineties two girls rose from the chorus into prominence in
America, went to London, and subsequently married peers of the realm.
One was the lovely, dove-like Edna May, the demure Salvation lassie
of _The Belle of New York_. The other was Madge Lessing. I first
saw Madge Lessing thirty years ago when she was singing in a small
summer opera company in Toronto, managed by a well-known low comedian,
Fred. Solomon, brother of Edward Solomon, the composer of _Billee
Taylor_. Fred. Solomon had been trained as a bandsman for the British
Army at Chatham, and could play any instrument with facility. He
was a competent conductor and stage manager, and a low comedian who
had scored a great hit at the New York Casino as the little cockney
thief in _Erminie_. Among the many avocations he filled at various
times was that of stage manager for Koster & Bial's Music Hall,
whose "cork-room", where wine was opened, was a famous resort of
New York "bloods". Madge Lessing at that time was a very ordinary,
half-nourished little girl in the chorus, who had obtained an
engagement solely by the sweetness of her voice. Solomon discerned the
talent of the child and took her out of her undesirable surroundings.
He gave her music lessons and as she grew up she developed into a
woman of rare beauty, and became a great favourite in London. So, when
I see plays of the Cinderella order in which poor girls blossom into
something like princesses, and am disposed to critical jibes, I recall
the career of Madge Lessing and hold my hand. These Cinderella plays
are not so impossible after all.

There are, however, many forgotten women that were lovely beings known
to all playgoers in the nineties who just disappeared--Helen Lamont,
Alice Carle, Camille D'Arville, Virginia Earle, Delia Fox, Josephine
Hall, Pauline Hall, Minnie Ashley, Marie Celeste, Laura Schirmer
Mapleson, and Hilda Clark, to name but a few. The most gifted of them
all has retained her position in the public eye because her art has
been as fine as to appeal to successive generations. She is Marie
Tempest, still a captivating comédienne in middle-aged roles, and, as
a girl in the early nineties, positively enchanting. Those were days
when a comic opera star was expected to wear tights; and librettists
contrived that at some time or other during the evening the heroine
disguised herself as a boy, preferably in military uniform. W.
S. Gilbert protested against this convention, and adhered to his
convictions, but it persisted long. Of all the girls of the nineties
the one best fitted by nature to adorn a pair of tights,--save perhaps
Pauline Hall,--was Marie Tempest. To have seen her in scarlet ones in
_The Red Hussar_, in purple ones in _The Fencing Master_ or in cute
little mountaineer panties in _The Tyrolean_, was to realize the truth
of a popular aphorism as to the grandeur of Nature. But Marie Tempest
had much more than lovely supports; a glorious voice as revealed in
the famous "Nightingale Song" in _The Tyrolean_, a deliciously piquant
countenance, and finesse which made every gesture and inflection tell.
I am perhaps one of the few critics who have seen her play _Carmen_,
for which her voice though of thrilling timbre was rather light. She
gave a memorable impersonation, suggestive of wanton caprice, though
she lacked tragic suggestion, because her mask is naturally comic.




CHAPTER XXI

THE ENGLISH INVASION


I have entitled this chapter "The English Invasion" because it
deals with the manner in which London standards of acting began to
influence the American theatre forty years ago. In Canada we have been
first-hand witnesses of this, for all important English companies
which came to America in days gone by invariably made a stay in
Toronto and Montreal, and frequently opened in Canada before venturing
into New York. All modern British acting traditions of the better
order trace to two sources: one, the small Prince of Wales Theatre
established in London by Sir Squire and Lady Bancroft in the sixties,
a great school of modern realistic acting. The Bancrofts with the
"cup and saucer" drama of Tom Robertson paved the way for the later
renaissance of British comedy; and they originated the modern practice
of specially designed productions, later carried to such superb
heights by Henry Irving at the London Lyceum. The other fountain head
of modern acting, the results of which became apparent at a later
period than that of which I am writing in this volume, has been the
school of poetic acting established by Sir Frank Benson a quarter of
a century or more ago in connection with the Shakespeare Memorial
Theatre at Stratford-upon-Avon. Irving's career at the London Lyceum
was an isolated phenomenon, the influence of which disappeared when
the light of its presiding genius flickered out.

I have always deeply regretted that circumstances prevented my hearing
Sir Squire Bancroft, when he came to Canada in the late nineties at
the request of Lady Aberdeen to give readings of Dickens' _Christmas
Carol_ for the benefit of her Ladyship's pet benevolence, the
Victorian Order of Nurses. I thus missed seeing the man who, taken
all-in-all, has been unquestionably the most potent influence on the
modern theatre, both in England and America.

Among my most delightful memories are those of the English comédienne,
Rosina Vokes, who under the direction of her husband, Cecil Clay,
brought many eminent artists to America. Rosina Vokes was one of a
considerable family, which fifty years ago used to give dramatic
sketches in association with the Swiss Bell Ringers. One of the group,
Victoria Vokes, was I am told, beautiful, and a brother, Fred Vokes, a
talented comedian. Rosina herself was far from lovely. She had a mop
of straw-coloured hair which she bobbed a generation or more before
bobbing became the fashion. She had the face of a Dutch doll with
round protuberant eyes, and little mobility of expression. Yet she had
an almost incredible magnetism. She radiated good nature, had a gift
of saying amusing things in liquid contralto tones, and if need be she
could make people cry, as she did in Jerome K. Jerome's sentimental
little play, _Sunset_. She was not the type of homely actress who
is afraid to have beauty about her; for her company always included
several exquisitely pretty girls. Loveliest of all I think was Isabel
Irving. But it was in the excellence of her male support that her
companies shone. As a manageress she pursued a policy which has
never succeeded commercially before or since--that of confining her
bills to three one-act plays. This system had the advantage of giving
all the brilliant personalities of her organization, opportunities.
Chief among them was a character actor of American birth, the late
Felix Morris, who won his first real success playing a Scottish
role in London. His finest performance was in a version of a famous
French curtain-raiser, _Partie de Piquet_, in which he played an aged
chevalier, who falls into a senile quarrel with his dearest and oldest
friend over a game of cards. The Morris version was known as _A Game
of Cards_. In England Sir John Hare used another version made by
Charles Coghlan, and known as _A Quiet Rubber_. I saw both Morris and
Hare in this difficult role and there was nothing to choose between
them; each was perfect, though their personalities were dissimilar.
Another actor whom Rosina Vokes introduced to America was the finished
and handsome actor, Brandon Thomas, who showed emotional talent in a
play by Hugh Conway known as _In Honour Bound_, and also supported
the star in her best piece _My Milliner's Bill_. In this she sang her
famous song, "His 'art was true to Poll". Other very gifted artists of
her company were the famous comedians, Weedon Grossmith and Ferdinand
Gottschalk. Gottschalk made his first appearance on any stage--the
commencement of a long and brilliant career,--with Miss Vokes at
the Grand Opera House, Toronto. Grossmith, who was irresistible in
roles suggesting bewilderment, had his great opportunity in _A Tinted
Venus_, in which a barber dreamed that a statue (played by Miss
Vokes) came to life and made love to him. The company also included
a "juvenile" with a most poetic personality, Courtenay Thorpe, and
the whole organization used to appear in a wonderful romp known as _A
Pantomime Rehearsal_ written by the husband of the star, Cecil Clay.

George Grossmith, brother of Weedon and the celebrated comedian of
the D'Oyly Carte-Gilbert-and-Sullivan forces, never acted in America,
but his piano-logues in which he satirized everything from Beethoven
sonatas to country rectors were deliciously funny. It is said that
Gilbert used to restrain his "slap-stick" tendencies as a comedian;
but as a satirical entertainer he relied solely on polite irony.

The first coming of Mr. and Mrs. W. H. Kendal, about thirty-five
years ago, was the sensation of the season all over America. They
represented the Bancroft tradition and Mrs. Kendal was the sister of
Tom Robertson, the founder of the "cup and saucer drama", the best
example of which was _Caste_. A season or two earlier a production
which exemplified the same tradition had been sent over from London.
It was a sentimental piece, _Bootle's Baby_, by John Strange Winter,
and the characters were all military men wonderfully characterized.
The title role was played by C. W. Gathorne, an elder brother of W.
H. Kendal, and a more finished actor of a certain type of Englishman
I have never seen. Gathorne was the precursor of Cyril Maude in types
of military men without much brains but gentle hearts, such as we have
seen in _The Second in Command_ and _The Saving Grace_. In the same
cast was a brilliant low comedian, Fred Tyler, who was afterwards
an important aide to E. S. Willard, and Bootles's sweetheart was
beautifully played by Nina Boucicault, then young and piquant.

The Kendals continued to come to America periodically for a decade,
and had a very large repertoire of interesting plays. Mrs. Kendal was
very tall and fair with a beautifully modulated voice, and in bearing
was the essence of grace. I once saw her come into the reading room
of the public library to look over the files of the London _Times_,
and the distinction of her bearing was as remarkable off the stage
as on. As a high comédienne she was impeccably fine. I still thrill
with my first recollection of her. I had arrived in the middle of
the performance to see Sardou's farce, _A Scrap of Paper_. She was
alone on the stage, humming to herself, and peering into this article
and that in quest of the letter which forms the basis of the plot.
Anything more feminine, graceful and natural than her pantomime in
that scene it has not been my privilege to witness. In emotional
scenes I thought her over-demonstrative. The Kendal repertoire was
very largely composed of adaptations from the French, and one of these
was Ohnet's _Ironmaster_, in which she played the aristocrat, Claire,
who has been forced by her family to marry a commercial magnate for
mercenary reasons, and on her wedding night pleads for a separation
to the natural chagrin of the victimized husband. In this role I
thought she blubbered too much; and in _The Second Mrs. Tanqueray_,
which she first played in America she erred in trying to make Paula
"common", for she had a theory that a really "nice" woman could not
have a "past". Mrs. Kendal's renowned virtue made her unpopular, and
was the subject of many jibes in the press. When she first came to
America, Daniel Frohman, recalling how P. T. Barnum had capitalized
the chastity of Jenny Lind, spread the tale abroad that Mrs. Kendal
represented all the virtues of the British matron. At that time
nearly everybody in America assumed that actresses were no better than
they ought to be, and had grand times talking about it; and Frohman
thought he was sounding a new note by celebrating the virtue of Mrs.
Kendal. But the outcome proved that the public liked a little mauve,
real or imaginary, in the reputations of stage idols. One of the most
beautiful of all Mrs. Kendal's performances was as the love-lorn old
maid in _The Eldest Miss Blossom_--the last role she played in America.

Mr. Kendal was overshadowed by the fame of his wife, but I thought him
an able and versatile actor. Though perfect as a good natured English
gentleman, he was also very fine as a scoundrel. He played a rotter
in Robertson's _Home_ (an adaptation of Augier's _L'Aventurire_)
in superb style, and his characterization of the plain, blunt
"Ironmaster" was graphic and sincere. The Kendal forces at various
times included some very gifted actors, including J. E. Dodson, who
succeeded to John Hare's roles after the latter dissolved partnership
with the Kendals, G. P. Huntley, still one of the most brilliant of
living comedians, Seymour Hicks, George Grossmith, Jr., and Florence
Cowell, a very handsome brunette.

An English actress who came to America prior to the Kendals and
brought very fine companies was Mrs. Langtry. She owed much of her
success to the rumour that she had found favour in the eyes of the
Prince of Wales. She was very handsome, and at one time her notoriety
as "The Jersey Lily" was so great that school boys used to sing:

    Go tell the Jersey Lily
    That the sights will knock her silly
        Climbing up the Golden Stairs.

Despite the eulogies of such amorists as Oscar Wilde and William
Winter she was never other than a notoriety. Her chief success was a
foolish emotional play by F. C. Phillips, _As in a Looking Glass_, in
which her acting was rather crude. The change that has come over the
sentiments of playgoers is illustrated by the vogue of this play. The
heroine killed herself, because it was discovered that, though "more
sinned against than sinning", she had once lived with a man. To-day
such an incident is the stage heroine's claim to moral recognition as
a true woman, and the tragic dénouement would be laughed at. In the
nineties there was a poor old man in Toronto whose white beard and
generally magnificent patriarchal appearance, brought him engagements
as an artist's model, and at election times he picked up an odd dollar
as attendant in political committee rooms. This man had once been
prosperous in the Island of Jersey and a churchwarden in the parish of
Dean Le Breton, Lily Langtry's father. By some means she learned of
the existence of this old friend of her babyhood and childhood, sent
for him, and on her every visit bestowed generous largesse upon him.
Though all his gettings went in the same channel that had brought him
to penury, her gifts brought him temporary happiness at least.

