When Toronto Was Young—The Local Newspapers—The
Markham Gang—Some Chief Magistrates
of the City—Ned Farrer, the Great Journalist—Theatrical
Recollections—Old-Time
Bonifaces—And Old-Time
Friends—Toronto’s Pride.
Toronto is “the Queen City of Canada,” but it was not always thus. Long
before my time it was called either “Little York,” or “Muddy York,” and
the latter designation was as well deserved as the former, for the town
or city—(it became a city with William Lyon Mackenzie as Mayor in
1834)—had much the experience of Winnipeg in its pioneer days owing to
the generosity with which mud was lavished upon it. There was an oozy,
slippery and sticky quality about the mud of the town of York that made
it famous all over Upper Canada.
If, by reason of this pecularity, the town was none too comfortable
under foot, neither was it at all times as agreeable overhead. One
hundred and eight years ago the Yankees captured the place and the Stars
and Stripes decorated what was left of it when the burning of the public
buildings and the looting had been stopped.
Nemesis, however, soon overtook the invaders. The British retaliated by
taking Washington. Our neighbors have not yet ceased exulting over the
defeat of the little garrison at York, and bewailing the barbarity of
the attack upon Washington. I wonder if all this would have happened had
Tommy Church ruled in those days.
When the Union Jack returned, as it did the following year, rebuilding
proceeded briskly. Our forefathers were not restrained by union rules or
the eight-hour day. But the Toronto of that time is not the Toronto of
1921. As a matter of fact there have been three Torontos on the present
site. The first, known as Little York possibly to distinguish it from
its namesake New York, was crowded into half a dozen squares, just east
of Sherbourne Street. Then came the second, with King Street up to York
Street as its principal thoroughfare, and with nothing much north of
Queen Street. Following this we have the Toronto of to-day, covering a
large area and boasting a population of more than half a million.
It was while the city was passing from its second to its third stage
that I first knew it. You landed from the Grand Trunk at a little brick
building in the centre of a long platform at the foot of York Street.
This was the predecessor of the new Union Station that is to be opened
in the sweet by and by. You at once knew you were in a great metropolis
for at the slip running into the Bay, which at that time had not been
filled in, and came up nearly to Front street, were the carts loading
with barrels of water for distribution among the citizens. It was a sort
of primitive water works system, with the wells and distilleries to
supplement it for drinking purposes.
Up York Street and along Front were some of the old-fashioned villas.
York to Spadina on Front and Wellington Streets had been the fashionable
section of the second city of Toronto, with the Parliament Buildings
half way along. Here, Sandfield Macdonald, the first premier, ruled the
new Province of Ontario. Sandfield’s Government was noted for its
unconventionality—from the physical point of view. The Prime Minister
was said to have but one lung. The Provincial Treasurer, E. B. Wood, had
but one arm, and the Provincial Secretary, M. C. Cameron, had but one
foot. No wonder the first Ontario administration did not make a good
run.
[Illustration: TORONTO EIGHTY YEARS AGO.
Above, Waterfront; below, Fish-market. ]
The Leader’s Drill Shed Story.
Just east of the Parliament Buildings was the huge wooden drill shed
built during the Trent excitement when every town in Canada was running
to drill sheds instead of to good roads or prohibition. One night this
far from elegant structure collapsed under the weight of a fall of snow.
The old _Leader_, of which more anon, made a front page sensation of the
accident. Multifarious headlines, nearly a column in length, told the
harrowing story, and a single sentence stating that the roof of the shed
had fallen in formed the body of the report. Jimuel Briggs was then
writing the comic Police Court for the _Telegraph_, a rival paper. He
arraigned a supposititious tramp before the “Beak” on the charge of
drunkenness and vagrancy.
“What was the last piece of work you did?” asked the magistrate.
“The _Leader’s_ report on the drill shed,” the prisoner replied.
“Six months with hard labor,” was the penalty promptly imposed. This was
the first rebuke I know of to the headline as a newspaper artifice.
King and Yonge were the business and promenade streets. All the big
retail stores were on King, and those of prominence were better known by
the trade name given to them than by the names of their proprietors.
Thus the Golden Lion, the Golden Griffin, the Mammoth, Flags of all
Nations, and China Hall were the popular bargain centres. Yonge Street
was just beginning to pick up the retail trade. This street was named
after an early British secretary of war who never saw it. Up Yonge and
just around the corner on Queen next to Knox Church, on the site now
covered by Simpson’s, was a fashionable undertaking establishment
conducted by Luke Sharp, whose name, displayed in huge letters over an
assortment of attractive caskets, seemed to suggest “Safety First” to
the passers by. Robert Barr, the famous humorist, who kept Detroit
laughing for years, thought so well of the name that he adopted it as
his _nom de plume_. Thus Luke literally leaped from grave to gay.
