A Momentous Election—Meeting Archie McKellar—Go
on the Turf—A Sailor Bold—A Close
Shave—Stories of Pets—An Exaggerated
Report—Following Horace Greeley’s
Advice—And Grow Up with the
Country.
A momentous election was that in South Ontario in 1867—the first one
held after the Confederation of Canada had been consummated.
Hon. George Brown, of the _Globe_, the leader of the Reform party, was
standing. The riding had always been staunchly Reform and had returned
Oliver Mowat and other Reformers by sweeping majorities. In an election
two years previously Hon. T. N. Gibbs, of Oshawa, the Independent
Liberal candidate, had joined hands with Sir John Macdonald, whose
coalition with Hon. George Brown had not been long-lived, and won. This
election was to be a test one, and upon its result depended whether the
new Canada should be under Liberal-Conservative or Reform rule. There
was open voting in those days, and two days’ polling, it being generally
conceded that the candidate who headed the poll on the first day would
be the winner. Meetings were held nightly throughout the riding, and the
greatest excitement prevailed during the campaign. I was too young to
have a vote then, but I had a good deal to say. There were others.
Canvassing of votes was kept up continuously and large sums of money
were expended. It was necessary in a good many cases to pay men to vote
for their own party. On the night of the first day’s polling, I was with
Jimmy Cook, then of Robertson & Cook, of the Toronto _Telegraph_, who
was a practical telegrapher. The returns, as Mr. Brown figured them out,
gave him a majority of 11, with one poll to hear from. Complete returns,
as Jimmy Cook got them, gave Brown a majority of one. But while that was
practically an even break, the Reformers were in great glee, and while
they were celebrating the Liberal-Conservatives got down to work and
arranged for relays of teams to bring the distant voters the next day to
the polls. At three o’clock next afternoon the Union Jack went up in
front of Jake Bryan’s Tory Hotel—there were Grit and Tory hotels
then—and at the close of the poll Gibbs had a majority of 69.
Mr. Brown started for his Toronto home on the following afternoon train,
and while at the Whitby station walked up and down the platform with a
friend. A man named Jago, an employee of the railway, who had had a
serious personal difference with the defeated candidate, was in the
waiting room, and on Mr. Brown passing the door, he would stick his head
out and tauntingly shout:
“You got licked, Mr. Brown, you got licked.”
Brown kept walking and Jago kept on taunting him upon his defeat. This
at last so exasperated the Honorable George, that he made a dash for
Jago and grabbed him by the lapels of the coat. But just then the train
came in, friends interfered, the conductor shouted, “All aboard” and Mr.
Brown was hurried to his coach. It was, of course, reported all over the
country that Brown had assaulted the man and grievously injured him,
which wasn’t true.
The country gave Sir John Macdonald a majority of only 20; many of us
wondered what would have been the result if Mr. Brown had carried South
Ontario.
[Illustration: SOME EARLY PHOTOGRAPHS OF GEORGE H. HAM. ]
There was a provincial election on the same day when Dr. McGill, the
Reform candidate, who afterwards was one of the Nine Martyrs, pilloried
by the _Globe_, won by the handsome majority of 308. At the election in
1871, Abram Farewell, as a straight Reformer, defeated Dr. McGill by 98
votes, and in 1875, N. W. Brown, a local manufacturer, and a straight
Conservative, beat Farewell by 33 votes, and four years later, John
Dryden, Reformer, defeated Mr. Brown by 382 votes. South Ontario
certainly was not wedded to any particular set of political gods in
those days—nor is it now.
It was in one of these campaigns that a nice looking gentleman of middle
age called the _Gazette_ office and politely asked to see the exchanges.