I recall in Mrs. Langtry's support two very gifted actors destined
to fame, Maurice Barrymore and Ian Robertson. In modern roles, the
elder Barrymore was a more brilliant and finished actor than any of
his children, though the worst Romeo I ever saw; but then he was
supporting the worst of all Juliets, Olga Nethersole. Ian Robertson
as stage director for his brother, Sir Johnston Forbes Robertson, has
given many productions of beauty to the world.

Another actress much more richly endowed with beauty and talent
than Mrs. Langtry, was Cora Brown-Potter, supposed to be a special
favourite of the Prince of Wales. She was indeed as glorious a woman
in personal appearance as ever adorned the stage, with wonderful
auburn hair, tragic eyes and somewhat of the same soulful type as
Mrs. Patrick Campbell. Though an American by birth she first sprang
into fame as an amateur in London through her recitations of a ballad
by George R. Sims, entitled "'Ostler Joe". It was damnable twaddle,
and rang the changes on "The languor and lilies of virtue and the
raptures and roses of vice." Queen Victoria was said to have condemned
it as immoral, which brought more fame to Mrs. Brown-Potter. As an
actress, though seldom at her ease, she had qualities of personality
and refined emotion that were essentially beautiful. She was happily
associated with a very fine actor, trained by the Bancrofts, Kyrle
Bellew, who was, in his younger days, undoubtedly the handsomest man
in the world. I once interviewed him in his dressing room while he was
changing costume, and he was really a creature to tempt the chisel of
Phidias. He resented tributes to his good looks; and in _Charlotte
Corday_, one of Mrs. Brown-Potter's finest performances, deliberately
chose the role of the croaking syphilitic, Marat--by long odds the
most repulsive, though one of the most brilliant pieces of acting I
ever saw. Bellew's versatility was remarkable. He was equally good
both as Tony Lumpkin in _She Stoops to_ _Conquer_ and Armand Duval in
_Camille_; and his fencing in Stanley Weyman's _Gentlemen of France_
was thrilling in lethal elegance. One of the finest performances of
these stars in a technical sense, though it caused a tempest among
moralists (sincere and insincere), was in Zola's _Thérèse Raquin_.

An actress who leaped into sudden fame in London in the early
nineties and whose success was speedily followed by a tour of America
was Olga Nethersole. The piece in which she achieved success was
a trashy affair known as _The Transgressor_ in which she played a
governess "who was found out"; but who had one big scene in which
she came back with a "_Tu quoque_" against society in general. Crude
as was _The Transgressor_ it fills an interesting place in English
dramatic history; because it initiated a new attitude toward erring
heroines. For many decades it was popularly conceded that all that
was left for a woman, if it were revealed that she had once accepted
lingerie from the villain, was the poison cup. The heroine, played
by Miss Nethersole, decided to live; and intimated that there were
other persons whose suicide would be acceptable. The power with which
this speech was delivered, led Clement Scott, most sentimental of
critics, to proclaim Miss Nethersole one of the greatest geniuses in
the history of the stage. Subsequently when she came to America it
was found that she was a comely, intelligent woman, with a sensuous,
exotic quality in love scenes, and a voice of unusual volume capable
of expressing emotion without becoming strident. But genius she was
not, although her best performance, that of Marguerite Gautier in
the old emotional drama _Camille_ was very touching and sincere.
Her tendency was, however, toward exaggeration, especially in
amorous episodes; and in New York a number of holy persons got the
advertisement they craved, and incidentally swelled the bank account
of Miss Nethersole, by dragging her into court for kissing Don José
too passionately in a dramatic version of Merimée's _Carmen_. I later
saw this kiss, and it assuredly was "linked sweetness long drawn
out." On the whole Miss Nethersole fared much better in America than
another London actress of the emotional school, Mrs. Bernard Beere,
the original "La Tosca" in England, who made such a fiasco in New York
that her bookings, even in Canada, were cancelled.

Of all the English stars who came to America in the period of which
I speak, the individual who made the most complete conquest of the
public, was Edward S. Willard. He came in the season of 1891-2, and
until his retirement in 1907 he was one of the most popular stars on
this continent. Some day perhaps I shall write at greater length of
Willard, whom I came to know very well. His name will be permanently
preserved in the annals of the London stage as the most perfect
exponent of villainy both in its baleful and persuasive aspects that
has been known in modern times. Of this aspect of his art America saw
but little. He first sprang into fame in 1881 when he played Capt.
Skinner ("The Spider") in Wilson Barrett's production of _The Silver
King_, and another of his many famous studies in criminality was the
title character in _Jim the Penman_. But from 1890 onward when he
had become an actor-manager on his own account, he eschewed villainy
so far as he could. The only role of the kind in which I saw him was
that of a financial crook in _The Rogue's Comedy_, written for him by
Henry Arthur Jones, and even this role was more or less attractive. In
this production a very touching performance of the scoundrel's unhappy
but affectionate wife was given by a once famous actress whose name
seems utterly forgotten, Olga Brandon. In the main Willard, tired
of being classified as a "Heavy", (to use the cant of the theatre),
demanded roles that were "sympathetic". Henry Arthur Jones in 1889
provided him with two completely contrasted roles of this type; and
those who saw him play them in his prime retain an ineffaceable memory
of his greatness in emotional expression. The one was Cyrus Blenkarn,
an old potter in _The Middleman_; the other a young Welsh clergyman,
Rev. Judah Llewellyn, in _Judah_.

There are certain scenes in _The Middleman_ that have hardly been
surpassed in legitimate and fervent appeal by any modern dramatist.
In the character of Blenkarn, Jones took the legends surrounding the
career of a famous French potter of the seventeenth century, who
actually burned his furniture to keep his fires going in pursuit of
an experiment, and adapted them to modern conditions. I am told that
Mr. Jones's original intention was to make Batty Todd, the sales
manager, who plays a prominent part in the piece, the chief character,
as the title indicates. He had in mind a treatise showing how the man
between reaps the profits of both capital and labour. In this Mr.
Jones, whose early plays were, for their time, remarkably rich in
imagination and intellectual power, showed his prophetic sense. He
had an inkling of the enormous part "Salesmanship", euphemistically
described as "Service", was to play in the later economic organization
of both England and America. But as _The Middleman_ got under way
the traditional emotional possibilities of the role of Blenkarn, an
humble genius (on whose talents his wealthy employer grows rich, and
whose favourite daughter is ruined by the capitalist's son), ran away
with him. The change of plan gave tremendous opportunities to Willard,
whose acting in the scene when the desperate man who has started on
his own is trying to keep his fires alight, was so overpowering and
convincing that people in the galleries were known to have thrown
coins on the stage to assist him. Equally fine was Blenkarn's prayer
crying for "A balance, a balance!" between his employer and himself.
In _Judah_ Willard played an entirely different type, a young
emotional clergyman who has fallen in love with a girl, who, at the
behest of a rascally father, claims to exercise occult powers as a
healer. The spiritual atmosphere Willard imparted to the role; and the
beautiful quality of his emotional acting after Judah discovers the
girl to be an impostor, made this the finest of all his creations in
the opinion of most contemporary critics.

The emotional exaltation to which Willard rose in both roles suggested
to many critics in America that here was the actor who could become
the successor to Edwin Booth in the role of Hamlet. Booth had just
retired from the stage; Irving had shelved the role of the prince;
and the Hamlet of Forbes-Robertson was yet to be revealed. Willard
did make the attempt at Boston (in 1893 or 1894) and the interest
in his first performance was so great that the _Boston Herald_ sent
four critics, including Henry A. Clapp and Mildred Aldrich, to record
different phases of it. To the chagrin of everyone Willard's Hamlet
proved a flat, unimaginative performance. It was not generally known
that in London he had twice disappointed his admirers in Shakespeare.
His King of Denmark in Wilson Barrett's production of _Hamlet_ had
lacked distinction, and his Macbeth at a few performances given in
co-operation with Mrs. Bernard Beere had also been insignificant.
The result of the Boston fiasco in _Hamlet_ was that he abandoned a
project of playing Shylock, in which, perhaps, he would have succeeded.

Yet Willard, thirty years ago, was the most perfectly equipped actor
in a physical sense whom I have ever seen; with a voice of thrilling
_timbre_ and unlimited resource, great personal magnetism, a face of
remarkable mobility, fine eyes and nobility of presence. The gods
had apparently denied him the greatest gift of all, imagination. So
long as he remained under the direction of A. M. Palmer, one of the
greatest and most artistic managers that ever adorned the American
theatre, his companies and productions were of a superior order. In
his company I first saw a beautiful young woman of rather mediocre
talent, whose loveliness destined her to fame,--Maxine Elliott.
And his leading woman in those early years was Marie Burroughs, a
California actress of exquisite sensibility, who was especially
fine in _Judah_. The _ingenue_ of his company, Nanny Craddock,
also possessed charming and sympathetic gifts. These ladies were
all Americans, but from England for his original company Willard
brought Royce Carleton, who died thirty years ago, a brilliant and
accomplished leading man, and two character comedians of the first
water, Fred Tyler, of whom I have already spoken, and Harry Cane, who
had been his school friend in Brighton, where the father of Willard
conducted a bake-shop. Cane was a most versatile actor. His Batty
Todd, the pursy little middleman in the play of that name, was
nothing short of perfection. In the mid-nineties Willard acquired the
English rights of _Alabama_, Augustus Thomas's fine study of the South
after the war, and himself played the role of the northern officer,
created in America by Maurice Barrymore. But the hit of the production
was Harry Cane as an old negro servitor. Willard himself told me that
American visitors in London thought he was "spoofing" when he told
them that Cane was an Englishman who had picked up his knowledge of
negro character in brief visits to Southern cities while supporting
his chief on tour.

Willard's art succumbed to two obsessions, an ever-growing
sentimentalism, emphasized by a too abundant use of gesture, and
fear that he would die poor. After he parted with A. M. Palmer, his
productions grew more and more "provincial". His acting became too
sugary altogether; and this tendency spoiled even his impersonation of
Thackeray's Col. Newcome, one of the last roles he played in America.
I once begged him to secure Octave Mirbeau's fine play _Les Affaires
sont les Affaires_ (Business is Business), in which W. H. Crane
had failed in New York, and which needed but an actor of Willard's
calibre to repeat the success it had won in Paris as presented by
Antoine. But he said: "My public likes to see me in 'nice' parts."
I was once standing at the back of the theatre with Ben Greet when
Willard was acting Cardinal Medici in L. N. Parker's romantic piece
_The Cardinal_. I said, "Mr. Greet, what's the matter with Willard? He
used to be superb; but now his acting seems hollow." Greet said: "It's
his ruddy paws; he waves them all the time. I'd like to put him in
rehearsal and say, 'Now Ned, I'm going to tie your hands behind your
back; go ahead and act.'"

Save the performances of the Kendals the most finished productions
that came to us from London thirty years ago were those of Sir John
Hare, not at that time knighted. Hare, though he had a light, brittle
voice, which unfitted him for emotional roles, and was too short for
romantic leads, had intellectual distinction, pungency of utterance,
and graphic outline in the delineation of character, that represented
perfection. From early manhood he had played old or middle-aged
roles; and in portraying them he revealed qualities of sympathy and
imagination that were enchanting. He was the type of realist who
nevertheless suggested a fine mind back of it all; thus his old Eccles
in _Caste_ was a perfect study of a disreputable curmudgeon, and yet
gave the impression of being a criticism of life. I had an opportunity
to study him in comparison with two other celebrated actors, Willard
and J. H. Stoddart, in the celebrated role of Benjamin Goldfinch in
_A Pair of Spectacles_. He was much finer than either in finesse and
in subtle suggestion of changing moods, the basic interest of the
character:--although Stoddart's impersonation, long popular in New
York, was admirable. Even in _The Gay Lord Quex_, a role to which
Hare was in some respects unsuited, for it was hard to imagine him
as a pursuer of women, his utterance of the line, "Gad, you're a
fine-plucked 'un," remains unforgettable. In it he conveyed, as in a
flash, the spirit of sportsmanship which is the greatest quality of
the British people, and the line became, as it were, symbolic. The
team-work in Hare's companies was splendid. When he first came to
America he brought with him Julia Neilson, a handsome, but rather
ponderous actress; Fred Terry, very handsome and attractive; and later
such brilliant actors as Charles Groves, inimitable as "the brother
from Sheffield" in _A Pair of Spectacles_, and Frederick Kerr, now
the _doyen_ of the London stage in middle-aged roles. But the most
brilliant artist Hare ever brought to America was Irene Vanbrugh,
whose perfect impersonation of the saucy, great-hearted Cockney girl
Sophie Fullgarney, the "fine-plucked 'un" of _The Gay Lord Quex_, will
live in the memory of all who saw it. I first saw Irene Vanbrugh as
a delicious beginner in a company which her brother-in-law, Arthur
Bourchier, brought to America, when a one-act play, _Kitty Clive_, was
put on to show her talents. At that time her sister, Violet Vanbrugh,
was more famous, but both she and her husband, Bourchier, were too
august in style for the farces they presented. In the early nineties
Bourchier had a trial in New York when Augustin Daly brought him
from London to succeed John Drew as leading man of his famous stock
company; but his style proved too heavy in comparison.

