CHAPTER VII

The Hudson’s Bay Company—A Tribute to ItsOfficers—Intrepid Scotch Voyageurs—DailyPaper a Year Old—Royal Hospitality of theFactors—Lord Strathcona’s Foundationfor His Immense Fortune—TheFirst Cat in the Rockies—IndianHumor andImagery.

The Hudson’s Bay Company—A Tribute to Its

Officers—Intrepid Scotch Voyageurs—Daily

Paper a Year Old—Royal Hospitality of the

Factors—Lord Strathcona’s Foundation

for His Immense Fortune—The

First Cat in the Rockies—Indian

Humor and

Imagery.

Before the advent of the railways, the Hudson’s Bay Company was the biggest institution between the Great Lakes and the Pacific Ocean. Its tercentenary was recently celebrated in right royal style, as became the importance of the event. It had posts all through the West, and it was the great purveyor for the few scattered people in that illimitable domain.

It is not my purpose to write a history of the Hudson’s Bay Company, but to pay a tribute to the officers of that company as I knew them. They were, scarcely without exception, either Scotch or of Scotch descent, and whether in the Arctic circle, the broad plains, the northern wilderness or in the growing western cities one was glad to meet them. The MacTavishes, the Andersons, the Macfarlanes, the Macdougalls, Macdonalds, Christies, McMurrays, Campbells, Hamiltons, Stewarts, Sinclairs, Rosses, Cowans, Taylors, McKenzies, Fortescues, Bells, Wattses, Balsillies, Aldous, Simpsons, Rankins, Grahams, Murrays, McLeans, Hardistys, Clarkes, Belangers, Wilsons, Traills, Camsills and others I cannot recall, formed a great group in my days, as their forefathers did before them. In my day, the Commissioners were Messrs. Donald A. Smith, Wrigley, C. J. Brydges and C. C. Chipman.

And with them, over a century and a half ago and since then, many of the noted clansmen of the famous Scottish chiefs, whose fortunes were lost at the memorable battle of Culloden in 1746, which extinguished the hopes of the house of Stuart, afterwards came to Canada. They had participated in that bloody engagement, and having lost all, and to avoid the fierce persecutions which followed, fled to this country of refuge. They were distinguished for heroic courage and daring enterprise. Coming to Canada they at once sought employment in the adventurous schemes of the fur traders of the Northwest. And yet:

“From the lone shieling of the misty islandMountains divide us and the waste of seas,Yet still the blood is strong, the heart is highlandAnd we in dreams behold the Hebrides.”

“From the lone shieling of the misty island

Mountains divide us and the waste of seas,

Yet still the blood is strong, the heart is highland

And we in dreams behold the Hebrides.”

This bold blood gave new vigor and additional energy to the affairs of the traders. These men and their descendants were the intrepid voyageurs who pushed their fortunes to the Saskatchewan and the Athabasca over a century ago. The blood which flowed in the bands of Culloden is the blood of those fearless Scotsmen who dared warring tribes and frozen regions and unknown hardships, who discovered the Mackenzie River, who first crossed the Rocky Mountains, and first planted the British flag on the Arctic seas. In the veins of manyBois BrulesandMetisgirls on the Red River flows the blood of the men who fought with Lochiel near Inverness on the 15th April, 1746.

The vast region of British America is full of the unwritten traditions of the daring exploits of these men through a wilderness of territory larger than all Europe, and it only needs the glamor of the glittering pen of a Scott to weave these wild annals into stories as fascinating as Waverley, and as charming as the wonderful romances of Fenimore Cooper. In old journals can be read how the great Cardinal Richelieu headed “The Company of the Hundred Partners,” in 1637, engaged in the fur trade in Canada, which company continued for thirty-six years, and which has had successors continuously, till finally merged into the Great Hudson’s Bay Company, which carries on its extensive operations at the present time. So that the Red River, the Saskatchewan and the far-off Athabasca are linked back to the days of Louis XIV in France, and to the great chief and clans of Scotland who fought at Culloden, where the flag of the Stuarts went down forever.

One can recall with pleasant memories the glorious gatherings of the Hudson’s Bay men and their friends. When you met men from the Arctic circle, from the Pacific coast, from the plains and the forests of the great West, from all points of the compass—except the South—men who had grown grey in the service, who had lived lonely but wonderful lives amongst aborigines, you felt that no matter how much the policy of the company in by-gone days might be criticized and condemned—for it’s always the pioneer who gets the worst of it—you were meeting grand old men. The slogan of the company was “Pro pelle cutem”—skin for skin—and in all its dealings with the aboriginal world faith was always strictly kept. That’s what guaranteed the safety of Hudson’s Bay men, wearing Scotch caps and displaying the Union Jack in the dark days of the Sioux massacre in Minnesota. That was the guarantee in the old Fort Garry days that the goods purchased were just what they were represented to be. That’s why the Hudson’s Bay Company and its faithful officials and employees did not palm off cheap goods on the innocentMetisor Indians.

Hospitality was unbounded and they were as glad to see a visitor as the wearied wanderer was to seek their comfortable quarters.

Mr. Hamilton, who was stationed ’way up north where he received his mail only once a year, was a subscriber to the LondonTimesand, as he told me, he had a morning paper every day in the year, his copy being exactly one year old. He religiously read only one copy a day. He died in Peterboro some years ago and his death was greatly regretted.

Joseph Hargrave’s “Red River” was a splendidly written book, now almost forgotten. I remember him in Winnipeg, a cultured gentleman, who had never before worn any foot covering but mossasins. I met him with his first pair of leather boots, and he walked clumsily as an ox. But he didn’t write with his feet.