A more notable example of the coming together of the serious and the
not-so-serious was furnished at King and Simcoe Streets where St.
Andrew’s Church, Government House, Upper Canada College, and an
attractive tavern occupied the four corners. It used to be said that
salvation, legislation, education and damnation met at this point.
Salvation is all that remains of the big four, and the survival is no
doubt attributable to the fact that Toronto is Toronto the Good. Nor is
this the only evidence of the Goodness of the City. Joe Clark, of the
Toronto _Star_, whose orchard would have seriously affected the fruit
market if he had had more than three trees, once told me that his
precious heir-apparent some years ago came home from Sunday School
triumphantly bearing a Bible—the big prize for the most industrious
pupil. The next year he brought home another Bible, but with diminished
enthusiasm. The following year he appeared with a third copy of the Holy
Scriptures which he meekly laid on the table, and enquiringly remarked:
“Say, Dad, how many more Bibles have I got to win before I get anything
else?”
Thus was the foundation of Toronto’s goodness firmly and permanently
laid.
When “Three Pair” Won.
The old Government House at the four corners was supplanted by the new
one in Rosedale a few years ago. This building figured in rural politics
in the early days of Ontario. Archie McKellar, who was the first U.F.O.,
though he didn’t know it, used to go up and down the side lines
denouncing the extravagance that built such a mansion and put a billiard
room in it. His labor with the farmers helped to put Sir Oliver Mowat in
power, and oddly enough Sir Oliver lived for years in this very
Government House, though I do not think he used the billiard room.
Society made Government House its headquarters.
But the Toronto Club, now occupying its palatial quarters at the corner
of York and Wellington Streets, was the gathering place for the élite of
the male persuasion. A story is told of pre-prohibition days when some
of the masculine social stars used to meet at the Club for a little game
of draw, or—there being no O. T. A. to interfere with their conscience
on the temperance question—for a little of something else. Late in the
night, or early in the morning as the case may be, at one of these
assemblies the hand of one of the players was “called.” The hand was
shown, and it showed three tens. No good; the next man threw down three
Queens. Not worth a tinker’s what-do-you-call-it; the next showed three
Kings. The same result; three aces followed. The holder of the three
aces started to rake in the pot when the last player hiccoughed, “Hold
on, will you, I’ve got three pair.” And they all admitted that the pot
was his.
The Albany Club on King Street east was and still is the leading
Conservative club, and I guess some of the old members are still voting
for Sir John.
The Toronto Press.
The newspapers of that period had a hard time to make ends meet, owing
to the cost of production and the rarity of subscribers. The _Globe_,
the _Leader_ and the _Colonist_ were the dailies. George Brown, Gordon
Brown, Dan Morrison and Charles Lindsey were the chief writers. George
Brown thought more of the _Globe_ than of any other of his life
associations, excepting perhaps Bow Park. They say that, returning from
Edinburgh with his bride, he jumped out of the train when it reached the
Toronto station and made for the _Globe_ office, forgetting for the
moment that his fair companion required some attention in the strange
city to which she had come.
His assaults upon the other side of politics were printed double-leaded
on the front page of the paper. People used to think this was because of
their importance. But John A. Ewan, who was a boy in the _Globe_ office
at the time, and was assigned the duty of running up to Mr. Brown’s
house for the editorial copy, used to say that in nine cases out of ten
the articles had to go on the front page because, owing to the labor
lavished upon them, they were too late for the page devoted to editorial
matter. John A. Ewan began newspaper work on the _Globe_, and was one of
the editors of that paper when he passed away. A staunch Liberal and
beloved by all, we were warm friends, for he was a good deal like my
other bosom friend, Sam Kydd, of the Montreal _Gazette_, whose quaint
humor gave the editorial columns of that paper a brightness that made
them very pleasant reading.
One evening John unceremoniously but unintentionally dropped in on a
little dinner party I was giving to several members of the Women’s Press
Club at the King Edward, and after having enjoyed a pleasant time,
insisted when we were alone and the affair was over upon asking the
amount of the bill because he wanted to share the expense. I firmly
refused to entertain such a proposition, and told him it was not the
custom in the neck of the woods I came from to allow anyone else to pay
for one’s guests.