The advent of Mrs. Patrick Campbell, Sir Johnston Forbes-Robertson,
Sir Martin Harvey, Sir Frank Benson, H. B. Irving, Lawrence Irving,
Charles Hawtrey, Lewis Waller, and other celebrities of the London
stage belongs to a later period of the theatre than I am in the main
touching upon in this volume. There were, however, two eminent English
stars who filled a great place in the public eye during the days of
my youth of whom I have yet to speak--Wilson Barrett and the isolated
Irving.




                             CHAPTER XXII

                    SHAKESPEARIANS OF THE NINETIES


When I first became an active playgoer the more eminent of the
Shakespearian stars of this continent were on the eve of departure.
On the very first day I entered a newspaper office Lawrence Barrett
died. Edwin Booth had retired, and passed away a year or two later.
Booth had paid his final visits to Montreal and Toronto in the late
seventies, when his business was so poor that he vowed he would never
come again, and kept his word. A very old Canadian newspaperman,
Louis A. M. Lovekin, told me an interesting story of William Winter's
actual opinion of Booth as an actor. Those who have visited the
sanctum of the Players Club in Grammercy Park, New York, formerly the
private apartments of Booth, and now preserved as on the night he was
stricken, are aware that the end came to him while he was reading a
book of poems by Winter. Winter later wrote a biography of the actor
that is rhapsodical from first to last. Mr. Lovekin, who saw Booth in
the seventies, felt that while his elocution was the most beautiful he
had ever heard, he was deficient in power. About 1880 he met Winter in
New York and discussing Booth, said he had seen greater actors, but
never one with so fine an elocution. "Of course," said Winter gruffly,
"that's all he's got." But it was evidently a good deal. In looking
over old newspaper files I have discovered that in Canada at any rate
the brother, John Wilkes Booth, assassin of Lincoln, was seemingly
more highly esteemed as an actor. The latter played in Canada as a
guest star during the early years of the Civil War and evidently was
very highly esteemed.

When I was a boy the American actor foremost in carrying on the
Shakespearian tradition in the lesser cities was a man with a noble
brow, Thomas W. Keene. I must confess that though effective in
melodramatic episodes he had a monotonous style and a voice of flat,
uninteresting _timbre_. But he had sufficient vitality to draw large
houses. Shylock was his best performance, though he exaggerated the
emotions of the part to the extent of falling headlong in a faint
at the conclusion of the trial scene. At various times he employed
interesting actors in his support. Among them was Frederick Paulding,
a son of the famous Indian fighter, Col. Dodge, an eloquent actor of
striking appearance, who it was said had played Romeo oftener than
any other Thespian of his time. One of Keene's leading ladies was a
very gifted young actress, Maida Craigen, who was really brilliant
in certain roles (Ophelia especially), but who disappeared from the
public gaze years ago.

The first Shakespearian performance I ever saw was about 1888 or 1889
and was a handsomely staged production of _Romeo and Juliet_, of
which Margaret Mather was the star. Miss Mather, a pretty woman with
beautiful red hair, had been very much boomed in the role of Juliet,
in which she played continuously for several seasons, but she seemed
to lack lightness of touch and inspiration. At the time of which I
speak, she had two actors in her company whose performances I have
never forgotten. The Romeo was Otis Skinner, then slender, handsome,
and graceful, who gave a most impassioned interpretation of the
headlong Montague. The Mercutio was the celebrated Milnes Levick, who
had been leading man to Mary Anderson, and whose debonair grace and
abandon made the duel scene with Tybalt the most memorable I have
witnessed. Not long before her death, which occurred less than a
decade later, I saw Miss Mather in a revival of _Cymbeline_ when she
gave a touching impersonation of Imogen, but was overshadowed by a
celebrated actor of sinister roles, Mark Price, who played Iachimo. No
one who witnessed the baleful, catlike suggestion of Price's acting as
Iachimo emerged from the chest and prowled about Imogen's bed chamber,
will ever forget it.

Though never a star, Price at various times supported most of
the stars of "classical" drama, which did not mean Shakespeare
exclusively, but included the dramas of Lytton, Sheridan Knowles and
others. He was especially fine as Appius Claudius in Knowles's tragedy
_Virginius_ written for Macready. It was based on the old Roman legend
of the brave soldier who slew his own daughter, Virginia, rather than
let her fall into the hands of the villainous tribune Appius, who for
his own base purposes adjudged her a slave and the property of one
of his minions. Price's acting was so grimly impressive that I once
heard a man in the audience shout at him, "You dirty dog". He was also
a fine Iago and an admirable exponent of villainy in French romantic
dramas like _Monbars_ and _The Corsican Brothers_, in which he
supported Robert Bruce Mantell. When in the later nineties the public
enthusiasm for Shakespeare, and what I might term "near-Shakespeare",
suddenly died, Price entered the company of DeWolf Hopper and played
elderly roles in the early operettas of John Philip Sousa.

Thirty-five years ago "Bob" Mantell, as he was universally known, was
making his early essays in Shakespeare with _Hamlet_ and _Othello_.
In the late seventies he had enjoyed a thorough training in the
traditional Shakespearian methods of the nineteenth century,--methods
somewhat stagey and formal, but nevertheless impressive when
exemplified by a man so tall, graceful, and sonorous as was Mantell
in his youth. I have been told that his Hamlet much resembled that of
the famous Irish star, Barry Sullivan. Though it threw no new light
on the character it was a good, straightforward effort. His Othello
was more interesting, and in reviving the role Mantell abolished the
convention that gave the Moor a "sooty" aspect, and coloured his face
a rich, reddish brown like that of an Arab. This was not only right
in a racial sense, but made Desdemona's infatuation more plausible.
Mantell in those days was a singularly uneven actor. I have seen him
play the last act of _Othello_ so beautifully as to bring tears to my
eyes; and again so badly that I wanted to hoot him from the stage.
He had a good deal of misfortune both in his domestic and financial
relations. In 1890 he was as popular a drawing card as there was in
America, and a few years later he was "down and out". A decade or
so later he revealed a magnificent return to form as Lear, Brutus,
and Richelieu. Because of his majestic bearing he was credited with
undue personal vanity, but this was quite untrue. At that time it was
fashionable among leading actors to contemn Irving as "a good stage
manager,--yes; but an actor-r, no!" In the mid-nineties anti-British
feeling was strong in New York, and when Irving brought his revival
of _Macbeth_ to Broadway there was a veritable cabal against him
in the press. I ran across Mantell about that time and with Celtic
fervour he denounced the "dirty, low scuts, unfit to black Irving's
boots," who were attacking his Thane of Cawdor. "If I could ever learn
to recite that speech, 'To-morrow, and to-morrow and to-morrow,' half
as well as Irving, I would be too conceited to speak to anybody," said
Mantell. Before hard luck overtook him Mantell had some very good
actors in his forces. After Mark Price left him he engaged an artist
to play "heavies" who is now, despite advancing years, one of the
chiefest ornaments of the Broadway stage, Albert Bruning. Bruning has
never been a star, but he has never failed to give profound artistic
satisfaction, and I have seen him in the characters of playwrights
as diverse as Shakespeare, Shaw, Ibsen, and Dumas the elder. His
traditions go far back, for fifty years ago he played Cassio to the
Othello of Edwin Booth when the famous tragedian toured Germany. For
a season Mantell had also in his company a lovely Torontonian, the
daughter of a Kentucky family which had moved to Canada after the
Civil War,--Caroline Scales, or Caroline Miskel, as she was known on
the stage. Her light auburn hair, creamy complexion, bright sapphire
eyes, and noble form and features commanded immediate attention.
And she was as intellectual as she was beautiful. Charles H. Hoyt,
wittiest and most imaginative topical humourist that the American
stage has known, fell in love with her and married her. For her he
wrote one of the earliest skits on the feminist movement, _A Contented
Woman_. His first wife, the charming actress Flora Walsh, had died
young, and when Caroline Miskel also passed away in childbirth,
Hoyt did not long survive her. Caroline Scales holds an unique place
in the history of periodical publications; for she was the very
first "magazine cover girl". When Frank A. Munsey started _Munsey's
Magazine_, he conceived the idea that pictures of lovely maidens would
be more acceptable on its covers than the formal designs then in
fashion and secured a picture of her to initiate a policy which proved
immediately and enormously successful.

When Mantell was in his early prime there were several other
"legitimate" stars of widespread popularity, especially in the
"provinces". One was Lewis Morrison, a Jewish actor of very
considerable distinction. He starred for many seasons in a rather
commonplace version of Goethe's _Faust_ (which many of his admirers
supposed was the work of Shakespeare), and physically he was an ideal
representative of Mephisto, with a peculiarly vibrant intonation and
dark, lustrous eyes. He played Mephisto so long that the mocking
suggestion of his tones became second nature. Thus when he later
played _Richelieu_, and _Yorick's Love_, founded on an old Spanish
play by William Dean Howells, he gave a sense of insincerity in
important scenes. _Yorick's Love_, by the way, was based on the same
story as that on which Leoncavallo founded his opera _Pagliacci_. In
those days Florence Roberts (Mrs. Morrison) was an exquisitely idyllic
Marguerite, and she later became immensely popular on the Pacific
Coast as an exponent of heavy emotional roles. James O'Neill was
another very gifted star more or less identified with a single role,
that of the Count of Monte Cristo, in which his good looks, ease,
and beautiful voice made him very effective. One of his sons told me
his father was very anxious to get away from _Monte Cristo_ and do
something in New York, if only for a few performances, that would
regain for him the attention of the critics. I suggested Ibsen's _John
Gabriel Borkmann_, then recently published, and outlined the story.
But the son told me he was afraid his father would refuse to play
anything as "morbid" as that. I wonder what James O'Neill would have
thought of the plays of another son, Eugene, in comparison with which
Ibsen's dramas are light and gleeful.

O'Neill did, however, vary his repertoire by playing _Virginius_ and
the production was deeply interesting to me because the Virginia was
a brilliant young Toronto girl, Margaret Anglin, who had been at
school with my wife. In the dignity and eloquence of this performance
she fore-shadowed her later triumphs in Greek tragedy. Margaret
Anglin was always a wise and far-seeing woman. At the outset of
her career she had an entrée to New York, owing to her success in
a revival of _Shenandoah_ under the management of Charles Frohman,
but she deliberately went out and barn-stormed with a very bad actor
named Charles Rohlfs, husband of Anna Katherine Green, author of
_The Leavenworth Case_, who financed her husband's ambition to play
Shakespeare. By this policy Margaret Anglin got an experience in big
roles which proved of the highest value to her,--whereas if she had
remained in New York she would have been allotted pretty ingenue types
season after season. Two or three years after her season with O'Neill
as Virginia and Mercedes in _Monte Cristo_, she became famous in a
night as Roxane in _Cyrano de Bergerac_, supporting Richard Mansfield.
Since Rostand's drama was at that time the most talked of play in the
world, this was fortune indeed.

There never was an actor more vital or interesting than Richard
Mansfield, with his brittle, stirring voice, and suggestion of both
aesthetic and intellectual perceptions; but in the nineties he seldom
visited the smaller cities. Even in middle age he could express the
ardent spirit of youth as could no other actor; while he was perfect
in aged and eccentric types from the outset of his career. The roles
in which he was really unapproachable were that ideal of British
valor, Shakespeare's _Henry the Fifth_, and the gentle prince in
_Old Heidelberg_. Mansfield had a rooted objection to mention of his
associates. I once threatened to publish a picture of an actress, who
was a friend of mine and playing leads with him; but she said: "For
heaven's sake don't; Mansfield would be furious." Yet he had the gift
of lifting everyone around him to a finer edge of expression than was
natural to them. Thus his companies always seemed brilliant; and in
other hands, after his death, the same actors became colourless. I
think he must have "created" each man's role for him in rehearsal,
which perhaps explains why he desired all the credit.

Another star who has always possessed this gift of inspiring
associates to high endeavour is Edward H. Sothern; but unlike
Mansfield, he has always been desirous that everyone should receive
recognition,--a quality he shares with William Faversham. I have
spoken of the first performance I ever criticized; the second was E.
H. Sothern in a play by Jerome K. Jerome, _The Maister of Woodbarrow_.
Sothern had then been a star for about three seasons, and his fine
eyes, elegance of manner, and vital personality were very winning.
His productions had the distinction of those of the perfectly balanced
stock companies of other days. Sothern's successes in classic roles
belong to a later period than that of which I am writing in this
volume; but he was even then an ideal actor-manager and fully half
the abler actors of the American stage have at one time or another
appeared in his support.

