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 Ottawa _Free Press_ and for years subsequently publisher of the
Moncton _Transcript_, 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
Toronto _Globe_ could 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.
Hon. Frank Oliver and Yours Truly.
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
Winnipeg _Free Press_ printing 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 the _Free Press_ and 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 the
_Bulletin_, a model paper, and got ahead of me. Then I evened up and
started the Winnipeg _Tribune_—not R. L.’s sheet, but, you know,
modesty prevents my saying anything further about the two _Tribunes_.
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
declared _ultra vires_ the 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.
When Sir Wilfrid Didn’t Blush.
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 Quebec _Telegraph_, 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 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.
A Scotch Banquet.
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
the _Empress of Britain_ at 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 Winnipeg.
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.
Bouquets and Brick-Bats and Democracy.
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’s_ wrote 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.
[Illustration: AT THE SAN FRANCISCO FAIR.
A GATHERING OF AMERICAN JOURNALISTS.]
Mayor Hylan and the Queen
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.