Lawrence Clarke, of Prince Albert, was a host whose hospitality could never be forgotten by those who enjoyed it. Johnny McTavish, after whom I named my first boy, was everybody’s friend, John Balsillie, James Anderson, Jim McDougall, Horace Belanger from Norway House on Lake Winnipeg, whose laugh was the most infectious I ever heard—who can ever forget them? And they are but a few of the army of Hudson’s Bay men, who in days gone by wielded a great influence amongst the untutored people of the land. Some of the names are familiar to the residents of many an Ontario town, whither several of the factors of the Hudson’s Bay Company retired at the close of their service to spend the evening of their busy lives in peaceful dignity, always men of outstanding character in the community. It was these men who laid the solid foundation of Lord Strathcona’s immense fortune. Money was of no use to them in their isolated homes and they entrusted their savings to “Donald A.” for investment. This he faithfully did and it gave him a strong financial standing. Credit, you know, is sometimes more useful than cash.

SOME EARLY TRADING POSTS OF THE HUDSON’S BAY COMPANY.

This is the history of the first cat ever brought into the farther Northwest. The Indians were told it would catch mice and perform other remarkable feats, and they at once concluded that it was a medicine animal of great virtue, so they dubbed it, “the little tiger”. Pussy was stationed at the Hudson’s Bay Post at Head mountain, and thither a band of Blackfeet went to see the wonderful animal. It so happened that no one was in the kitchen of the post when one of the Indians arrived, and finding himself alone with the cat he quickly grabbed it and put it under his robe. Lo, as was the custom in those days, (and perhaps in these, too), wore no undergarments. Just at this moment one of the employees of the company came in, and the Indian, fearing the cat would squeal on him, firmly pressed his arm on its head. The cat naturally resented this treatment, and its sharp claws were driven into the dusky hide of its captor. The Indian didn’t exactly emulate the Spartan youth who allowed the fox to eat out his vitals rather than be exposed, but he tried to hard enough. As the cat scratched, the Indian’s face became distorted and his body and disengaged arm went through such contortions that induced the H. B. man to imagine he was ill.

“Are you sick?” asked the H. B. employee.

“No-n-no,” and just then the cat used his claws again. His arm went up in the air and his body cavorted as if he had an attack of St. Vitus’ dance.

“Oh, yes, you must be,” said the white man with compassion.

“No, not ill”—and again the cat firmly drew its claws down the poor fellow’s bleeding breast. More contortions followed and then the Indian confessed, on condition that he would not be exposed for having stolen the animal. Just at this juncture old Mr. Christie, afterwards chief commissioner of the company, and who then was in charge of the post, came upon the scene, and the Indian motioned the other officer not to expose him. In doing so, he unfortunately squeezed the cat’s head again, and Miss Pussy resented the familiarity by again clawing the Indian, who gave another bound in the air, and went through his contortions while a look of agony settled on his face.

“What is the matter with the poor fellow?” asked Mr. Christie sympathetically. “Nothing,” was the employee’s answer, with a laugh.

“Oh, yes, the poor fellow is very ill. Get him some medicine. See him now—see him,” said Mr. Christie, as the contortions continued. “Quick, get him something—see him again!” for the Indian danced around like a madman under the spur of the cat’s sharp claws. The employee laughed immoderately, and Mr. Christie, enraged at such apparent heartlessness, ordered the man to either get the medicine at once or leave the place. And every little while the Indian would squeeze the cat’s head, and the cat would scratch viciously, and then the Indian would jump vigorously, while poor Mr. Christie stood by gazing pitifully on the sufferer. Finally the employee explained that there was nothing the matter with their acrobatic visitor that medicine could cure, but if Mr. Christie would only let him have what was the matter with him instant relief would come. A little perplexed over this statement, Mr. Christie consented, and the Indian unfolded his robe and exhibited a beautifully lacerated bosom—torn to pieces the full reach of the cat’s four paws. Then the old gentleman laughed, and the employee laughed,—but the Indian didn’t. He started for home pleased with his prize, but his torn bosom became so painful that he revenged his sufferings by killing the little tiger and making a war bonnet of its skin. And that is the history of the first cat in the Rockies.

It is a pretty general belief that the Indian never laughs. This is incorrect. The red man enjoys a joke as well as the white or black or yellow, and his imagery is poetic.

When I visited Mekastino, Chief of the Bloods, (known as Red Crow), and told him I had come to learn about the intended uprising of the Indians in the West, who were charged with the proposed slaughtering of all the whites in the Northwest, he smilingly asked:

“And if you believe this how dare you come here without a gun to defend yourself?”

I nonchalantly replied, putting my hand over my upper vest pocket:

“Oh, I have something here that will kill any Indian I ever met.”

He, very interestedly, wanted to know what it was, and I produced a lead-pencil. The whole tribe present laughed heartily when it was translated to them and dubbed me “The Man with the Lead Pencil.”

Next time I met Red Crow was in Winnipeg on his way to Europe, whither the Canadian Government had sent him and other chiefs for civilizing and education. I took the band to an ice cream parlor and as he ate his first dish, the chief called it “sweet snow” and said that on the next fall of it he would send down all his squaws with baskets galore to secure a plentiful supply.

In taking them to the theatre that night, the electric lights were turned on; gazing up at them, he put his hands over his mouth, and exclaimed, “Oh my, oh my, oh my, the white man is wonderful. See! he has plucked a lot of little stars from the skies and put them on poles to light the village with. He is wonderful.” And to this day Red Crow imagines those lights are little stars captured from heaven and utilized by the angelic corporation of Winnipeg for street lighting purposes. “Around the World in Eighty Days” was the play produced and my dusky guests uninterestedly viewed the opening scenes. But when the Deadwood stage was attacked by Indians there came a decided change in their demeanor. All called out encouragingly in the Indian tongue to their fellow reds on the boards, and they became greatly excited and their unceasing activities of person and guttural whoops attracted more attention to the group than did the actors. After the show we met their brothers in red, who belonged to another tribe, and it was explained to them that this was only play-acting and stage robbery was now obsolete.