Another famous son of a famous sire, who showed promise of great
achievement was Alexander Salvini. His appearance was ideally romantic
and winning and when he died he was gaining a better knowledge of
English speech, season by season. In D'Artagnan and Don Caesar de
Bazan his verve, charm and abandon made him inimitable. Shortly
before his early death he essayed Hamlet, and played the Prince in
a romantic, stirring spirit entirely unlike the studied, reflective
methods usually applied to the role. It would undoubtedly have matured
into a superb performance; and his portrayal of Hamlet's outburst of
fury after the players' scene ("Now could I drink hot blood") was the
most impressive I have witnessed.

The dashing, varied Prince of Salvini was utterly unlike the
deliberate Hamlet of the English actor, Wilson Barrett. Matthew
Arnold, who reviewed the initial performance in 1882 for the _Pall
Mall Gazette_, praised the lucidity of the impersonation, but said
that Barrett "lacked soul", a very penetrating comment. Barrett
made his whole production so interesting, however, that he really
popularized _Hamlet_ with thousands who were indifferent to the poetry
of Shakespeare. With his fine head, curling hair, and strong virile
neck, Barrett resembled certain heads on ancient Roman coins. He was
conscious of this and his Hamlet was distinctly décolleté in garb,
though "Carados" (H. Chance Newton), the veteran critic of the London
_Referee_, says this fashion began with Charles Kean. Barrett was a
fine melodramatic actor; at his best as Wilfred Denver in _The Silver
King_ and Dan Mylrea in Hall Caine's _Deemster_. The aesthetic beauty
of his productions won the approbation of Ruskin and he was not afraid
to include in his company better actors than himself. He had always
at least half a dozen men of first rate talent around him. One of the
finest was Austin Melford, who after Barrett's death took over some
of his productions and starred in the British provinces with them.
Melford was barred by a lisp from being truly great, but his acting of
the role of the Bishop of Man in _The Deemster_, who is called on to
condemn his own son, was magnificent; and he was splendid also as King
Claudius of Denmark.

Barrett had also the honour of discovering the famous Canadian actor,
Franklin McLeay, the perpetuation of whose fame in England is one of
the most interesting of theatrical phenomena. His entire stage career
did not exceed eight years, half of which were spent in America.
Yet no company comes from England that some member of it does not
enquire of me about McLeay's antecedents and allude to his genius.
He was born at Watford, Ont., and was named after Sir John Franklin,
the Arctic explorer, whom his father had known. At the University of
Toronto he won note as a football player, and subsequently became a
high school teacher at Woodstock, Ont. There he decided to go on the
stage, and having saved a little money went to Boston to study under
James E. Murdoch, a veteran who, at the request of Junius Brutus
Booth, had taught the younger Booths elocution. When in Boston all
the celebrated actors used to pay homage to the aged Murdoch, and
it was he who suggested to Wilson Barrett that he give McLeay an
opportunity. McLeay was dreamy and temperamental, but Barrett knew
how to bring the best out of him. Among his finest performances were
the Ghost in _Hamlet_ and Iago in _Othello_. Barrett permitted him to
evolve an entirely new Iago--a laughing, plausible scoundrel, not the
sinister, palpable villain of the old convention. But with Barrett,
McLeay's most striking performance was that of a crippled court fool,
called "The Bat" in a rather tawdry Egyptian melodrama, _Pharaoh_. As
a dramatist Barrett was something of a charlatan. He would take an
ordinary shop-worn melodramatic plot and cast it back two thousand
years into a showy Roman or Egyptian _mise-en-scêne_; he did this in
_Claudian_, _Clito_, _Pharaoh_ and most remuneratively of all in _The
Sign of the Cross_. In reading up lore for Pharaoh he learned that
the Egyptian kings used to deliberately break the bones of children
to turn then into grotesques for the entertainment of the court, and
devised such a role for McLeay. Only a man who had been an athlete
could have stood the physical strain of acting throughout an entire
evening in a stooping position, hopping about the stage like a toad.
The genius of McLeay was such that he made this grotesque role so
dignified and pathetic as to remain forever in the memory of those
who saw it. In 1923 when the British Association for the Advancement
of Science met, after a quarter of a century's absence, at Liverpool,
one of the speakers in the opening proceedings spoke of McLeay's
performance as the Bat as one of the memorable things the Association
had witnessed on its previous visit.

After five years with Wilson Barrett, McLeay was engaged by Sir
Herbert Tree for his superb company of His Majesty's Theatre, London.
There one of his triumphs was Cassius, in which he outshone other
members of a famous cast. When the poorer section of Ottawa was burned
in 1900 and thousands of families were left homeless, McLeay organized
a great benefit in London at which he and Tree gave scenes from
_Othello_. This was the first and only occasion on which London saw
his unique Iago. After the performance he took a chill, and, already
run-down from overwork in organizing the affair, died of pneumonia
within three days. Many London actors believe that he would have
become known as the greatest actor of the twentieth century.

The name of Wilson Barrett brings up that of the great Polish artist,
Helena Modjeska, whom he introduced to the English public. Modjeska
subsequently in America became associated with Booth and Barrett,
but when I first saw her in 1891 she was starring on her own. Though
no longer young, and embarrassed by a foreign accent, her Rosalind
was entrancing in sentiment and humour. She had a small head that
she moved with bird-like vivacity, a bewitching countenance, and an
aristocratic quality in bearing and address very seldom encountered
on the stage. She was the essence of grace. Later I saw her in very
impressive performances of Shakespeare's Cleopatra, Lady Macbeth, and
Queen Constance (in _King John_); in Schiller's _Mary Stuart_ she gave
a profoundly touching impersonation of the ill-fated Scottish Queen,
for in all that she did Modjeska was ever a princess.

Fanny Davenport's Cleopatra (in the Sardou version) was very
commonplace in comparison with Modjeska's. In the nineties Fanny
Davenport was admittedly in her decline, though not very old; and I
could not share the chivalrous enthusiasm with which Boston and New
York critics continued to speak of her acting. Her early triumphs had
been as a comédienne and I fancy that she should have continued in
that field. The last role in which I saw her was Joan of Arc, in a
rather paltry drama by a man whose name I have forgotten; and she made
an absurd figure in tights, with a costume that seemed designed to
reveal her rotundity in an unnecessary degree.

Contemporary with Modjeska, two other foreign actresses had tempted
fortune in America, but neither attained her command of English, or
artistic skill. They were Hortense Rhea, a Belgian, and Francesca
Janauschek, who in the seventies had been regarded as the greatest
of German tragédiennes. Rhea was very pretty, but never displayed a
first-rate talent, yet for a few seasons her sentimental impersonation
of Empress Josephine and her gay, attractive Beatrice in _Much Ado
About Nothing_ won her widespread favour. The Napoleonic play, written
by an American, Alfred Roland Haven, whitewashed the fair Creole in
an excessive degree, and one of my most interesting memories is that
of having seen the movie bad-man, William S. Hart, play Napoleon
with Rhea--a very strident performance. Poor Janauschek, when I saw
her, was but a shadow of her former self, and was a victim of some
wasting disease. She was so poor that her companies were wretched.
Her Meg Merrilees was rather effective, and her Lady Macbeth had its
"moments", but I can still see her leading man mouthing, "Is this a
dagger that I see before me?" over a dish of dusty plaster-of-Paris
fruit, resurrected from the property room for the banquet scene.

There was a woman star of that period who was really exquisite
in appearance and possessed of delightful charm and sensibility,
Marie Wainwright, who in America had been the original Josephine
in _Pinafore_. Strangely enough she never made money although she
lavished large sums on beautiful productions and maintained a splendid
company. Her production of _Amy Robsart_ in 1891 was only surpassed
in beauty by those of Irving. Of all her roles the one which charmed
me most was her Rosalind, which she played with humour and delicate
passion, and she was also delightful as Lady Teazle. Among the actors
she brought to the fore was Henry Miller, a Toronto lad, who had in
youth been trained by Charles W. Couldock, at a time when he was
leading man of a very fine stock company in the Grand Opera House,
Toronto; another was Blanche Walsh, daughter of a once noted Tammany
leader, "Fatty" Walsh, and a woman of much beauty and the highest
talent. She had so much genius that she might have done anything, but
her erratic nature led to her early death;--nevertheless, Blanche
Walsh must be credited with having given the finest impersonations
of La Tosca, Fedora, and Gismonda, Sardou's three greatest emotional
creations, that have been heard in the English language. Another
of Miss Wainwright's company was a brilliant young Jewish actor,
admirable as Joseph Surface, and known as Nathaniel Hartwig. He
subsequently left the stage and reverted to his own name, Nathaniel
Baruch, and is now one of the leading bankers of Wall Street.

Another American actress who failed to fulfil her great promise
was Elita Proctor Otis. Her acting in an adaptation of Dumas's
_Demi-Monde_ called _The Crust of Society_, was memorably fine. The
production was deeply interesting because her associates included the
famous blonde idol, Lydia Thompson, once noted as a star in legitimate
burlesque, who in this production proved a quiet and dignified
dowager. Zeffie Tilbury, a clever daughter of the latter, was also in
the company with her husband, a brilliant actor, Arthur Lewis.

A very popular star of the nineties was Rose Coghlan, a flamboyant
beauty whose style was rather robust. In those days a beautiful bust
was deemed an attribute of feminine beauty, and she had been richly
dowered by nature in this respect. Where to-day is there an actress
who could wear an old fashioned riding-habit with the same distinction
as did Rose Coghlan as Lady Gay Spanker in _London Assurance_? Her
companies would to-day be called "all-star" casts. One of the finest
of her productions was a revival of Sardou's _Diplomacy_, in which her
brother, Charles Coghlan, as Henry Beauclerc, gave an impersonation of
an English diplomat that for poise, refinement, and urbanity I have
never seen equalled. Rose Coghlan herself played the adventuress,
Countess Zicka, and her husband, John T. Sullivan, a handsome and
gifted emotional actor, the much-tried lover, Julian Beauclerc. The
leading feminine role of Dora was played by the exquisite Sadie
Martinot, the mercenary mother by Madame Ponisi, and the rest of the
cast was in keeping. A year or so later, Miss Coghlan produced for the
first time in America Oscar Wilde's brilliant comedy _A Woman of No
Importance_, with a company equally superb, including additions such
as Aubrey Boucicault and Effie Shannon, then an exquisite ingenue.
Rose Coghlan did the best acting of her career in the title role,
especially in her scenes with young Boucicault, who played the son.

Casts were often family parties in those days, and two of these that I
recall were presentations by the great comédienne, Mrs. John Drew, of
_The Rivals_ and _The Road to Ruin_. The latter, with its irresistibly
vain and silly character, the Widow Green, has never been revived
since Mrs. Drew's death. The old lady, who had been fifty years on
the stage, was still an exquisitely polished comédienne, peerless in
ease and distinction, whose every look and accent as Mrs. Malaprop
were delicious. She was almost entirely surrounded by relatives.
Her grandchildren, Ethel and Lionel Barrymore, played small roles;
her son, Sydney Drew, and her daughter-in-law, Phyllis Rankin, more
important ones.

Productions that would excel most all-star casts of to-day were not
infrequent even in the smaller cities. In 1893 A. M. Palmer's Madison
Square Stock Company was at its most brilliant stage despite the fact
that it was on the verge of dissolution, for it contained actors like
E. J. Henley, Maurice Barrymore, J. H. Stoddart (finest of "old men"),
E. M. Holland, Reuben Fax, Walden Ramsay, Owen Fawcett, Frederick
Robinson, Charles Butler, and E. M. Bell, all artists of rare gifts,
together with beautiful and talented young women like Julia Arthur and
Ida Conquest. The "emotional lead", May Brooklyn, committed suicide
not long after the dissolution of this great company. Its productions
of such varied plays as Thomas's _Alabama_, Jones's _Saints and
Sinners_, Grundy's _A Pair of Spectacles_, Oscar Wilde's _Lady
Windermere's Fan_, and Haddon Chambers's _Capt. Swift_, all in one
week, illustrated the magnificent resources of the organization,
and in each play every role was well-nigh perfectly done. After the
dissolution of the company its various members were speedily engaged
by other managers. Julia Arthur, the brilliant Canadian girl who
had been trained as a mere child by the Shakespearian star, Daniel
Bandmann, went to England to join the forces of Irving. Subsequently
J. H. Stoddart, after nearly fifty years of continuous acting in New
York, became one of the most popular of stars "on the road" as the
hard, emotional Scotsman, Lachlin Campbell, in _The Bonny Briar Bush_.
The instance of a man nearly seventy becoming a star for the first
time and drawing enormous audiences in a new environment is, I think,
unexampled in theatrical history. Stoddart was the dearest of souls,
and a very religious man. I was sitting with him one evening in the
private room of a restaurant when E. J. Henley and Maurice Barrymore
came in. They loved the old man and called him "Daddy", but he grew
restive and presently drew me away. "They are fine boys and splendid
actors," he said, "but presently they will start telling their
stories, rather lurid stories."