I had no idea of his identity, and we soon entered into an interesting
conversation. He asked me my honest opinion of the leading politicians
and I with the supreme wisdom and unsuppressible ardor of youth, fell
for it. I was a red hot Tory and what he didn’t learn of the Grits from
me wasn’t worth knowing. I particularly denounced Archie McKellar, who I
termed the black sheep of the political crew at Toronto, and vehemently
proceeded to inform him of all that gentleman’s political crimes and
misdeeds. He encouraged me to go on with my abusive fulminations, and he
went away smiling and told me it was the most pleasant hour he had spent
in a long time. I was present at the public meeting that afternoon in my
capacity as reporter—for in those days, the editor was generally the
whole staff—and was sickeningly astounded when to repeated calls for
“Archie McKellar”, my pleasant visitor of the morning arose amidst the
loud plaudits of his political supporters. I—say, let’s draw the
curtain for a few minutes. After the meeting I met Mr. McKellar and
apologized for my seeming rudeness, but he only laughed pleasantly at my
discomfiture, and told me how he had thoroughly enjoyed our morning
seance and that he really didn’t fully realize before how wicked he was
until I picturesquely and vividly depicted his deep, dark, criminal,
political career. We became fast friends, and I soon learned that Archie
was not nearly as black as he had been painted, as perhaps none of us
are—nor as angelic.
I Own a Race Horse
Whitby in the early days was also a great horse-racing centre. There was
a mile track up near Lynde’s Creek, which attracted large numbers of
sports from all parts of the country—but the number of non-paying
spectators, who drove into town and hitched their wagons just outside
the fence, was also very large. Nat Ray, and the Ray boys of Whitby,
were the leading local sports, and Quimby and Forbes, of Woodstock, were
the pool sellers, and such men as Joe Grand, Bob Davies, and Dr. Andrew
Smith, Toronto; John White, M.P. for Halton; Roddy Pringle of Cobourg;
W. A. Bookless of Guelph, and Gus Thomas of Toronto, were regular
attendants. Purses of $400 downwards, big sums in those days, were
offered. Black Tom, Charlie Stewart, Lulu, Storm, Jack the Barber, were
amongst the horses that ran. Black Tom—Nat Ray’s horse—could trot in
2.40, which was then a good record. Storm—oh, well Storm—it was an
appropriately named horse. It was raffled and Jack Stanton—Jack was
starter for years at the Ontario Jockey Club in Toronto, and was as good
a sport as ever lived—and a couple of other fellows and I had the good
or bad fortune to win it. Storm was contrary as a petulant maid, and
when we had no money on her would win hands down, and when we bet our
last nickel—good-bye to our money. I lost all my little money on Storm,
and willingly gave Jack Stanton my share in the contrary horse. If I
remember aright, he came out about even. Jack always smoked a certain
grade of cigars, which then sold at five cents, and thought they were
the best in the land. In after years, when I had recuperated
financially, I would bring him up some special Havanas, which cost
twenty-five cents, and give him one, just to see him light it, and,
while I wasn’t looking, throw it away in disgust, and light one of his
own ropes, which he really enjoyed. How I delighted in Jack telling me
that the cigar was a fine one, he presuming that I would think he meant
the twenty-five-cent cigar, and I knowing he was referring to his nickel
nicotine.
Then the sports in town for the races played poker at night at the
office of Nat Ray’s livery stable. The first night I played, and in the
first hand, I had a pair of deuces, and so green was I that when Charlie
Boyle made a raise of $5.00 I senselessly stayed, drew three cards and
with the luck of a greenhorn pulled in the two other deuces. Charlie
filled his two pair, and had a full house. He bet $5.00 and I, thinking
I had two pair, and not knowing their value raised him $5.00. Finally he
called and threw down his ace full. I said I had two pair and when I
showed the two pair—of deuces—there was a general hilarity; Charlie
said he had never in his life ran up against a greenhorn who didn’t beat
him. I didn’t know that my two-pair were fours. I cleaned up $65.00 that
night and thought, as all greenies do, that I knew all about poker. I
learned differently in the following nights.
In 1870, the Queen’s Plate was the great event of the meeting. That was
when Charlie Gates’ Jack Bell won. There was a big field, and Charlie’s
horse was in it—one of the rank outsiders. Terror was a prime favorite.