CHAPTER VIII

Abound the Banqueting Board—My First Speech—Atthe Ottawa Press Gallery Dinners—A RaceWith Hon. Frank Oliver—A HomelikeFamily Gathering—A Scotch Banquet—Banquetsin Winnipeg—Bouquetsand Brickbats—The Mayor ofNew York and the Queenof Belgium.

Abound the Banqueting Board—My First Speech—At

the Ottawa Press Gallery Dinners—A Race

With Hon. Frank Oliver—A Homelike

Family Gathering—A Scotch Banquet—Banquets

in Winnipeg—Bouquets

and Brickbats—The Mayor of

New York and the Queen

of Belgium.

It was part of my duties for many years to average at least two banquets a week during the open season for public gatherings of that kind, and this continued so long that my good friend and medical adviser, Dr. Frank England, of Montreal, finally gave due warning that if I persisted in the pernicious habit he would have me interdicted as a public feeder. About that time the Great War with what was once the German Empire broke out, and banqueting was largely taboo. So the doctor’s advice was timely, and I could honestly follow it and still not miss much.

My first banqueting speech was made at Whitby when upon the departure of one of the citizens, who had just failed in business, we gathered to give him a farewell at the Royal Hotel. As the only representative of the press present—a callow youth who had never thought of speaking in public—I was called upon, and rose to respond with not too much cheerful alacrity. For the life of me, I didn’t know what to say, but I had to say something and so I started out with my heart in my mouth:

“Mister Chairman, ladies and gentlemen.” Then I remembered there wasn’t a blamed female in the room. The audience laughed heartily at what they thought was an attempt on my part to be funny, when I never was so serious in all my life. But I helplessly went on.

“We are all glad to be here and see our honored guest leave town—” then a long pause, and I realized I had put my foot in it, but quickly recovering, kept making things worse by adding—“and we all wish him in his future home the great success he has met with in Whitby.” A dead silence ensued, and I was wondering what in thunder I could say next. There was no inspiration, but lots of perspiration for me, but I had to say something or other. So I wished him and his family—he was a bachelor without any relatives—all the prosperity that his great talents and business ability—(he was a chump of the first water)—I don’t remember whether I finished the sentence or not, but a friend in need seeing my dilemma started a round of applause, during which I quickly subsided, and spent the rest of the evening very uncomfortably in wondering whether I was a mere common garden variety of pumpkin head or something worse.

Of the hundreds of banquets that I have attended, none were more enjoyable than those of the Parliamentary Press Gallery at Ottawa, which were always held on a Saturday night. There good fellowship, genial companionship and mirth, both in wit and humor, held unbroken sway until midnight when it was run on Winnipeg time and then on Vancouver time, so that we wouldn’t break the Sabbath. The big men spoke freely and so did some of us littler fellows, and seldom was there a tiresome spell, for the speeches were, by an unwritten law, always brief and to the point. These were before the dark days of the Big War and prohibition. They were held from 1870 to 1914, when they ceased altogether during the conflict, and have not been resumed since.

Sir John A. Macdonald, Sir Wilfrid Laurier, Sir Charles Tupper, Sir John Carling, Sir George Foster frequently were honored guests, and such senators and commoners as Nicholas Flood Davin, Dr. Landerkin, George Casey, Sir Sam Hughes, Hon. R. Lemieux, Col. E. J. Chambers, Col. Smith, Dr. Sproule, Ed. Macdonald, Senator George Fowler, Hon. Geo. P. Graham, Hon. R. F. Sutherland, Charlie Parmalee, Harry Charlton of the Grand Trunk, John P. Knight, Tom Daly, M.P., E. G. Prior, M.P., Robt. S. White. M.P., James Somerville, M.P., J. J. Curran, M.P., and a host of others gladly accepted the highly coveted invitation. My first appearance at one of these was in 1886. The gathering was a comparatively small one, but still very respectable. John T. Hawke, of the OttawaFree Pressand for years subsequently publisher of the MonctonTranscript, was assigned the reply to the toast of “The Conservative Party” and R. S. White that to the toast of “The Liberal Party.” The joke consisted in the fact that Mr. White was about as hard shell a Tory in those days as Mr. Hawke was an adamant Grit. Mr. White treated his subject humorously, reciting as commendable all the faults of the Liberal party, recounting their electoral failures as due to a stupid public, and winding up with the hope that the party which for the nonce he represented might for many years continue to adorn the place they held in the Commons. The Liberals then were in a hopeless minority. Mr. Hawke was nonplussed by the line Mr. White had taken and his attack on the Conservative party fell somewhat flat. He had missed the joke of entrusting him with the toast.

The president of the gallery always occupied the chair, having the Prime Minister on his right and the leader of the Opposition on his left. For sixteen consecutive years I was honored with a seat next Sir Wilfrid, whether he was in office or out of it—bluff old Harry Anderson of the TorontoGlobecould tell you why.

The only reason I can give for being chosen to sit beside Sir Wilfrid all these years was that I never wanted anything of him and didn’t worry him by introducing theological, theosophical, social, scientific or any other subject that was not in complete harmony with the spirit and informality of the evening. And Sir Wilfrid did enjoy a joke. One night I called his attention to the fact that the waiter was removing the silverware between courses.

“Why, yes! What does he do that for?” he asked.

“Well, you know, Sir Wilfrid, he’s responsible for the table-ware.”

“Surely,” remarked Sir Wilfrid solemnly, “he doesn’t suspect me, does he?”

“Not yet, Sir Wilfrid, not yet.”

Then again I remarked to him that I supposed he travelled a good deal, and he said he did.