Palmer's company I thought the superior of that of Augustin Daly,
though it lacked any star of the prestige of Ada Rehan, a most
queenly and radiant woman with a noble voice and finished style.
Her finest performance was Katherine in Shakespeare's most inferior
play, _The Taming of the Shrew_, in which, as Bernard Shaw has truly
said, her genius lifted the comedy above the commonness of the
original conception. Daly's manipulation of Shakespeare's comedies
displeased many sensitive critics. Some of the alterations he made
in _Twelfth Night_ were in bad taste, as when he cut out all of Duke
Orsino's speech beginning, "If music be the food of love, play on",
except this one line, and made it the excuse for the introduction of
a singing ballet. But his production of _A Midsummer Night's Dream_
was enchanting, especially the performance of Helena by Ada Rehan
and Bottom by James Lewis. When I saw it Lillian Swain was the Puck,
Maxine Elliott the Hermia, Percy Haswell the Titania. The Grecian
lovers were played by Frank Worthing and John Craig, and the clowns
included such fine actors as Herbert Gresham and Tyrone Power. The
most popular artist of the company, save Miss Rehan, was the sweet and
lovely old gentlewoman, Mrs. G. H. Gilbert, who got her best chance in
_The School for Scandal_. In the latter production Miss Rehan was a
superb Lady Teazle, and the cast included such fine mellow actors as
George Clarke and Edmund Varrey.

I have left to the last, two women stars of the nineties who in
America have held their prestige unapproached in the twentieth,--Julia
Marlowe and Minnie Maddern Fiske, the one in Shakespeare, the other in
modern roles. The lyrical loveliness of Miss Marlowe when, as a mere
girl, she dawned on the consciousness of America thirty-five years
ago, can only be expressed in terms of poetry. To have seen her Juliet
in those days was to have seen Shakespeare's vision come to life. In
one of his novels of that period Howells wrote the following snatch of
dialogue:

    Have you seen Julia Marlowe as Juliet?
    Yes, she is the _only_ Juliet.

Julia Marlowe, though a native of Cumberland, England, and typical
of the dark, Celtic beauty of its people, was reared in Cincinnati,
and when she came to the fore, Howells and Robert G. Ingersoll, both
Ohio men, were very proud that their home state had at last produced
a genius. They did much to present her claims to the public for which
she was deeply grateful, and their eloquence was amply justified. The
devotion of the novelist was lifelong. In 1910 Julia Marlowe and her
husband, E. H. Sothern, opened the New Theatre, New York (now the
Century Theatre), built without regard to cost as a home of the arts;
and the bill was Shakespeare's Anthony and Cleopatra. Miss Marlowe
afterward told me that she was dissatisfied with her own performance,
which she thought good in but one scene. A day or so after the
opening, W. D. Howells, then very old, called on her and she gave him
this verdict on herself. "It was all beautiful," he protested, "to me
you are always divine." And that is the feeling of all of us who saw
Julia Marlowe as a girl, despite the fact that in comic roles like
Rosalind, Beatrice, Katherine, and Viola her art subsequently matured
and became more authoritative. I have never known an actress so candid
about her own achievements. Many years ago she said to me, àpropos of
an actress who claimed she never read criticisms: "Show me an actress
who says she does not read criticisms and I will show you a liar; or
if not, a fool."

Mrs. Fiske was literally cradled in a dressing room, and was a girl
star in the eighties. In those days I did not see her, but even then
she showed that initiative and freedom from convention which have ever
since marked her art. My mother, who had seen her act as a tiny tot
in _King John_ with John McCullough, went to see her again as a girl
in her 'teens playing in Sardou's _In Spite of All_, and was amused at
neighbours in the audience, who, accustomed to the explosive methods
with which emotional scenes were then played, asked, "Why doesn't she
act?" Mrs. Fiske's retirement from the stage for intensive study, from
1890 to 1895, was assuredly fruitful. She then matured those intensive
intellectual methods of acting which have influenced the careers of
an entire generation of younger actresses. When she came back to
the stage early in the winter of 1896, it was as a leader in the
intellectual renaissance of the theatre, then in its infancy. And she
was not well received by critics imbued with the sentimental fallacies
of the dying century. I saw her early performance, a month or so after
her return, in Ibsen's _Doll's House_, Alphonse Daudet's _Queen of
Liars_ and the younger Dumas's _La Femme de Claude_. Her methods,
intensely quiet, poignant, and true in emotional scenes, reversed the
prevailing conventions, and some critics frankly said that she should
go back to the trivial roles she had been playing when she retired
in 1890. There is a reflex of this unfriendly attitude in a letter
she wrote me on Feb. 23rd, 1896, a few weeks after her return to the
stage:--

"It is the occasional light of understanding which makes the sunshine
of the rather gloomy pathway of art. You believe that instead of
reaching truth by ways of beauty it may be better to reach beauty by
ways of truth, and I am also of that belief."

We have here, briefly stated, Mrs. Fiske's artistic creed, which was
not at first understood. But in the late nineties her impersonations
of Tess of the D'Urbervilles and Becky Sharp brought her complete
recognition. They were characterizations that left an indelible
impression of veracity, and in America sounded the death knell of the
old-fashioned emotional style as applied to modern roles. I reprint
the above message because it explains why, in spite of certain
mannerisms as too rapid speech, and many bad plays (selected because
of certain traces of originality which interested her), her prestige
has remained unabated.




                            CHAPTER XXIII

                          MEMORIES OF IRVING


I have reserved for the final chapter of this volume certain personal
impressions of a man who was in many respects the greatest personality
ever identified with the British theatre, Sir Henry Irving. It was
my good fortune to meet him on two occasions, and on one to obtain
at considerable length his views on many things. The stories of
Irving are countless and appear in many volumes of memories; and a
review of the many different characters in which I saw him would
extend far beyond the limits of this book. On one or two occasions
in lecturing on the actors of other days, I have likened Irving's
position in relation to the art of acting to that of Edgar Allan Poe
in literature, as an isolated artistic phenomenon. The analogy seems
a just one to me because in his most characteristic moments there was
something _macabre_ in his art, as well as a quality so essentially
beautiful and spiritual that it fitted into no accepted formulas of
acting. As many know he was destined to misfortune, as well as to
greatness and universal recognition; and a sense of fatality seemed
to lurk in his personality even in his most urbane moments. His
resemblance to the portraits of Dante is a matter of notoriety, and
it was said of Dante, "This man has been in hell." Despite Irving's
unique personal charm and good humour, there was always a suggestion
of tragedy. His own end, when broken both physically and financially,
was tragic, and the Norns had further tragedy in store in the
untimely deaths of both his brilliant sons.

In 1917, the wife of a Canadian officer overseas was at a little
tea-party in the Shorncliffe military area. She chanced to remark, "I
suppose I'm the only one here who is not English." An aged lady with a
strong Irish accent spoke up and said: "Indeed, I'll have you to know
that I'm not English," and commenced such a tirade against England
and its people as would have landed a man in a detention camp in
those days of war. Afterward the Canadian lady asked who the feminine
malcontent was; and was told that she was the widow of Sir Henry
Irving, and that her hatred of the English amounted to mania, although
she had always lived among them. This was the wife of the most
brilliant actor the modern English stage had known and mother of two
remarkable sons,--all dead by that time. This episode, related to me
after the war, explained much, for I had been told years before that
the reason for Irving's separation from his wife, which had saddened
his life, had been her intense jealousy of his success, though she
had no stage ambitions of her own. It is said to have begun in the
seventies, on the night when, after a long struggle for recognition,
he at length completely triumphed in _The Bells_. Driving home from
the theatre he said: "Well, I've won at last," and she replied with a
sneer, "You were never more ridiculous in your life."

Irving, a man burning with ambition, simply could not go on facing
domestic hatred of his successes; though it meant separation from
the children he loved dearly, and who became an honour to his name.
No other actor had ever risen to such prestige as he enjoyed in the
early nineties, when he was the valued friend of most of the great
statesmen, jurists, writers and artists of his time. He lavished
fortunes on beautiful stage pictures; and such productions as _Faust_,
Tennyson's _Becket_, and Comyns Carr's _King Arthur_ contained
vistas of beauty almost incredibly lovely in recollection. Thirty
years ago rising critics like George Bernard Shaw and William Archer
were already assailing him for his neglect of the modern realistic
drama, and for spending fortunes on scenery. But Irving's romantic
personality would not have fitted into an ordinary setting or into the
prose of modern drama. It required wonderful backgrounds. He was also
taunted with the "mediocrity" of his companies, whereas in reality
he employed the best actors of the time; but his personality so
overshadowed them that they did not seem so brilliant as they really
were. Above all he was accused of having submerged a woman of genius,
Ellen Terry; though on what ground this accusation could be laid those
who know the history of the Lyceum productions, in which Ellen Terry
nearly always had equal opportunities, find difficulty in determining.
Ellen Terry was indeed an exquisite creature, with a curious nervous
sensibility and poetry of movement, when I first saw her as Nance
Oldfield and Rosamund in _Becket_. Julia Arthur, who joined the
company a year later and succeeded to the latter role, told me she
was really engaged to keep Miss Terry at work. She had become more or
less indifferent about appearing; and Irving thought the engagement
of a young actress from America might make her look to her laurels.
In Irving's American tours Miss Terry's failures to appear were very
frequent. After they parted company Ellen Terry toured America by
herself and in Heijermans' tragedy of the sea, _The Good Hope_,
gave the most poignantly beautiful performance of a bereft mother,
all of whose sons have been drowned, that could be imagined, and in
Shaw's _Captain Brassbound's Conversion_, though she seldom knew her
lines, she was enchanting. So perhaps it is true that she felt herself
submerged in her later years with Irving.

My first meeting with the great actor was in the form of a hasty
newspaper interview when he was passing through Toronto to San
Francisco, and was spending a holiday sight-seeing at Niagara and
Toronto. After vainly seeking him all day I ran into him in the
evening, strolling about the streets with Bram Stoker, his business
manager, and H. J. Loveday, his stage director. He was most genial and
did not resent being interviewed in this abrupt fashion. In fact he
interviewed me; he wanted to know why Toronto merchants closed their
shops so early; and where they went at night. He also asked about an
old friend, a favourite actor with Canadians of the seventies, Thomas
C. King, and he wondered whether he might chance upon Edward Hanlan,
the famous oarsman, whom he had seen and admired years previously. The
next occasion on which I met him was on a beautiful autumn Sunday,
when I perceived him sitting alone on the ancient verandah of the
Queen's Hotel, Toronto, which then commanded through an avenue of
chestnut trees a view of Toronto Bay, on which skiffs were sailing
about in the sunlight. This was in 1895, the season in which he
brought _King Arthur_, the most beautiful of all his productions, to
America; and that in which we were first afforded a sight of his only
experiment in modern roles, the aged veteran, Corporal Brewster, in
Conan Doyle's _Waterloo_. I have told of how certain persons used to
deride Irving and intimate that he was not an "actor-r". When I first
saw his magically truthful delineation of Brewster, I was sitting
beside a clever English comedian, Charles Coote. After the curtain
fell Coote under his breath gave vent to blood-curdling oaths; and I
asked what was the matter. Tears were in the comedian's eyes as he
said: "I'm cursing the low-browed, ignorant tripe who say Irving can't
sink his own personality."

The _King Arthur_ production was of especial interest because, in
addition to the radiant Guinevere of Ellen Terry, the role of the
lovely Elaine was played by Julia Arthur. In passing it is interesting
to note that the original Elaines in England and America both hailed
from Canada. When I was a little boy in the Church of the Redeemer,
Toronto, a retired naval officer of very religious temperament, named
Commander Pocock, used to bring a large family of youngsters to church
with him. Nobody foresaw that one of these children was destined to
fame as the celebrated actress, Lena Ashwell, who was the original
Elaine in London. But her personal beauty did not approach that of
Julia Arthur, whose remarkable powers have, after all these years,
been again revealed in a superb impersonation of Shaw's _Saint Joan_.