Charlie always liked the younger generation, and when I asked him what
horse to bet on, he said any one but Jack Bell. Such is the perversity
of youth that I immediately placed my money on Jack. The favorite led
for the first mile, but in the next quarter was passed by Jack on the
Green and another horse and Jack Bell closed upon the leaders, and
coming down the home stretch forged ahead and won by nearly a length.
Terror was fifth, and I was again a capitalist. All the winnings were
usually made by such amateurs as myself, and it wasn’t because of our
good judgment or experience, but just on luck. That was one of the
memorable races of the early days, and is not forgotten to this day by a
lot of old-timers.
A Sailor Bold
In a vain but fairly honest endeavor to ascertain exactly what
particular line of industry would be most suitable to ensure my future
comfort and welfare, I embarked as an A. B. sailor before the mast. My
father-in-law was the owner of a small fleet of schooners which plied on
Lakes Ontario and Erie. My first voyage on the _Pioneer_ was very
successful. I didn’t get seasick, fall overboard, or start a mutiny,
could furl or unfurl the mizzen mast sails, handle a tiller in
a—well—in a way, and would gleefully have carolled a “Life on the
Ocean Wave”, or warbled “Sailing”, which was so popular amongst the boys
in ’85, if it had been composed then, and I couldn’t get the tune of the
other one. A sailor’s life was a long drawn out sweet dream when we had
far away breezes; at other times when the boisterous winds blew
furiously, it was a nightmare. The _Pioneer_ was sunk somewhere off Port
Hope, but all hands were easily rescued. Then Capt. Allen and Mary, the
cook, who was the captain’s wife and myself were transferred to the
_Marysburg_, a larger schooner, which used to labor creakingly along as
if there wasn’t any oil procurable to quiet her noisy timbers. One day
in the early ’70’s we tried to make Cleveland harbor, when a hurricane
came up, and we scampered across the lake and thought we had found
shelter behind Long Point. Lake Erie is very shallow, and I can readily
testify that we could see its very muddy bottom when the waves rolled
sky-high. No fires could be lighted and we rationed on stale cold food
for a while. Reaching the haven, the kitchen fire was started, and
preparations made for a much needed square meal. But before that could
be prepared, the anchor let go, the vessel lurched, I grabbed the
cook-stove, and Mary doused the fire with a couple of pails of water. It
was no snug harbor for the _Marysburg_ which lurched furiously to
starboard and very unlady-like started out for the open lake. Then there
was a regular go-as-you-please. The _Marysburg_ pitched and heaved. I
only heaved. I would have given a million dollars if I could only have
been put ashore in a swamp without any compass—but I didn’t happen to
have anywhere near that sum about me. Sailors, who are proverbially high
rollers in the spending line when ashore, seldom have that much money on
board ship. But the _Marysburg_ and I were high-rollers all the same
just then, and took every watery hurdle. If it hadn’t been for the
nauseating mal-de-mer, I honestly believe I would have thoroughly
enjoyed the excitement. As it was I merely listlessly looked upon the
wild scenes as an unconcerned spectator; I knew if I were drowned I
never would be hanged. But the storm spent its fury, and once out of
troubled waters, down came the main mast, and the big anchor got up all
by itself and jumped overboard. I threw up my hat—about the last thing
I did throw up. Then I learned something about the law of averages—a
vessel has to sustain a certain amount of damages to obtain any
insurance. When the vessel arrived at Port Colborne, the claim for
damages went through like a shot.
* * * * *
When we were eating our first real meal in the cabin, the Captain
quietly remarked that if I, who had recovered from my temporary
disability, could handle the tiller or the sails in the same way I
handled my knife and fork, I would soon be amongst the greatest mariners
of the age, and would soon be a distinguished officer in Her Majesty’s
navy. Shiver my timbers, how I might have won the war and fame and a
tin-pot title and a pension!
* * * * *
That reminds me that when Port Dalhousie was reached I went to a barber
shop for a shave. My face had been nicely lathered, when I noticed the
barber making furious flourishes through the air with his razor.
