The Canadian Women’s Press Club—How It Originated—With
“Kit” of the Toronto Mail at St.
Louis and Elsewhere—The Lamented
“Francoise” Barry—Successful Triennial
Gatherings—The Girls Visit
Different Parts of Canada—Threatened
Invasion of the
Pacific Coast.
One fine day in June, 1904, a handsome and fashionably dressed young
lady came into my office at C.P.R. headquarters, and started
cyclonically to tell me that while the C.P.R. had taken men to all the
excursions to fairs and other things, women had altogether been ignobly
ignored and she demonstratively demanded to know why poor downtrodden
females should thus be so shabbily treated. When she had finished her
harangue—I guess from lack of a further supply of breath—I politely
motioned her to a seat and calmly said:
“Sit down, Miggsy, sit down and keep cool,” which she did.
She was Margaret Graham, a writer for the press, and a champion of
woman’s rights—which I had already sagaciously surmised.
When quietness was restored, she explained that her mission was to
persuade the C.P.R. to take a bunch—I don’t think she used the word
bunch—of women to the St. Louis fair, to which I had recently
accompanied a party of newspaper men. Miggsy’s idea appealed to me, and
we arranged for a party of sixteen—sweet sixteen, though some of them
didn’t think they were—to visit St. Louis.
The trip was a huge success in every way, and not only was the Fair
taken in, but a visit was paid to Chicago, where the party was
entertained by the well-known Jane Addams, at Hull House. On the way
home, by a happy inspiration, a woman’s press club was formed with Kit,
of the Toronto _Mail_, as president, and somehow or other—guess for
lack of better material—was I made honorary president, and have been
the only male member of a female press club in the world ever since.
Some are born great, you know, others achieve greatness, and others
still have greatness thrust upon them. You can readily see to which
class I belong, can’t you? And now at the recent triennial, the club
transformed me into an active member. I have qualified through writing
these reminiscences, and have been initiated into the solemn mysteries
of the lodge. There was no goat—at least no four-legged one—but,
there, I must not divulge the secret mysteries of the girls’ conclave.
Since then, this press club has had outings to different parts of Canada
every three years—until the Great War broke out—when they were
discontinued, but renewed again in 1920 with Montreal as the meeting
place, and a delightful visit to Quebec, Ste. Anne de Beaupre and
Ottawa, and in 1923 they threaten to invade Vancouver and Victoria.
These triennial outings have been very enjoyable and I always came home
with a gold-headed umbrella or a swagger valise or hand bag or gold
sleeve links and other jewelry, and I firmly believe that if the trips
had been made annually instead of triennially, I would have been able to
start up a second-hand departmental store with the untaxed luxuries I
lugged home. The club has prospered amazingly, notwithstanding my
association with it, and its membership has increased from 16 to more
than 350.
* * * * *
Amongst the charter members were some writers of note: “Kit” of the
_Mail_, the first president (Mrs. Coleman) and “Francoise” of her own
paper (Miss Barry) have passed to the Great Beyond—God rest their
souls—and other distinguished writers were “Mary Markwell” (Mrs. Kate
Simpson Hayes); “Happiness”, as we called her, (now Mrs. Jerry Snider of
Toronto); Irene Love of London, Ont. (now Mrs. Eldred Archibald), who,
under the nom de plume, Margaret Currie, daily enlightens the readers of
the Montreal _Star_ with words of advice and wisdom; Katherine Hughes,
who is now trying to free Ireland with that distinguished person of
Spanish parentage and born in the United States, de Valera; Miss Alice
Asselin, of _Le Nationalist_; Mrs. Balmer Watt, of Brantford, now of
Edmonton; Miss Gerin-Lajoie; Miss Plouffe; Miss Laberge; Miss Madeleine
Gleason; Miss Marie Beaupré (Helene Dumont) of _La Presse_; Miss Valois
of Ottawa and of course Miggsy (Mrs. Albert Horton, of Ottawa) who was
the originator of the trip which led to the formation of the club.
With “Kit” in St. Louis.
At St. Louis, impressionable Kit accompanied me to a reproduction of the
Passion Play of Oberammergau, and in one scene I heard “Kit” sobbing.
“What’s the matter with you, Kit?” I sympathetically whispered. “Oh, see
our blessed Saviour; they’re crucifying him,” she tearfully replied.
“Well, let’s get out of here,” and I hustled her to an adjoining
performance where an Irish-Australian songstress was energetically
singing, “The Wearing of the Green,” as we were seated. And Kit, her
face wreathed in smiles, was vigorously keeping time with the tune by
patting the floor with her foot. What a difference a few minutes makes.
At another show, a trip through Siberia, Kit and I approached the
entrance where there was a locomotive with steam up and bell ringing. I
was enjoying a cigar, and casually, but confoundedly simply, asked the
attendant if I would have time to finish my smoke before the show
started. “Hold that engine,” he shouted to the engineer, “all
aboard—hurry up.” And like a chump I threw away my butt and we hiked in
behind the locomotive only to find, as any one but a rube would have
known, that it was a stationary one, and had really nothing to do with
the trip.