On the autumn afternoon when I last interviewed him, Irving looked
more like Dante than ever. He was wearing a wide-brimmed Cromwellian
hat that accentuated the austerity of his appearance, but he proved
to be in a mood for company. As he took off his hat, the grey locks
ruffled over his high-arched forehead, supplementing his gentle,
high-bred smile and softening his countenance. At his feet lay the
famous fox-terrier, Fussy, subject of many anecdotes. That he had
lately been in more affectionate contact was evidenced by the white
hairs that covered his master's coat and trousers. Fussy rose and
investigated me; and apparently his conclusions were satisfactory,
for he lay down again and went to sleep. "Fussy is getting old," said
Irving. "He came with me on my first trip to America, and this is his
fourth. He is fourteen years old now."

The actor looked out over the water and again asked of Hanlan, as
before. "I see by the newspapers that he is still rowing," he said;
"he must be getting on, like all of us. What a grand young fellow
he was when he first rowed in England. We loved him for his grand
physique and because he was a true sportsman. That's a great thing.
But I suppose you didn't come to see me to hear me talk about sports.
What shall I talk about?"

I suggested that he choose his favourite theme and he mused: "I
suppose that's the theatre, or Shakespeare perhaps."

"What kind of a man do you suppose Shakespeare was?" I asked by way of
a start, and at once the actor launched into thoughtful, unpedantic
discourse:

"What kind of a man was Shakespeare? That's a difficult question; I
must think! Well, he must have been a man of very sweet and genial
nature, penetrating in his dealings with men. He knew more of human
nature than any man who ever lived; and that must have influenced his
everyday life. I do not believe for a moment the old story that he
died after a carousal. It was vile gossip. Shakespeare was not that
kind of a man. Don't you think so yourself?"

Irving's voice was so deep, solemn, and persuasive that it compelled
affirmatives. I interjected a word about that curious brood of
self-deceivers, the Baconians, who were at that time traducing
Shakespeare's character to bolster up their theory.

"The Baconian theory," he said scornfully. "That nonsense is disproven
by the plays themselves. That the author of them was an actor is
apparent in them all. He was fully acquainted with all the resources
and necessities of the stage of his time. The practical knowledge of
stage effect revealed in them is wonderful."

He then told me he was turning over in his mind a project of reviving
_Julius Caesar_ (subsequently abandoned), and that he was considering
_Coriolanus_. This proved one of his misadventures. _Caesar_, as he
called the tragedy, he deemed the more interesting from the public's
standpoint. "It has three great characters," he said, "and even the
subordinate role of Casca is a grand one. If I revive it I shall
play Brutus,--a wonderful study. _Caesar_ has one peculiarity. The
climax,--the murder in the Forum--comes in the middle. It is the only
play Shakespeare wrote in that form. But there is another drawback
from my standpoint; it has no part for Miss Terry. In any event I am
going to do _Madame Sans Gêne_ for her. She will be wonderful; she is
the most exquisite comédienne living."

I asked him what role in his opinion gave Miss Terry her best
opportunity. "Beatrice in _Much Ado About Nothing_," he said. "She has
an indescribable personal charm in that role; I cannot put it into
words."

"The light that never was on sea or land?" I suggested. "Yes, that is
it. Ah! If Shakespeare could have seen her Beatrice. It would have
warmed the cockles of his heart. What a genius he was to write
such glorious women's parts knowing that they would he brutally
misinterpreted by the lads who played them. There is a good story of
Kineston conducting a rehearsal of _Othello_ and calling aloud for
Desdemona. 'Please, sir,' said the prompter, 'Desdemona has gone to
the barbers.'"

I laughed, but something in the tone seemed to dissatisfy Irving.
He turned with something like severity, and said, "You've heard
that story before!" There was a sort of suggestion of "Don't lie to
me, boy," so I confessed that I had read it in Percy Fitzgerald's
_Theatrical Anecdotes_. "Um," murmured the actor, "I told it to Percy!
It's an old story of mine."

In truth the absent-minded quality of my laugh was due to the fact
that I had noticed suspicious movements behind a heavy curtain in an
open window just back of his chair. It was silently drawn aside, and
I saw three girls, members of his company, eavesdropping. One put a
finger to her lips, and later I identified her as Edith Craig, Ellen
Terry's daughter, who must have heard the tribute to her mother.

We passed on to Ibsen, a moot topic in 1895. Controversy was
still rife and most of Irving's journalistic admirers in London
were attacking the Norwegian in stupidly abusive terms. Irving
was emphatic in the opinion that Ibsen was a marvellous master of
dramatic construction, but would never be popular with the British
people because of his choice of subjects. This seems commonplace
enough to-day when we have a proper perspective on Ibsen, but it was
important thirty years ago, when the older actors and critics were in
the habit of proclaiming him utterly lacking in constructive power.

Another moot topic in 1895 was the "new woman", a subject allied to
the Ibsen controversy because the "new woman" was supposed to be
symbolized in Nora Helmer and Hedda Gabler. The subject seems archaic
to-day when the newer women appall those who were the new women of the
nineties. I asked Irving whether the "new woman" was making inroads on
English society.

"No," he said, "she has never existed, or perhaps I had rather say,
she has always existed. The 'new woman' you hear so much about is
really only a humorous type created by wits and journalists."

Though Queen Victoria was still alive, _fin de siècle_ writers were
already speaking of the "Victorian era" in the past tense as a
vanished epoch, so I asked Irving:

"Whom do you consider the representative man of the Victorian era;
that is the man who stands in the same position toward it, as
Shakespeare to the age of Elizabeth?"

"There is no one," he replied. "The Elizabethan epoch was so wonderful
that it stands by itself. It was a time of great turmoil and great
production. There was the victory over the Spanish Armada which fired
English enthusiasm. There were the discoveries of new lands which
developed the imagination of the people infinitely; and in literature
the period is unique since its imaginative productions were almost
wholly in the realm of the theatre. Some philosophic discourses were
written, some lyrical poetry, but the intellectual life of the people
pulsed in the theatre. Therefore there is no writer of the nineteenth
century whose position is analogous to that of Shakespeare in his
time.

"In many respects Tennyson is the great representative literary man
of the Victorian era. [Tennyson at that time was three years dead.]
I knew him well. Tennyson would have made a great dramatist had he
started earlier. Strangely enough his whole ambition in his last
years was centred in the drama. He desired above all things to be an
author of great plays,--plays to be acted. In my opinion the last act
of _Becket_ is almost as good as anything in Shakespeare. He lacked
knowledge of the stage, but had be commenced to write plays as a young
man, under the guidance of some good actor, he would have achieved
success. I have spoken of the value to Shakespeare of his experience
as an actor, and take Lytton. He was a much lesser man than Tennyson,
but he wrote dramas which have held the stage. He had no practical
experience himself, but he wrote entirely under the guidance of
Macready."

Irving never sought publicity; he had no need to, but in this
conversation he unconsciously revealed qualities which would have
delighted a modern publicity expert. As I have said his newest
production was _King Arthur_ by Comyns Carr, and when I asked him,
"Who is the wittiest man in London?" he replied: "Well in my opinion
the greatest of our wits is a man of whom very little is known in
America,--Comyns Carr. He is a theatrical manager in London, but he
is a distinguished man of letters also, a polished essayist, and the
most sparkling man I ever met. I never asked him, but perhaps he is an
Irishman; many of our celebrated wits have been."

I asked Irving in what the Irishman differed from the Englishman,
constitutionally. "As the Celt from the Saxon, of course; the one
mercurial and light; the other possessed of slow, solid qualities.
I think the difference is one of climate really. The light, clear
atmosphere of Ireland is essentially different from that of England.
It affected me so that I could not sleep on my first visit to Dublin.
I am not so sure though about the influence of climate on the Scottish
people. They are a delightful race, brilliant and full of keen
insight and exquisite wit. The old saw about it requiring a surgical
operation to get a joke into a Scotsman's head is a gross libel. Even
the poor peasants of Scotland are cultured and Scottish audiences are
a delight to play to; they are so keen they never miss a point." An
old gentleman joined us who said he had seen Irving act in Manchester
in 1860. "Oh," said Irving, "I had only been four years on the stage
then," and so the interview ended.

It is plain that the man who gave that interview was no ordinary
mummer, but an artist who had thought wisely of many things. His
art was so varied that he made such varied figures of legend and
history as Mephisto, Becket, Shylock, King Arthur, Corporal Brewster,
Robespierre, and the haunted Matthias live ineffaceably as complete
beings; and with this record of the random thoughts of an amazing man
I close these rambling memories of the past.


                               THE END




                            INDEX OF NAMES


  Abbott, Sir John J. C., 140, 194

  Aberdeen, Lady, 350

  Acheson, Rt. Rev. Edward Campion, (Bishop of Connecticut), 48-9

  Ade, George, 149

  Ahrens, Carl, 92, 332

  Alcott, Louisa M., 7

  Alexander, Sir George, 102

  Alexander of Teck, Prince, 274

  Amundsen, Roald, 311

  Anderson, Sir John, 276

  Anderson, Mary (Madame de Navarro), 367

  Anderson, Thomas, 8

  Anglin, Margaret, 371

  Archer, Belle, 100

  Archer, William, 388

  Armour, Chief Justice, Hon. John D., 245

  Arnold, Sir Edwin, 298

  Arnold, Matthew, 119, 291, 298, 373

  Arthur, Julia, 380-1, 388

  Arthurs, Col., 122

  Ashford, Clarence W., 22

  Ashford, Col. Volney Vallencourt, 22-4

  Ashwell, Lena, 390

  Atkinson, J. E., 136, 171

  Atkinson, Mrs. J. E. ("Madge Merton"), 88-89

  Aylesworth, Sir Allen, 240


  Bailey, John, 318

  Baldwin, Rt. Rev. Maurice, (Bishop of Huron), 58

  "Bald-Faced Kid", 288-90

  Balfour, Rt. Hon. A. J. (Lord), 54

  Bancroft, Sir Squire, 349-50

  Bandmann, Daniel, 381

  Barrett, Lawrence, 33, 365

  Barrett, Wilson, 358, 373

  Barrymore, Ethel, 380

  Barrymore, Lionel, 380

  Barrymore, Maurice, 355, 362, 380

  Baruch, (Hartwig) Nathaniel, 378

  Beatty, E. W., 156

  Beck, Sir Adam, 186, 190, 191-2

  Beecher, Rev. Henry Ward, 293-4

  Beere, Mrs. Bernard, 358

  Bell, Edward M., 380

  Bell, Prof. Graham, 296

  Bell, Moberly, 279-80

  Bellew, Kyrle, 356-7

  Bergeron, J. G. N., 208

  Bethune, Rt. Rev. Dr. (Bishop of Toronto), 49

  Bengough, J. W., 197

  Bennett, James Gordon, 75, 281, 326

  Bernhardt, Sarah, 94

  Berthon, George Theodore, 329

  Bigge, Sir Arthur, 276

  Birmingham, Robert, 161, 179

  Birchall Murder Case, 214

  Bismarck, Count von, 99

  Blaine, James G., 153, 196

  Blake, Hon. Edward, 165-6, 197-8

  Blake, Lady Helen, 102

  Blake, Hon. Samuel H., 49-50, 233-5

  Blake, Kathleen ("Kit"), 94-5

  Blondin, 24

  Booth, Edwin, 360, 365

  Booth, John Wilkes, 366

  Borden, Sir Robert, 194

  Boucicault, Aubrey, 380

  Boucicault, Nina, 352

  Boultbee, Alfred, 38

  Boulton, Major, 42

  Boulton, William Henry, 117

  Bourchier, Arthur, 364

  Bowell, Sir Mackenzie, 149, 160-2, 194, 206

  Bowes, R. H., 122

  Boyd, Sir John, 244

  Brandon, Olga, 359

  Breckenridge, William Wallace, 61

  Brennan Murder Case, 245

  Brick, Rev. J. Goff, 58

  Britnell, Albert, 209

  Brooke, Rupert, 309

  Brown, Hon. Adam, 184-5

  Brown, Hon. George, 126, 147, 296

  Brown, Gordon, 198

  Brown, Mrs. J. N. E. ("Faith Fenton"), 93

  Brown-Potter, Cora, 356-7

  Browne, Archibald, 310

  Bruce, Harry Addington, 156

  Bruce, Dr. Herbert A., 311

  Bruning, Albert, 369

  Bryan, Col. Claude, 156

  Bryan, William Jennings, 306-8

  Buchan, John, 46

  Bülow, Hans von, 321-2

  Bunner, H. C., 83

  Bunting, Christopher W., 75, 115, 126, 161-2

  Burnham, Nat., 344

  Burrell, George, 6

  Burrell, Sir Peter, 6

  Burroughs, Marie, 361

  Burwash, Chancellor, 118

  Butler, Charles W., 380

  Butler, Elizabeth Thompson, 99

  Butler, Seymour, 267

  Butler, Gen. Sir William, 99


  Cable, George W., 297

  Callaway, Samuel R., 13

  Campbell, Prof. Thomas, 30

  Campbell, Bishop Thomas, 30

  Campbell, William Wilfred, 89-91

  Cane, Harry, 361

  Carleton, Royce, 361

  Carlile, J. B., 220

  Carman, Bliss, 91

  Carmichael, Dean, 53

  Carr, Comyns, 388, 395

  Carte, D'Oyly, 291

  Caven, Rev. Principal, 54

  Charlesworth, Horatio George, 17

  Charlesworth, L. C., 22

  Charlesworth, Solomon, 14-5

  Churchill, Lady Randolph, 301

  Churchill, Rt. Hon. Winston Spencer, 301-2

  Clapp, Henry A., 338

  Clark, Joe T., 127

  Clark, Rev. Prof. William, 52, 145

  Clarke, Edward F., 56, 152

  Clarke, George, 382

  Clay, Cecil, 352

  Clayton, Bessie, 153

  Coghlan, Charles, 351

  Coghlan, Rose, 379-80

  Collins, J. E., 198

  Colquhoun, Dr. A. H. U., 150-1

  Connaught, Duke of, (Prince Arthur), 99, 255

  Conners, "Fingy", 247-8

  Conquest, Ida, 380

  Cook, Fred, 134-5

  Coote, Charles, 390

  Cornyn, J. H., 156

  Cornwall and York, Duke of (See George V.)