“And you put up at first-class hotels, too, I presume?” He acknowledged that he did.

“Did you ever notice, Sir Wilfrid, how small the cakes of soap in the bedrooms are nowadays?”

He said he had, and wanted to know the reason of their diminished size.

“Because the hotels don’t lose so much soap now.”

And the raillery was just what he wanted to indulge in after, perhaps, a vexatious and trying day at his office.

According to a report of one of the press gallery banquets Hon. Frank Oliver, M.P., shortly after I had delivered what I was pleased to think was a speech, was called upon. The former Minister of the Interior according to the report said he had always felt a personal interest and some pride in Mr. Ham, because he had been the means of giving him his first job in the West. In 1875 he (Mr. Oliver) was the foreman in the WinnipegFree Pressprinting office, when a young fellow just up from Ontario blew in, told a joke or two and asked for a job at the case. Mr. Oliver said he liked the jokes and also his style, and engaged him then and there, giving him some good advice as to how he might get on if he minded himself. The ex-minister continued: “George took the advice all right, for before many months were over he was writing the editorials for theFree Pressand was an alderman of the city of Winnipeg, while I was driving bulls across the prairie.”

That’s all right for Mr. Frank, but it isn’t the whole story. That was 46 years ago, and the reportorial room and the composing room consisted of one and the same room, and we couldn’t even boast of a proof press—we used a mallet and planer—think, you publishers of to-day, a daily paper without a proof press, and the telegraph dispatches were frequently unintelligible. Frank Oliver was foreman and I was a comp. Then I got ahead of him and became city editor, and he pounded a bull train 900 miles across the plains to Edmonton, where he started theBulletin, a model paper, and got ahead of me. Then I evened up and started the WinnipegTribune—not R. L.’s sheet, but, you know, modesty prevents my saying anything further about the twoTribunes. Comparisons are odious. Then Frank forged ahead and was elected to the Northwest Council, and I caught up to him by electing myself alderman of Winnipeg. Hanged, if he didn’t go me one better and Edmonton sent him down to Ottawa as an M.P. In desperation I collared a school trusteeship and a license commissionership under the McCarthy Act, which was declaredultra viresthe next week. He wouldn’t stand for that, so he became a Minister in Sir Wilfrid Laurier’s cabinet. Then Sir Sam Hughes came to my rescue, and appointed me an honorary lieutenant-colonel. This was the apex of our greatness. Bad luck set in for us both. Frank was beaten in the Federal elections, and Sir Sam wouldn’t let me go to the war, because he was of the decided and fixed opinion that I would be more useless over there where the bombs and bullets were flying than in Montreal where the prices of everything one consumed or wore were soaring. So no rivalry exists between Frank and me now, and we have agreed to call it a draw.

At another press gathering, when I was called upon to speak, I began by timidly asking if there were any reporters present, and loud and continued shouts of “No-o-o” convinced me that there were none.

A second question: “Are there any ladies present?” received an equally demonstrative negative.

To a third one: “Will Sir Wilfrid blush?” there was no mistake. He wouldn’t.

So then I told a story, and I could see, by a side glance of the eye, that Sir Wilfrid felt not a little concerned.

But “Honi soit qui mal y pense” is my motto as well as that of the British Empire, and so I told a story of the Cobalt days—it’s an old one now—when on a stormy night a benighted stranger on the Gowganda trail sought shelter in a road-house only to find it was crowded plumb full. The landlord informed him that there was no place for him there and that he would have to seek for quarters elsewhere.

“But,” pleaded the weary wayfarer, “there is no place to go—no house within half-a-dozen miles, and the storm is growing worse and worse.”

The landlord was inexorable, but just then his handsome young daughter joined the two and having over-heard the conversation, said:

“But, father, you can’t turn the poor man away on such a night as this. We can find room for him, if he’ll sleep in the hired man’s bed. He’s gone away, you know.”

The landlord was willing, and the stranger gladly accepted the offer. Shortly afterwards he was ensconced in the hired man’s bed.

Just before blowing out the candle, he heard a gentle tap on the door, and crying out: “Come in,” beheld as the door partly opened a vision of loveliness—the landlord’s daughter.

“Would you like a nice bed-fellow to-night!” she innocently asked. (Here Sir Wilfrid looked sharply at me, evidently in great concern.)

“You bet,” was the reply. (Sir Wilfrid’s look was agonizing—but just for the moment.)

“Well,” said the maiden, “just roll over then; the hired man’s come back.”

Loud laughter and a sigh of relief which ended in a chuckle from Sir Wilfrid concluded that particular part of my contribution to that evening’s gaiety of the gallery.

One day a party of friends were discussing banquets at the Montreal Club, and I expressed the opinion that they were a delusion and a snare; that they were usually commenced at a late hour instead of at seven or half-past, the hour when people generally dined; that the menu consisted of a large variety of uneatable or unpalatable food, and other words to similar effect. Charlie Foster, the assistant passenger traffic manager of the C.P.R., wanted to know what kind of a bill-of-fare I would suggest, and I named common garden soup, corned beef and cabbage, pumpkin pie, etc., etc., and so forth. In proof of this I related how at the swagger banquet of the Quebec Fish and Game Association held at the Ritz-Carlton some time previously—quite a gorgeous affair—I noticed late in the evening a worried, dissatisfied look come across the classic features of Hon. Frank Carrel, of the QuebecTelegraph, who sat opposite me.

“What’s the matter, Frank?” I asked.

“Don’t know, old dear, don’t know, but I feel rather queer. By Jove, I believe I’m hungry.”

“So am I,” I rejoined. And we went down to Childs’ and as the clock struck midnight were revelling in savory dishes of corned beef hash and poached eggs, (for which, I might add, we were joshed and jibed at many a time.)