Kit was great—she never failed me. At a gathering of the club in
Toronto, when the Governor General was present, I laughingly offered to
wager with some of the girls that I would kiss the prettiest woman that
would come into the room. I won hands down, for when Kit came in, she
rushed up to me and, putting her arms around me, smacked me on the place
where smacks should smack and gaily chirped: “Arrah, George, darlint,
how are you? Haven’s seen you for an age.”
“Francoise” was beloved of all, and her charming talk was irresistible.
When she passed away, there was many a tear-dimmed eye and many a heavy
heart as we reverently laid her to rest.
The Mormons.
There are a whole lot of people who, not knowing the Mormons, have
formed a very wrong impression of them. I guess they were bad enough
when they had the “Avenging Angels” and harassed and massacred the
gentle Gentiles in Utah. But at a later date, I gained knowledge of
them, and found that they were not as black as they were painted. Henry
Ward Beecher, whom I frequently met, spoke kindly of them and said that
their young men and women led beautiful and wholesome lives. Other
authorities testified as to their good qualities. My own experience of
them was that they were an industrious, hard-working, sober people, the
boys helpful and the girls modest; their well laid out and cleanly-kept
towns, like a cart-wheel, with the streets running out from the hub like
spokes, were models that could be followed with advantage.
Mr. Knight, the founder of the colony at Raymond, Cardston and Magrath
in Southern Alberta, told me in Calgary one day how he had selected
Canada for his sect. As a boy he had one dream—to be a help to his
people—but he had little money to be of much use to them. One night he
had a vision of a silver mine in a certain locality. He located the mine
and worked it with excellent results and with the proceeds he
established the Mormon settlements in Alberta to which he had been
providentially directed.
It so happened that on one of the outings of the Canadian Women’s Press
Club, Raymond and other villages were on our itinerary. There was a
story published at the time that L. O. Armstrong, a leading official of
the C.P.R. colonization department, had wired ahead that I was a
prominent wealthy Mormon from Wyoming and with a number of my wives and
other lady friends would visit their community. The story went on to say
that the Mormons turned out in force to meet and greet us, and that I,
tumbling to the idea that some one or other had put up a job on me,
carried out the imposture to the letter. That wasn’t so, but the girls
were cordially received and had a rattling good visit.
Bishop Mackenzie and his wife were very hospitable, but Mrs. Mackenzie
wondered why my female friends asked so many queer questions. They
wanted to know how many other wives the Bishop had and how she got along
with them, but I laughed it off.
George W. Green, the mayor of Raymond, a jolly good fellow, accompanied
us on a side trip by train, and, on nearing his town, the girls ranged
themselves in the vestibules at both ends of the car, leaving him and
myself alone in the body of the coach. Smelling a rat, His Worship, when
the train stopped at the station, alertly jumped out the window and
waved his adieux. The laugh was on the girls. When we returned to the
car, there was a 20-lb. bag of sugar addressed to me with Mayor Green’s
compliments. Now, if that were only to-day—but what’s the use of
repining? He is now the bishop of the ward at Raymond and enjoys the
prominent distinction of having a clean police record during his two
years as mayor of the town. There was not an arrest or trial in the
place during his term of office.
Amongst the Mormons I met was a Mrs. Silver, one of Brigham Young’s
numerous grandchildren. She was a handsome and charming woman, and was
accompanied by her husband and two children. She was proud of her
ancestry and of her religion, and spoke freely of their home life. The
grandchildren lived happily together and formed groups with congenial
relatives. Thus Mary and Jane and Susie and Ruth would be bosom
companions and Lily and Betty and Rebecca and Rachel and Maude would
play together. And they all got along swimmingly. The only thing curious
about it was that the little Silver girl called Mrs. Silver mother and
Mr. Silver uncle, and the little Silver boy called Mr. Silver father and
Mrs. Silver auntie. It did seem queer; still it’s none of my business to
butt in on family affairs.
Meeting a Mormon delegate at Washington with some newspaper friends, we
were given a very interesting talk on Mormon life. His home—or rather
homes—he said, consisted of an eight-apartment house, in which his
eight wives and families were separately domiciled. He explained their
home life, and when Jack Messenger of the Washington _Star_ asked him
what he did, he naively replied, “Me? Oh, I just circulate.”
In all fairness, it should be said that polygamy is not in evidence in
Alberta. But I wonder how we alleged Lords of Creation would take it if
polyandry were in vogue as polygamy once was.
A magnificent Mormon temple is being erected at Cardston, at a cost of
several millions, and it is said will be the finest temple in North
America. No Gentile foot is ever to be allowed to desecrate it, so I
suppose I shall never see its splendid interior—unless I turn Mormon,
which is not amongst the probabilities.