  Couldock, Charles W., 378

  Courtleigh, William Flynn, 100

  Cowan, Thomas, 148

  Cowell, Florence, 254

  Craddock, Nanny, 361

  Craig, Edith, 393

  Craig, John, 382

  Craigen, Maida, 366

  Crane, William H., 362

  Creighton, David, 126, 148-64

  Crichton, Viscount (Earl of Erne), 274-5

  Cronin Murder Case, 157-60

  Cronin, Patrick F., 163

  Cruikshank, William, 331-2

  Curran, James W., 78, 155

  Curry, J. Walter, 224, 227-8

  Cushing, Dr. Harvey, 213

  Cust, Sir Charles, 267, 274


  Dalby, Henry, 200

  Daly, Augustin, 381-2

  Damien, Father, 23

  Damrosch, Walter, 78, 153

  Dana, Charles A., 114

  Davenport, Fanny, 376-7

  Davey, Mary (Mrs. Fiske), 32, 382-4

  Davey, Thomas, 32

  Davidson, John, 101

  Davis, Richard Harding, 194

  Day, Wilson, 343

  Denison, Col. George Taylor, 57, 80, 203

  Denison, Grace E. ("Lady Gay"), 92-4

  Denison, Major Septimus, 285

  De Reszke, Édouard, 325

  De Reszke, Jean, 325

  Dewart, Hartley H., 224

  Dickens, Charles, 57, 61

  Dillon, Luke, alias Karl Dullman, 246-52

  Disraeli, Benjamin, 119

  Dixey, Henry E., 344-5

  Dockstader, Lew, 307

  Doyle, Sir Arthur Conan, 241-3, 299

  Drew, Mrs. John, 380

  Drew, Sydney, 380

  Drummond, Dr. W. H., 297

  Dryden, Hon. John, 170, 174

  DuMoulin, Rt. Rev. Philip, (Bishop of Niagara), 53-5

  Dunton, Theodore Watts, 95

  Dvořák, Antonín, 323


  Easton, Florence, 324

  "Ebor" (H. T. Howard), 142-4

  Edgar, Sir James, 197

  Edgar, Prof. Pelham, 198

  Edward VII (Baron Renfrew), 254-5

  Egan, Eleanor Franklin, 283

  Egan, Martin, 266, 282-4

  Elliott, Arthur, 346

  Elliott, James, 19

  Elliott, Maxine, 361, 382

  Ellis, P. W., 191

  Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 291

  Empress Dowager of China, 283

  Erne, Earl of, 274-5

  Evans, Henry Clay, 309

  Ewan, John A., 76, 127, 133-6, 166


  Fairbanks, Hon. Charles W., 287-8

  "Faith Fenton" (Mrs. J. N. E. Brown), 93

  Farini, Signor, (William Hunt), 24-5

  Farrer, Edward, 108, 120-1, 135, 196

  Faversham, William, 372

  Fawcett, Owen, 380

  Fax, Reuben, 380

  Febvre, M., 326

  Ferguson, Justice Thomas, 226-7, 236

  Fielding, Hon. W. S., 204

  Fisher, Arthur E., 317-9

  Fisher, Dr. Edward, 318

  Fiske, Minnie Maddern, 382-4

  Fiske, John, 90

  Fitzgerald, Percy, 393

  Flavelle, Sir Joseph, 165, 191

  Forbes, Archibald, 278

  Forbes-Robertson, Sir Johnston, 291

  Forster, J. W. L., 330

  Forrest, Edwin, 308

  Foster, Sir George, 204, 209-10

  Foster, Col., 229-31

  Fowler, Daniel, 329-30

  Fowler, R. W., 331

  Foy, Hon. James J., 185

  Fraser, John A., 333

  Fraser, Malcolm, 333

  Frohman, Daniel, 353


  Gadsby, H. F., 156

  Gagen, R. F., 333

  Galli-Curci, Amelita, 337

  Galsworthy, John, 14

  Galt, Sir Alexander, 10

  Garrett, John, 26

  George the Fifth, His Majesty, 253-73

  Gibson, Charles Dana, 331

  Gibson, Sir John Morrison, 185, 234

  Gilbert, Mrs. G. H., 382

  Gilder, Richard Watson, 297, 333

  Givens, Rev. Canon, 39

  Glenn, Francis Wayland, 114

  Godfrey, Lieut. Dan, 156, 320

  Gooch, W. W., 223

  Good, H. J. P., 151-2

  Gottschalk, Ferdinand, 351

  Gray, Ada, 307, 342

  Greenwood, Sir Thomas Hamar, 156, 195

  Greet, Ben, 362

  Gregg, George, 76

  Gregg, Thomas A., 76, 126, 195

  Grey, Earl, (Governor General of Canada), 284

  Gresham, Herbert, 382

  Griffin, Martin J., 197

  Grossmith, George, 352

  Grossmith, George jr., 354

  Grossmith, Weedon, 351

  Groves, Charles, 364

  Guise, Arthur, 280


  Haggard, Sir Rider, 110

  Haggart, Hon. John, 109

  Hale, Horatio, 96

  Hall, Pauline, 348

  Hamilton, Lieut.-Col. Charles F., 136

  Hammond Murder Case, 237-9

  Hanlan, Edward, 389

  Hanna, Hon. W. J., 186-90

  Hardie, James Kier, 302

  Hardy, Hon. Arthur Sturgis, 172-7, 178-82, 190

  Hardy, Thomas, 20

  Hare, Sir John, 351, 363

  Harkins, John A., 111

  Harrison, Duncan B., 307

  Harrison, Dr. (of Selkirk), 222

  Hart, William S., 377

  Hartwig, (Baruch), Nathaniel, 378

  Haslam, W. Elliott, 323-5

  Hastings, Cuyler, 73

  Haswell, Percy, 382

  Haultain, Arnold, 113

  Haven, Alfred Roland, 377

  Haverson, James, 241

  Hawkins, Sir Anthony Hope, 299

  Haycock, Joseph, 120-2, 173

  Healy, T. P., 43

  Hearst, William Randolph, 157

  Henley, E. J., 380

  Herbert, Joseph W., 343

  Herbette, Léon, 287

  Heward, Hon. Stephen, 36

  Hicks, Seymour, 354

  Holland, E. M., 380

  Holland, Dr. J. G., 184

  Holmes, Robert, 91-2

  Howard, Capt. "Gatling Gun", 49

  Howard, Henry Taylor ("Ebor"), 142-4

  Hoyles, Dr. N. W., 50

  Hoyt, Caroline Miskel, 369-70

  Hoyt, Charles H., 369

  Howells, Rev. Mr., 97

  Howells, Hon. Mr. (U. S. Consul), 98

  Howells, William Dean, 98-9, 370

  Huissel, Bill, 266

  Hughes, His Honor Judge, 140

  Hughes, General Sir Sam, 24, 63-4

  Hunter, Rose & Co., 109

  Huntingdon, Agnes, 93

  Huntley, G. P., 354

  Huskisson, Rt. Hon. William, 15

  Huston, William, 64

  Hyams Murder Case, 121-31

  Hyde, Rev. Dr., 23


  Ibsen, Henrik, 300

  Ingersoll, Robert, 9, 20, 295

  Insull, Mrs. Samuel, 342-3

  Irving, Aemilius, 240

  Irving, Sir Henry, 84, 349, 386-96

  Irving, Isabel, 350

  Irving, Lady, 387


  Jacobi, O. R., 84, 329

  Jaffray, Robert, 163

  Janauschek, Francesca, 377-8

  Jarvis, Miles O'Reilly, 82-3

  Jefferys, Charles W., 91

  Jetté, Sir Louis, 287

  Johnson, Allan, 103

  Johnson, Dr. Arthur Jukes, 244

  Johnson, E. Pauline, 95-104

  Johnson, Chief G. H. M., 95-8

  Johnson, Sir William, 97

  Johnston, E. F. B., 117, 223-31, 232, 238, 241-52

  Jones, Frank, 288

  Jones, Henry Arthur, 359-60

  Jones, ---- (Schoolmaster of Sandringham), 276-7

  Jones, James Edmond, 39

  Jones, Rev. Septimus, 39, 318

  Juch, Emma, 224


  Kalakua, King, 22

  Keene, Thomas W., 346, 366

  Kendal, Mrs. (Madge Robertson), 352-4

  Kendal, William H., 352-4

  Keppel, Sir Derek, 264, 274

  Kerninghan, R. F. ("The Khan"), 196

  Kerr, Frederick, 364

  Kilbride, Richard, 54

  King, Thomas C., 389

  King, Rt. Hon. William Lyon Mackenzie, 156, 195

  Kitchener, Lord, 281

  "Kit" (Kathleen Blake-Coleman), 94-5

  Knight, E. F., 276, 278

  Knight, Joseph, 339

  Krehbiel, H. E., 97

  Kribs, Louis P., 16-8


  "Lady Gay" (Grace E. Denison), 92-4

  Lane, John, 101-2

  Langtry, Rev. Dr. John, 214, 318

  Langtry, Mrs., 287, 354-5

  Lansdowne, Marquis of, 54-5

  Lascelles, Frank, 325

  Lash, Z. A., 117

  Latchford, Hon. F. R., 193

  Laurier, Sir Wilfrid, 163, 194-205, 258

  Lear, Edward, 330

  Lehmann, Lilli, 321

  Lessing, Madge, 346

  Levick, Milnes, 367

  Lewis, Arthur, 379

  Lewis, James, 382

  Lighthall, W. D., 4

  Lincoln, Abraham, 10

  Li Hung Chang, 312-4

  Lindemann, Eugénie, 343

  Lloyd-George, David, 295

  Lo Feng Loo, 313

  Long, Charles T., 157-60

  Lorne, Marquis of (afterwards Duke of Argyle), 255-6

  "Lotta", 341-2

  Louise, Princess (Duchess of Argyle), 255-6

  Lount, William, 223, 245

  Loveday, H. J., 389

  Lovekin, L. A. M., 365

  Lygon, Lady Mary, 277

  Lyon, Stewart, 210


  McArthur, Peter, 71, 87-8

  McCarthy, D'Alton, 160, 171, 240-1

  McCarthy, Hamilton, 21

  McCarthy, Justin, 165

  McCullough, John, 32, 384

  Macdonald, Adam Fergus, 62

  Macdonald, E. A., 120, 167

  Macdonald, Rt. Hon. Sir John A., 33, 77, 81, 105-9, 134-5, 147-8, 166-9, 214

  Macdonald, Rev. James A., 209-11

  Macdougall, Hon. William, 183

  McEachern (McHector), 3

  McEachern, Lieut.-Col. Archibald, 5, 9

  McEachern, Archibald, jr., 9

  McEachern, Hector, 13

  McEachern, John, 3, 5-6

  McEachern, John, jr., 10

  McKellar, Duncan A., 71, 87-8

  McKinley, Hon. William, 259-280

  Mackenzie, Rt. Hon. Alexander, 33, 38, 130, 181, 194

  Mackenzie, Finlay, 152-5

  Mackenzie, William Lyon, 8, 75-6, 148

  Maclean, "Jimmy", 133

  Maclean, John, 132, 152

  Maclean, John, jr., 133

  Maclean, Wallace, 135

  Maclean, William Findlay, 125, 128-41, 160, 166-81, 220-2

  McLeay, Franklin, 195, 374-5

  McMaster, Hon. William F., 36

  McMechan, Prof. Archibald, 201

  Macmillan, John, 197

  MacMurchy, Archibald, 62-3

  MacNab, Sir Alan, 277

  "McNair, John" (McEachern), 11-2

  McNaught, W. K., 191

  MacVicar, John, 42

  MacVicar, Victoria, 42-5

  "Madge Merton", (Mrs. J. E. Atkinson), 88

  Manley, Major Fred F., 63

  Mansfield, Richard, 263, 371-2

  Mantell, Robert B., 368

  Mark Twain, 296-7

  Marlowe, Julia, 343, 382-3

  Marter, George F., 170-3

  Martinot, Sadie, 379

  Mason, General James, 48

  Mather, Margaret, 366

  Maude, Gen. Sir Aylmer, 279

  Maude, Cyril, 352

  Maxwell, William, 280