A few days after, a deputation of fellow workers in the C.P.R. vineyard dropped into my office, headed by Charlie Benjamin, now passenger traffic manager of the Company’s ocean service, who mentioned that there was a guy who kicked like a steer at banquet foods as usually framed up by chefs, and as this guy was to have a birthday on the near approaching 23rd August, he demanded on behalf of the large and apparently respectable deputation that the aforesaid guy should himself prepare a bill-of-fare for the feed that was to be tendered him. I was the guy. And here is a copy of the menu:

Sliced TomatoesCelery OlivesPea Soup, Thin, Like Mother Used to MakeA Little Cold Liver and BaconIrish Turkey and CabbageNew Boiled Murphies with the Sweaters onButtered White Beans a la OrchestraDear Apple Pie Poor Pumpkin PieTea or Coffee

Sliced Tomatoes

Celery Olives

Pea Soup, Thin, Like Mother Used to Make

A Little Cold Liver and Bacon

Irish Turkey and Cabbage

New Boiled Murphies with the Sweaters on

Buttered White Beans a la Orchestra

Dear Apple Pie Poor Pumpkin Pie

Tea or Coffee

And, between you and me, no dinner I ever attended filled the long felt want as that one did. Like the Scotchman who boasted that he had gone to bed perfectly sober, the previous night for the first time in 20 years, and felt none the worse for it next morning—neither did any of us after eating the wholesome food.

The only banquet I ever attended in the Old Country was at Greenock, Scotland, in honor of George Wallace, who was leaving home for Winnipeg. Capt. Macpherson, commodore of the famed Gourock Yacht Club, Neil Munro, the novelist, and myself had returned to Gourock from the launching of theEmpress of Britainat Govan, on the Clyde, and were enjoying some scones and tea—at least they were—just before dinner, when a message came from Greenock to go up at once. So up we went, and as the three of us entered the big well-filled banqueting room of the Tontine Hotel, there was loud applause for my two friends who were very popular. We had a rattling good time, and the Provost, who presided, learning that I was a Canadian, called upon me to speak at just the right time, and I got off a whole lot of guff which, however, seemed to please the assembled multitude. Why they even laughed immoderately when I told them that they would be greatly disappointed if they should come to Montreal expecting to see only French people, for they would find only about one half of that nationality and the other half Scotch (and after a pause) and soda. I almost laughed at it myself. After the banquet, Col. Tillitson, the banker, gave another, and there were more speeches, and I thanked God that the dawn broke on a beautiful Sabbath morning, when a fellow didn’t have to get up. Scotland is a highly civilized country.

Banquets in the early days in Winnipeg were occasions for the gathering together of kindred spirits. The St. Andrew’s banquets were largely attended and one could always tell when 1st December came around by seeing the unusual number of dress-suited gentlemen in the places of public resort that morning. St. Andrew was a saint who couldn’t be properly honored in a few hours. The attendance was not exclusively confined to Hielan’men but many of other nationalities gladly joined in the festivities and kept them up with a merry whirl long after “God Save the Queen” had been loyally rendered.

The St. George’s Society also had great gatherings. At one, held in the early ’80’s in the now demolished Royal Arms Hotel, amongst the guests of the evening was Mr. McCroskie, the architect who repaired the hotel at the corner of Main and Broadway, and made it habitable. The old gentleman came togged up in his Sunday best and wore a top hat, which for safety he placed under his chair. As hilarity began to work its way about the table, this fact was whispered around, and a good many jokers of the practical type quietly dropped a plateful of tipsy cake or plum pudding or ice cream and goodness knows what else into the plug hat until it was nearly full to the brim. Then a devil-may-care party sitting across the table accused the victim of not being an Englishman, and trouble commenced. Enraged at the insult, Mac arose excitably from his seat, hastily grabbed his hat and after a few steps on his way to the door indignantly clapped it, contents and all, on his head. How that slushy stuff did pour down on his head and his shoulders was a caution. Some of us didn’t see the point of the joke—but were silenced by the thunderous laughter that followed.

There is never a rose without a thorn. This is official. Bouquets a-plenty have been showered upon me. Sir Thomas White once called me a great national asset—and I am glad he fortunately added the “et”;Collier’swrote of me as the greatest imprinted wit unbound in Canada, and other dubbed me Ambassador in Chief of the C.P.R., while I have mistakenly been honored by being called the Mark Twain of Canada—save the Mark—and the British, Australasian, American and Canadian press representatives heaped eulogies and showered gifts upon me, and I never got a swelled head over it, because I had experienced bouquets with bricks in them. Once, when I filled the high and dignified position of chairman of the license and police committee in the city of Winnipeg, Chief Murray came to me one day and told me that Schmidt—I think that was his name—had half-a-dozen teams at work and only one license. I instructed him to make Mr. Schmidt, if that was his name, take out a license for each and every team, and the order was promptly and strictly carried out. The matter escaped my mind altogether, until one bright afternoon when entering a street car amongst whose passengers were several ladies of my intimate acquaintance. After bidding them the time of day, I went to a seat forward, where a fat German in a partially intoxicated condition was lolling. As I neared him, he a little gruffly wanted to know if I was Alderman Ham. Imagining he was one of the free and independent electors of Fort Rouge, which ward I was chosen to represent, I pulled down my vest, puffed out by bosom like a pouter pigeon, and courteously acknowledged that I was—in the blessed hope of securing an additional vote at the approaching election. But it’s the unexpected that always happens. He leered at me and shouted, so that everybody in the car could hear:

“You are, eh? Well, you are a damned old stinker.”

It was Schmidt, the teamster man. I didn’t mind that, but the ladies all heard him, and laughed immoderately, for which no particular blame could, would or should be, as the case may be, attached to them. But it knocked my high and mighty ideas of glorified officialdom into a cocked hat.