Naturally I asked him what he was doing, and he told me he was cutting
their heads off. Then he gave another slash at the, to me, invisible
objects with heads on, and still another and another. It dawned upon me
that he was seeing things that can only be seen by a man with the
D.T.’s. “Hold on,” I said, as I rubbed the lather off my face with a
towel, “Let me help you”, and arising from the chair I said
confidentially to him, “Say, old man, don’t you think we could do the
job better if we had a little drink?” This appealed to him favorably and
we started out for a nearby saloon, where he ordered brandy and soda and
poured out a stiff ’un while I tried to drink a glass of lager, and
skipped out and never stopped running until I laid down exhausted in the
fo’castle of the _Marysburg_. That was the closest shave I ever had.
Stories of Pets
We generally have had pet animals in the family, and amongst them were a
French-Canadian chestnut stallion, eleven and a quarter hands high, and
Major, Fido, Bismarck and Toby, of the canine family, and old Tom of the
feline tribe. Pascoe, the pony, was a beauty, and I guess he must have
been a Protestant, for one Twelfth of July, when an Orange parade was
passing with bands playing, he ran amongst a group of onlookers on the
lawn in front of the house and seizing Miss Annie Carroll, a young lady
visiting my mother, by the shoulders with his teeth, threw her down and
tried to trample on her. Fortunately we interfered in time and prevented
her from being hurt. Annie was the only Roman Catholic in the
crowd—and, unless Pascoe had had strong religious convictions, it was
difficult to understand why he should have deliberately picked on the
only Roman in the party.
Fido was a little black and tan with a religious turn of mind, and he
knew when Sunday came around. He accompanied the family to St. John’s
Church, over a mile away, and always heralded our coming with loud sharp
barks, which never ceased until all of us, including Fido, were seated
in the pew. This got to be a nuisance, and Fido was confined in the barn
the following Sunday morning. When we tried to find Fido the next Sunday
morning, to tie him in the barn, his dogship could not be found—until
we reached St. John’s, where he, with his infernal loud bark, was
waiting at the church door, and joined us as usual in the morning
devotions.
Bismarck was named after the ex-Chancellor of Germany, because he looked
like him, and was a good watch-dog. I had been away from home for five
years, and, returning one evening, was met at the gate by Biz, who
growled at me. We stood facing each other for several minutes, Biz
evidently determined that I should not go further, and I awaiting
developments. Finally I called out, “Why, Biz”. While he had forgotten
me, he instantly recognized my voice and jumped joyfully at me, wagged
the stump of his short tail vigorously and gave every demonstration of
joy. Poor Major, who had reached an advanced age, and for whom food was
specially cooked by mother, went out one evening, ate some ground glass
mixed with lard which some fiends had placed on the streets, came home
and, lying with head on the doorstep, passed away with a wistful look in
his great brown eyes, which brought tears to ours. Toby, who joined my
family in recent years and is still with us, is a French fox terrier,
and can do anything requiring intelligence except talk. Toby is very
fond of my grandson George, whose especial pet she is. She had never
seen a German helmet to our knowledge, but one day when George put one
on she ferociously flew at him in a towering rage. He went out of the
room and returned with a German forage cap on his head, and again the
dog made a quick, vicious dash at him, and he had to hide the offending
headgear before she could be quieted. There was intelligence for you,
but not so much as she displayed when, as George wrote me at Atlanta:
“Toby is getting along fine. She bit the Chinaman to-day, when he
brought the laundry bill.”
Poetry—and Me
I might as well candidly admit two things, and the admission is made
with not too much vaunting pride. The first is that I once had great
aspirations of being a poet, and while I had not the nerve to imagine I
would reach the top-notcher class with Shakespeare, Byron, Tennyson,
Bobby Burns, Campbell and other noted writers, I had fond hopes of at
least having my effusions printed (at my own expense) in some magazine
or other as a starter, until Fame would overtake me, and then—. But
Fame couldn’t even catch up to me, let alone overtake me, although some
of my effusions were highly spoken of by friends who had borrowed or
wanted to borrow money from me. Here is one, which I did not dash
off—just like that—but labored several years at it, and forget now
whether it is finished or not. It was my intention to make it an epic;
as I read it now, it looks most like an epicac. But here it is:
I wonder if in the early dawn,
When upon God’s great creating plan
He builded sky and sea and land
And moulded clay into living man,
Why used He earth in this grand work
Instead of carving hardened stone?