  May, Edna, 346

  Meighen, Rt. Hon. Arthur, 195

  Melba, Nellie, 325

  Melgund, Lord, (afterward Lord Minto), 46

  Meredith, Sir William Ralph, 58, 168-70

  Middleton, Major General, 46

  Miller, Henry, 378

  Miller, Prof. Willet G., 193

  Mills, Josie, 342

  Minto, Countess of, 199, 272

  Minto, Earl of, 2, 46, 258, 278

  Mitchell, Maggie, 342

  Mitchell, Percy, 325-6

  Moat, William, 19

  Modjeska, Helena, 376

  Montague, Louise, 346

  Montague, Hon. William H., 104

  Moody, Dwight L., 143

  Moore, George, 94

  Morley, Hon. John (Viscount), 119

  Morris, Clara, 340

  Morris, Felix, 351

  Morrison-Bell, Major A. C., 284

  Morrison, Lewis, 195, 370

  Mowat, J. Gordon ("Moses Oates") 198

  Mowat, Sir Oliver, 111, 162, 168-9

  Mullarky, William, 57

  Mulle, Ida, 344

  Mulock, Chief Justice Sir William, 186

  Munsey, Frank A., 370

  Murdoch, James E., 374

  Murray, Inspector John, 249-50

  Myers, Frederick, 65


  Neilson, Adelaide, 338

  Neilson, Julia, 363

  Nethersole, Olga, 357

  Newman, Cardinal, 118

  Nickenson, John, 340

  Nichol, Sir Walter C. 76, 81-3

  Norfolk, Duke of, 286

  Nye, Bill, 298


  O'Brien, William, 54-6

  Odell, Governor N.Y. state, 271

  O'Higgins, Harvey, J., 156

  O'Meara, Canon, 59

  O'Neill, Eugene, 371

  O'Neill, James, 370

  Osler, Britton Bath, 212-31, 232, 241

  Osler, Sir Edmund, 111-2, 212-3

  Osler, Canon Peatherston, 212

  Osler, Chief Justice Featherstone, 212

  Osler, Canon Henry Bath, 59, 212

  Osler, Sir William, 212-4, 223, 239

  Otis, Elita Proctor, 379

  Otter, Gen. Sir William, 48


  Palmer, A. M., 361, 380

  Papineau, Louis, 8

  Parent, Hon. S. N., 260

  Parkhurst, E. R., 147

  Parry, Willy, 325

  Passingham, Tremenheere, 272

  Patteson, T. C., 113, 151-2

  Patterson, Hon. John C., 33

  Paulding, Frederick, 366

  Peart, George, 221-2

  Pickford, Mary, 341

  Pole-Carew, Lady Beatrice, 287

  Pole-Carew, Sir Reginald, 286-7

  Pond, Major, 299

  Ponisi, Madame, 379

  Pope, Sir Joseph, 161

  Power, Tyrone, 382

  Préfontaine, Hon. Raymond, 260

  Preston, W. T. R., 181

  Price, E. E., 262-3

  Price, Mark, 367

  Prior, Melton, 278

  Pullen, Horatio, 21


  Queen Mary, 253-73

  Queen Victoria, 44, 141, 254, 394


  Radclive, the Hangman, 216-7

  Ramsay, Walden, 380

  Rankin, Col. Arthur, 33

  Rankin, McKee, 33

  Rankin, Phyllis, 380

  Rehan, Ada, 342, 381-2

  Rhea, Hortense, 100, 377

  Riel, Louis, 43-5, 214-5

  Riis, Jacob A., 303-4

  Riley, James Whitcomb, 297-8

  Riordan, John, 75

  Roberts, Florence, 370

  Roberts, Field Marshal Lord, 194, 285-6

  Robertson, Ian, 355

  Robertson, John Ross, 126, 183

  Robertson, Madge (see Mrs. Kendal)

  Robinson, Christopher, 240

  Robinson, Frederick, 380

  Robinson, Hon. John Beverley, 207

  Robinson, John R., 126, 174

  Rohlfs, Charles, 371

  Rolph, Ernest A., 317

  Roosevelt, Theodore, 288, 304

  Ross, Sir George, 74, 173-85, 191

  Ross, Victor, 25, 163-4

  Rossa, O'Donovan, 57

  Roxburghe, Duke of, 274

  Russell, Lillian, 345

  Ryan, Peter, 167, 172, 183, 196, 199-200, 241


  Salvini, Alexander, 373

  Sandham, Henry, 333

  Sandys, Rev. Canon, 93

  Sauvelle, Marc, 281

  Schuch, E. W., 196-7

  Scott, Clement, 357

  Selkirk, Earl of, 3-4

  Seward, Hon. W. H., 10

  Shackleton, Sir Ernest, 311

  Shaw, George Bernard, 55, 303, 381, 388

  Sheppard, Edmund E., 70-86, 94, 105, 111-2, 125, 316

  Sheraton, Rev. Principal, 50

  Sims, George R., 366

  Skinner, Otis, 366

  Small, Ambrose J., 340

  Smith, Alexander, 204

  Smith, Sir Donald (Lord Strathcona), 42

  Smith, E. Norman, 221

  Smith, Sir Frank, 36-7

  Smith, F. D. L., 156

  Smith, Goldwin, 110-22

  Smith, Mrs. Goldwin, 117

  Smith, John, 21

  Smith, Seth, 21

  Snider, E. W. B., 191

  Solomon, Fred., 346

  Sothern, Edward Hugh, 100, 372, 383

  Stevenson, Robert Louis, 23, 65

  Stewart, Elihu, 312

  Stillman, Charles O., 186

  Stoddart, J. H., 363, 380-1

  Stoker, Bram, 389

  Stone, Melville, 283

  Story, Douglas, 281

  Strathcona, Lord (Sir Donald Smith), 42

  Stringer, Arthur, 92, 155-6

  Sullivan, Barry, 368

  Sullivan, Rt. Rev. Edward, (Bishop of Algoma), 53, 318

  Sullivan, John T., 379

  Sunday, Rev. Billy, 66

  Swain, Lillian, 382

  Swanson, Gloria, 337

  Sweatman, Rt. Rev. Arthur (Bishop of Toronto), 51-3


  Taft, Chief Justice Hon. W. H. 304-5

  Tait, Joseph, 171

  Talmadge, Rev. T. DeWitt, 294

  Tarte, Hon. J. Israel, 199, 200, 202-3, 260

  Tarkington, Booth, 41

  Teck, Duchess of, 263

  Tempest, Marie, 347

  Tennyson, Lord Alfred, 16, 299, 388

  Terry, Ellen, 342, 388, 392-3

  Terry, Fred, 364

  Thomas, Brandon, 351

  Thompson, Denman, 340-1

  Thompson, Sir John, 140-2, 199-200

  Thompson, Lydia, 319

  Thompson, Ernest Seton, 334

  Torrington, Dr. F. H., 39, 318, 320-3

  Tree, Sir Herbert, 376

  Trollope, Anthony, 60, 213

  Tully, Richard Walton, 22

  Tunison, ----, 97

  Tupper, Sir Charles, 114, 199, 200, 205

  Tupper, Sir Charles Hibbert, 206

  Turner, Frank, 148

  Tyler, Fred, 352

  Tynan, Katherine, 90

  Tyner, John, 61


  Vanbrugh, Irene, 364

  Vanbrugh, Violet, 364

  Van Cortlandt, Ida, 342

  Varrey, Edmund, 382

  Villiers, Frederic, 278

  Vincent, H. H., 279

  Vogt, Dr. Augustus Stephen, 87, 319, 326-8

  Vokes Family, 350

  Vokes, Rosina, 100, 350-1


  Wainwright, Marie, 378

  Walcott, Mrs. Charles, 340

  Wallace, Sir Donald Mackenzie, 275-6

  Wallace, Hon. N. Clarke, 208

  Wallcousins, Ernest, 333

  Wallis, Arthur, 115

  Wallis, Gladys, 342-3

  Walker, Sir Edmund, 25, 117

  Walker, Horatio, 333-4

  Walsh, Blanche, 378

  Walsh, Flora, 369

  Walsh, Rt. Rev. Dr. (Archbishop of Toronto), 58

  Ward, Col. H. A., 21

  Watson, Homer, 332

  Watterson, Col. Henry, 308-9

  Welland Canal Dynamiters, 233, 246-52

  Wellman, Francis L., 217-31

  Wenlock, Lord, 276

  Westwood Murder Case, 241-5

  White, Chief Justice, U.S.A., 305-6

  White, Hon. Thomas, 147

  Whiteman, Paul, 78

  Whitney, Sir James Pliny, 173-5, 178-88, 191, 210-1

  Wilde, Oscar, 291, 379

  Wilkes, Robert, 36-7

  Wilkie, D. R., 310

  Wilkinson, Jonathan, 136

  Wilkinson, Walter J., 136-40, 219, 227, 316

  Willard, Edward S., 352, 358-62

  Williams, Lieut.-Col. Arthur, 21

  Williams, Sam, 288

  Willison, Sir John S., 109, 126, 163, 165, 191, 199

  Wiman, Erastus, 167

  Winter, William, 339, 365

  Wolseley, Sir Garnet, 99

  Woods, J. H., 159

  Woodward, George, 343

  Worthing, Frank, 382

  Wright, Will J., 299

  Wrong, Prof. George M., 2


  Yeigh, Frank, 89, 101

  Yeigh, Kate Westlake, 89


  Zeigfeld, Dr. Florenz, 320

  Zerrahn, Carl, 320




                         Transcribers Notes:


                  Hyphenation has been standardised.

The spelling of a number of words have been corrected/amended without note.


                  The major changes are as follows:

  page xi Appomatox==Appomattox

  page xiv Moberley==Moberly

  page xiv siecle==siècle

  page xiv Bulow==Bülow

  page xiv Elliot==Elliott Haslam

  page xv comedienne==comédienne

  page 11 Appomatox==Appomattox

  page 22 Vaincourt==Vallencourt

  page 24 Vaincourt==Vallencourt

  page 53 Dumoulin==DuMoulin x2

  page 54 Dumoulin==DuMoulin x2

  page 55 Dumoulin==DuMoulin

  page 58 Dumoulin==DuMoulin

  page 66 Lock's==Locke's

  page 212 Featherston==Featherstone x3

  page 232 Olser==Osler

  page 260 Prefontaine==Préfontaine x2

  page 264 removed duplicate 'the'

  page 305 Sweettenham==Swettenham

  page 323 Antonin Dvorak==Antonín Dvořák

  page 325 Dvorak==Dvořák

  page 325 Eduard==Édouard x2

  page 346 Arthur Elliot==Arthur Elliott

  page 367 Montagu==Montague

  page 370 Yoricks's'==Yorick's

  page 370 Christo==Cristo

  page 371 Rolhfs==Rohlfs

  page 375 Murdock==Murdoch

  page 380 Brookyn==Brooklyn

  page 381 Bandman==Bandmann

  page 382 Elliot==Elliott

  page 397 Vaincourt==Vallencourt

  page 397 Bulow==Bülow

  page 397 D'Oyley==D'oyly

  page 397 Connors==Conners

  page 397 Augusten==Augustin

  page 397 DeReszke==De Reszke x2

  page 397 Eduard==Édouard

  page 399 Dvorak, Antonin==Dvořák, Antonín

  page 399 Elliot==Elliott

  page 399 Farrar==Farrer

  page 400 Leon==Léon

  page 400 Jette==Jetté

  page 401 Eugenie==Eugénie

  page 401 McEachren==McEachern

  page 401 Macmurchy==MacMurchy

  page 401 Willett==Willet

  page 401 Mitchel==Mitchell

  page 401 Murdock==Murdoch

  page 402 Featherston==Featherstone

  page 402 Prefontaine==Préfontaine

  page 402 Ramsey==Ramsay

  page 402 Rolhfs==Rohlfs


[The end of _Candid Chronicles_ by Hector Charlesworth]