Another time, but there was no brick in this one, in travelling through the Canadian Rockies an American lady in the observation car asked the name of a particularly lofty mountain. Here, I thought, was an appreciative audience of one whom I could illuminate. I told her it was Mount Tupper, named after one of Canada’s greatest statesmen, and that on the other side was Mount Macdonald, called after Canada’s Grand Old Man, and that the two mountains had once been united, as Sir John and Sir Charles were, but that in the very long ago the irresistible forces of Nature had split them in twain. The lady seemed greatly interested, and I, in my middle-aged simplicity, went on to point out the “picturesque figure of the Hermit, which with cowl and faithful dog, carved out of hardened rock, had stood watch and ward all through the long centuries of past and gone ages, and that until eternity they would be on guard as living symbols of the wonderful works of an omniscient Creator.” And she said:

“My, how cute!”

Any aspirations I may have had concealed about my person of ever rivalling Demosthenes immediately subsided, and it gradually dawned upon me that as a silver-tongued orator I wasn’t even in the same class with William Jennings Bryan, Newton Rowell or Mayor Hylan of New York.

AT THE SAN FRANCISCO FAIR.A GATHERING OF AMERICAN JOURNALISTS.

That reminds me of something altogether different—the mention of Mayor Hylan’s name—which has nothing whatever to do with the case, but as I am writing these reminiscences higgledy piggledy, just as they occur to me, the reader needn’t mind.

When the King and Queen of Belgium visited New York, His Honor was greatly in evidence. He is very democratic, you know, whatever that may be. He introduced His Majesty to one of his friends in this way: “King, this is Mister Jack Walsh, one of our very best officials.” That was the democratic way, all right enough, but he went one better in the afternoon, when there was a grand parade of school children, which was reviewed by Belgium’s royalty. The grouped children to the number of ten or fifteen thousand sang the national anthems of America and Belgium to the intense delight of their Majesties.

After the function was ended, Her Majesty gratefully acknowledged to His Honor her great pleasure at witnessing such a sublime spectacle.

“Your Honor,” she said sweetly, “I can scarcely express my feeling at seeing so many well dressed, highly cultured young people and hearing their sweet voices in perfect unison singing the beloved native song of my country. You should be proud of them. America should be, for in them are those who will grow up to be the future fathers and mothers of a race that will make the United States a wonderfully great and grand country—perhaps the greatest in the world.”

And His Honor democratically replied:

“Queen, you said a mouthful that time.”

Then, even Her Majesty smiled, and the others merely laughed.

CHAPTER IX

In the Land of Mystery—Planchette and Ouija—Necromancersand Hypnotists and Fortune Tellers—Adventuresin the Occult—A SpiritMedium—Mental Telepathy—FortuneTelling by Tea Cups and Cards—Livingin a Haunted House.

In the Land of Mystery—Planchette and Ouija—Necromancers

and Hypnotists and Fortune Tellers—Adventures

in the Occult—A Spirit

Medium—Mental Telepathy—Fortune

Telling by Tea Cups and Cards—Living

in a Haunted House.

Whether one believes in the supernatural or not is of no consequence in the reading or writing of these experiences. Some strange things have occurred—and there may or may not be a plausible explanation of them. All I have to do is to say that there is full corroboration for any assertion made.

First, about the mystic boards—Planchette and Ouija. The only difference between them is that Planchette has two legs and the third support is a lead pencil which writes on a sheet of paper spread out on the table; and Ouija has three legs and the board itself has “yes,” “no,” the alphabet and the numerals up to ten.

The first time I used Planchette was in the early ’70’s when I brought one home from Toronto, and with it an unopened bundle of several newspaper exchanges from the post office. Without looking at it I took up an unopened paper, and held it behind my back and asked a casual visitor, Mrs. Kent, and my sister (who acted as the “mediums”) the name of the paper. Planchette wroteExpositorand, on opening it, I found the paper was the SeaforthExpositor. That gave me more confidence in it than I can honestly say I have in Ouija, who is decidedly off color in many of her answers. She has told me different versions of matters asked, and is as unreliable as a star witness in a divorce case. And I am a pretty good medium too, can work it alone, and even with one hand, while I have seen people who couldn’t make it move at all.

I have tried to interview several dead and living people through Ouija, and if I only recorded what he, she or it recorded I would be sent either to jail or to the lunatic asylum. Ouija merely records what your sub-conscious mind impels your hands, unconsciously on your part, to move. The board itself means nothing. It merely tells you what you don’t know you were thinking about.

Then there are the necromancers and the hypnotists and the Anna Eva Fays; also the Georgia Wonders and such like. McKeown, a nephew of the Scotch wizard, Anderson, did remarkable feats which I can’t explain; Malina, who never appeared in public, but received $100 a night at private houses, was a mystery, which he claimed he wasn’t. The Georgia Wonders increased in numbers as the subject of points and angles became known. Charlie Kelly, the well-known Winnipeg singer, travelled with one troupe and at Halifax was astounded when the manager of the show told him he would have to get another “Wonder” as the one he had was getting too fat and wouldn’t “draw.” So he advertised for one—of course discreetly—and after Charlie had witnessed a couple of rehearsals, he resigned in disgust.

Anna Eva Fay performed remarkable feats. One day while visiting Winnipeg I met Billy Seach, manager of the Princess Opera House, and while enjoying an evening stroll he told me of the successes and failures of the previous season. Anna Eva Fay had made the greatest hit and packed the house every night. He then went on to tell me that Miss Fay had scouts out at every place she performed. I knew that, for my next door neighbor in Montreal, Billy Cameron, was one of them.