Was it because He knew that man
Could not—would not—live alone?
Then using the very softest dust
He made Man plastic—so his coming mate
Could always mould him as she wished,
Which she has done since Eve He did create.
That reminds me of Bill Smith coming into the _Gazette_ office at Whitby
one day a good many years ago, and telling me he was composing an elegy
on his little dead brother, and wanted to know if I would print it for
him. I told him we were a little short of space, but if it didn’t occupy
more than three or four columns I would do my level best. In a couple of
weeks, in marched William, and very grandiloquently laid his masterpiece
before me. It wasn’t as long as he had been writing it. In fact it read:
“That little brave,
That little slave,
They laid him in the cold, cold grave.”
—_William Smith._
One beautiful thing about it was that, like the speech of one of Joe
Martin’s Cabinet ministers, out in British Columbia, it was of his own
composure. The circulation of the _Gazette_ increased largely that week,
for William came in and absent-mindedly took away a couple of dozen
copies to send to sympathizing friends and relatives.
An Exaggerated Report
The other admission is that false reports about a person are never true.
For instance, sixteen years ago the Charlottetown, P.E.I., _Guardian_
unblushingly reported my death, and while the reading of the obituary
notice was not uninteresting, it was not altogether self-satisfying. It
reads as follows:
“With sincere regret many thousands of people will learn of the death of
George H. Ham of the Canadian Pacific Railway, Montreal. Very few men
had so extensive an acquaintance or so many friends. He was full of
good-will for everybody. During his illness letters and telegrams poured
in from every quarter expressing most sincere desires for his recovery,
but it had been otherwise ordered. He leaves a memory fragrant with the
kindnesses that thousands have received at his hands.”
Of course, I didn’t demand a retraction, but when Mr. J. B. McCready,
the editor, was seen during my visit to Charlottetown, a year or two
later, he was willing to make one. Finally Mac and I agreed that it
would not be advisable to spoil a good news item, just because it wasn’t
altogether correct. So we let it go at that, although I have always
maintained it wasn’t true.
But to this day, the paragraph, neatly framed in becoming black, lies
before me on my office desk, and when anything goes wrong, and I feel
down in the mouth, I pick it up and read it and say to myself: “Oh,
well, things could easily be worse; this might have been true.” Which is
some consolation.
A Brief Summary
After a brief newspaper experience in Guelph, Uxbridge, and as
correspondent of the Toronto press, I started out in May, 1875, for some
western point not then definitely determined on. Prince Arthur’s Landing
offered no particular attraction for a rambling reporter in those days,
so I headed for Winnipeg, and reached there—after experiencing the
first steamboat collision in the Red River—with four dollars in pocket,
ten of which I owed. Being a practical printer, I was offered a position
on the _Free Press_, after besieging the office for a week. Then I rose
to the dignity of city editor, and in less than four years published a
paper of my own—the _Tribune_—which was afterwards amalgamated with
the _Times_, of which I became managing editor. Then ill-health caused
my retirement, and a beneficent Government made me registrar of deeds
for the county of Selkirk. The introduction of the Torrens system, which
required the registrar to be a barrister of ten years’ standing, knocked
me out of the position, although I produced any number of witnesses that
I had a longer standing than that at the bar (now abolished) and so I
returned to newspaper work. After sixteen years of constant work in the
bustling city, I was sent for by Mr. (Sir William) Van Horne, who kindly
added my name to the pay-roll of the Canadian Pacific Railway Company.
Now, in 1921, having passed the allotted three score and ten of the
Scriptures and the regulated three score and five of the C.P.R., I plug
away at my desk or on the trains just as cheerfully and as hopefully as
I did in my younger days—crossing the continent at least twice or more
times every year and sometimes visiting nearly every state in the Union,
with an occasional odd trip once in an age to the Old Country, Cuba,
Mexico, Bahama Islands or Newfoundland. The rest of my time is spent at
home.