Well, one morning, Anna’s scout happened to drop into Archibald & Howell’s law office to see a clerk of his acquaintance. There was a minister in the waiting room, and one of the members of the firm came out and greeted him. He was from a little town not far from Winnipeg, in which city he was well known. This reverend gentleman remarked that things were not going well with him, that his little boy had broken his arm, but was getting better, and that he had lost a drove of pigs, but thought he would find them in a slough near a red barn a couple of miles away.

That night, the minister attended Anna Eva Fay’s performance and standing up handed in some written questions. He was directly spotted by the scout, who conveyed the intelligence Miss Fay desired. She answered the questions quite satisfactorily, and the wonder-stricken reverend gentleman freely communicated to those near him the accuracy of the answers. Shortly after Miss Fay predicted that Hugh John Macdonald would beat Joe Martin by 1,435 majority and Peter Rutherford, a staunch Grit and a firm believer in Miss Fay’s prophecies, rushed out of the show and ran down to the Liberal committee rooms and shouted for them to close the place as they were licked already. Hugh John was elected all right, but not by the majority she said he would have.

In Los Angeles, I met Miss Dolly Chevrier, daughter of the late Senator Chevrier of Winnipeg, who was an old friend. She asked me to accompany her to the residence of an Irish lady acquaintance, who is the wife of one of the city officials of Los Angeles, and who had the gift of second sight. We had a very pleasant evening and, always incidentally, she brought up some subject or other that demonstrated she had some occult gift. She asked me what person wished to accompany me home, and mentioned the name of one, whom I afterwards discovered had entertained the desire. She told me about my sister, of whose existence she ordinarily could have no knowledge, and informed me of several occurrences in my life which astonished me. In leaving she told me that if I believed in the occult, I should call upon a Madame Lenz, who was a professional fortune teller, which I did.

Just at this time I received a letter from the son-in-law of Mrs. William Stitt, asking if I knew of any property that her husband, who had just died, owned in the West. Madame Lenz’s methods were simple. You wrote five questions and placed them in a sealed envelope; she would then twist the envelope in her hands and return it to you. She first told me that I had recently lost a friend, and that he was buried in Mon-Mon-Mon—she appeared to be in doubt—but finally said Montana. I corrected her and said it was Montreal. She admitted her haziness, but said he was interred on top of a mountain, which was true. She said he had some property in the West, but it was worthless, as it proved to be.

As I was leaving she remarked that September 10th was her birthday, and that, on the anniversary of her birth, I would receive a good sum of money. I wasn’t down at the office next September 10th with an express wagon to carry away any gold that might come, and when the clock struck twelve at midnight, I charitably thought that Madame had had another attack of haziness. A few years went by, and after a peculiar coincidence of circumstances one fine September 10th the prediction was realized, and I was $4,400 the richer. Madame Lenz asked me the whereabouts of a number of my friends, amongst those she mentioned being Mr. A. A. Polhamus; I told her he was sitting out in the auto waiting for me.

Amongst my acquaintances was Saint Nihil Singh, a young Hindoo who came with a letter of introduction from Eddie Coyle, then the C.P.R. representative at Vancouver. He was a bright young fellow and soon made a name for himself in his writings in the Canadian and American press. Taking me by the hand, he read it, and said I was a human fish—sucker, I suppose—and preferred liquids to solids—that is soups and stews to roasts—which was true. I asked him if he had ever seen any of those miraculous feats that the Hindoo fakir (not fakir but fakeer) had done, instancing a boy climbing a rope which had been thrown up into the air and disappearing into space. He had. And how was it done? And he replied, how did I think it was done? I said by hypnotism, and he smilingly agreed with me.

Then came another Singh—I forget his other name—but he was an Indian doctor, and he, too, had seen these wonderful feats, but he explained that they were only done by a certain cult whose forefathers for thousands of years had practised the black art, and had developed an additional sense which enabled them to do the seemingly impossible. So “you pays your money, and takes your choice.”

In the earlier days of Winnipeg Prof. Cecil appeared and gave an exhibition of spectacular table moving and other things. Jim McGregor and I were induced to go on the platform and he and I faced each other at the table while the Professor and his assistant sat on the other sides. The table moved all right enough, and so did my left hand, for I grabbed the Professor by the arm to find that he had attached to his wrists two strong steel bars which, with his hands on the table and the bars under the leaf, acted as levers and the whole thing was done.

He wasn’t exposed of course. It would have spoilt the show.

But he “got it in the neck” a little later. He released himself from handcuffs—which is easily done by slipping the mainspring of a watch into the ratchets and off they come. He, unfortunately, challenged everybody to produce any sort of manacle and he would open it. Dick Power, then chief of the provincial police, came forward with a brand new shackle. It had never been used before. It was locked on Dick’s leg, a handkerchief thrown over it, and the Professor tried in vain to open it. He couldn’t get the mainspring into the ratchet, and was finally compelled to admit his inability to do so.

All this is different from telepathy and spirits. One night not so very long ago I was awakened by hearing Reggie Graves’ voice just outside my bedroom door, saying, “George Ham, George Ham, George H. Ham of the C.P.R.” This continued for some time, and I also recognized Brent MacNab’s voice. It was absurd to imagine that they were in the hallway of my house at that unearthly hour, two o’clock in the morning. When I turned on the light, the voices ceased; when I turned it off Reggie recommenced calling my name. I pinched myself to see if I was awake or dreaming, but after half an hour or so the calling ceased for good and I fell asleep.

The next night at two o’clock I was again awakened by Reggie’s voice calling upon me as it had the night previous. The calling continued while the light was off and ceased when it was turned on. After a while I lighted a cigarette, smoked part of it, and, extinguishing the fire, placed it on a small stand at my bedside. If it was there in the morning, this telepathy calling was no dream. True enough in the morning the cigarette was just where I had put it. Three or four evenings later, Reggie and Brent dropped in to see me, and I related what I have just written.

“It’s true,” exclaimed Reggie, “it’s true—I was in great distress and bodily pain and you were my only sheet anchor and I called you both nights.”

Reggie was at his home at Ste. Rose seventeen miles away.

Another night I was awakened by women’s voices at 4 a.m. and, while I could not hear what they said, could easily distinguish the voice of one of the ladies. Just for fun I ’phoned her next day, and told her she had not gone to bed until four o’clock and she related how a neighbor had been ill and she had gone in to see her and stayed with her until that late hour. The sick woman’s house was nearly a mile away from my residence.

Then there is fortune-telling—by cards and by tea cup. A clever reader of the remaining tea leaves can make up a mighty good story, from one’s imaginative powers and the knowledge of the person whose tea-cup is being read. Cards are different, and apparently are read by the proximity of one card dealt out of the pack to the others that follow. However that may be, I know of several instances where the fortune-teller’s predictions came absolutely true. One happened while crossing the Atlantic on board the old Champlain, when a lady acquaintance one lazy afternoon offered to tell my fortune. The cards told her, and she told me, that I would hear very bad news on my arrival at St. John, and would learn of the death of a very close friend. True enough, I was handed a letter from Mell Duff before I left the ship informing me of the death of my very intimate friend, Bob Morris, general baggage agent of the C.P.R., of Montreal. The other instance occurred in Shediac, N.B., when one rainy afternoon on going to Weldon’s Hotel, I found my wife packing her trunk. She told me that a lady had told her fortune an hour or so before, and the cards predicted that she was to leave the place immediately. Of course, I laughed over her unseemly haste, but a few minutes later received a rush telegram from Mr. McNicoll instructing me to report at once at headquarters. We left for Montreal next morning, and I have been stationed there ever since.

Besides these, there is palmistry. That is an old art, and anyone who studies a book on palmistry can correctly read the lines of anybody’s hand.

While I am on this subject I might as well tell you that I once lived in a haunted house for a couple of years. Here’s the story, which in every particular can be corroborated by Major George II. Young, formerly of the Customs office, Winnipeg, the owner and previously the occupant of the house, and by Charlie Bell, for many years secretary of the Winnipeg Board of Trade, who also lived in the place, and by others.

It was on St. Patrick’s Day, 1877, that my wife and I took possession of the little house just south of old Grace Church on Main Street, Winnipeg, our landlord being Mr. Geo. H. Young. Tradition said it was built on an old Indian burial ground. The house was not fully furnished the first day and we fixed up a bed in what was to be the parlor. During the night queer noises were heard. The stove in the adjoining room rattled like mad, and investigation proved nothing. There was no wind or anything else visible that should cause a commotion. A door would slam and on going to it, it was found wide open. One night there was a loud noise as if some tinware hanging up on the wall in the kitchen had fallen. Saying: “There goes the boiler lid,” my mother, who had come from Whitby on a visit, ran downstairs and returned with the assertion that nothing had fallen on the floor to make such a noise. And so it went on.

I spoke to George Young about it, and he laughingly said: “You’re hearing those noises too; well, I won’t raise the rent anyway on that account.” And he didn’t—but that’s not the custom nowadays.

One time the cellar was filled with water, coming from where, goodness only knows, though it was said that there was a slough through that property years ago. Anyway the cellar was full of water, and it had to be baled out. I said, “Leave it to me. Let George do it.” My motto is “Do it now”—“now” being an indefinite time.

After a few days, despairing of any decisive action on my part, my wife engaged the Laurie boys, (who came from Whitby) to empty the cellar. They came one fine morning with pails and ropes and everything was ready to put the cellar in its normal condition. But lo and behold, when the trap door was opened, there wasn’t a blamed drop of water in the blooming cellar. It was dry as a tin horn. Of course I triumphantly boasted, “There, didn’t I tell you. Always leave things to me.” The Laurie boys were puzzled, for they had seen the cellar full the previous day. And I gloated. We never ascertained whence came the water or where it went, but by this time I had got accustomed to the prances and pranks of the house and didn’t care a continental.

After a couple of years’ occupancy of the house, which in the meantime had been purchased by the late George McVicar, we sought a new residence on Logan Street, next to Ald. More’s; and the Main Street house was leased to a Mr. Conlisk, a cigar manufacturer, who hitherto had boarded at John Pointz’s hotel, diagonally opposite. We were to move out on a Saturday morning, but the rain came down in torrents and the muddy streets were almost impassable. Besides our new house wasn’t ready.

I went to Mr. Conlisk and asked him if he would let us stay for a couple of days longer and I would pay his rent and his board at the hotel. But he wouldn’t. He had leased the house and he was going into it Saturday afternoon. And he did. I don’t like to think of unpleasant things, so I’ll skip telling about how we—and our furniture—fared. In less than a week, Jimmy Bennett, a well known citizen who had a room with the Conlisks, left for other—and doubtless quieter—quarters, and before the month was up Conlisk paid another month’s rent in advance, and gave the landlord notice that he was quitting. George McVicar came to me and angrily wanted to know why I was spreading reports that his house was haunted. I told him I had not done anything of the kind, but that it was the spooks who had spoken. The building was removed to the north end, and some years after, on recognizing it, I called to see if the noises still continued. But they wouldn’t let me in.

I don’t pretend to be able to explain the queer noises, nor could George Young, nor Charlie Bell, and Jimmy Bennett would not even speak of them. Whether they were the spirits of the past and gone Indian braves showing their displeasure at our intrusion in their domain, or were caused by some peculiarity in the construction of the house and its environments, I can not offer an opinion. But, as we got accustomed to them, they didn’t disturb us at all, and we got rather proud of our ghostly guests whose board and lodging cost us nothing.

Back to Index Next