“Very well, George, my boy,” said John. “You’ve been very kind to me and
I am going to be equally generous to you. Hanged if I don’t get you the
Liberal nomination for East Toronto at the next election.”
Funny, wasn’t it? John had just been snowed under in that constituency
by a 3,000 Conservative majority. Poor John—dead and gone—his memory
is still kept green by all the old-timers who, knowing his kindness of
heart, his geniality and his amiability, loved him all the more.
While the _Globe_ was growing in every way some of the other papers were
not doing so well. The _Telegraph_, the first venture in the daily field
of my old friend, John Ross Robertson, with Jimmy Cook as his partner,
felt the pinch, and so did the _Leader_ after Charles Belford and George
Gregg left to help start the _Mail_.
The _Leader’s_ last days were marked by some journalistic novelties. If
you had subscribed to the paper it kept on coming whether you renewed
your subscription or not. If you advertised for a cook the “ad” was
placed at the top of the “wanted” column, and appeared daily although
your want had been supplied, working its way down to the bottom of the
column as fast as new “ads” arrived to take the top place. Ultimately
the appeal for a cook reached the bottom of the column and was retired.
The _Colonist_, then a Tory organ, during the panic of 1857, startled
the political world with a sensational article, headed “Whither Are We
Drifting?” and laid the blame of the distressing condition of the
country on the awful extravagance and culpable incapacity of the
Government. As I remember, though only a youth of immature years, the
paper was financially in a hole, and John Sheridan Hogan, a brilliant
young Irishman, who supported the Conservative party, was its editor.
The _Colonist’s_ sensational article brought immediate financial relief,
for the Reformers swarmed to its assistance by increasing its
advertising patronage and its circulation. Hogan was elected as a
Liberal to the Local Legislature for one of the Greys, and was shortly
afterwards murdered one night while crossing the Don bridge by the
notorious Brooks Bush gang, which camped near the scene of the tragedy,
and made the locality a veritable hell on earth.
The Markham Gang.
Before I was born or even thought of, the equally notorious Markham gang
operated for years on a very large scale, but I used to hear a great
deal of their evil doings. The members of this gang were horse-thieves,
counterfeiters, desperadoes, and even murder was committed by its
members. While apparently well-to-do, respectable people—farmers,
millers, tavern-keepers, etc.—they rivalled the scum of the earth in
the darkness of their infamous crimes. Their organization was perfect,
an iron-bound oath binding them together, and they adroitly scattered
their bogus money broadcast, and drove scores upon scores of horses to
Detroit and other places on the American frontier, which was crossed
without the formality of a visit to the customs house.
Toronto naturally was the scene of many of their operations, being a
fairly good distance from Markham. Some years after I accompanied my old
friend, Col. J. E. Farewell, of Whitby, on a visit to Dawn township in
Lambton county, to inspect a property he had acquired there. It was
located in the middle of a good-sized swamp, and to his great surprise
he found the cellars of a big house and large stables and other
buildings and large apple trees—the headquarters of that part of the
gang which operated throughout Western Canada. Here the stock rested and
was fixed up so as to be unrecognizable by the rightful owners should
they happen to come across the animals.
To the East the gang operated as far as the Bay of Quinte, and even had
big establishments in Stafford and Dunham townships in Lower Canada,
where the “phoney” money was made. Murders were committed by these
lawless desperadoes. After some years, through the exertions of Mr.
George Gurnett, police magistrate of Toronto, and Mr. Higgins, high
constable of York, and others, several of the leaders of the gang were
arrested and punished either by death or imprisonment. The gang was
dispersed, and while it is now but a misty memory—it terrorized the
country in those primitive days.
Comic and Other Papers.
There were comic papers as well as serious ones in my early days. The
_Grumbler_ was one. It was owned by Erastus Wiman, who afterwards led in
the unrestricted reciprocity movement, and the chief writer was Bill
Rattray, who later on wrote the heavy religious articles, combating
German agnosticism, in the _Mail_. Another was the _Poker_, conducted by
Robert A. Harrison, who rose to the position of Chief Justice of
Ontario. Then came _Grip_, published by my old school-fellow, Johnny
Bengough; it succeeded splendidly, until Johnny’s two fads—single tax
and prohibition, then ahead of the age—lost it the needed patronage.
Johnny was a bright cartoonist and an able writer and is credited with
the authorship of that celebrated poem, “On-tay-rio, On-tay-rio, the
tyrant’s hand is on thy throat,” which raised a great ruction in Quebec,
and which had been attributed to the late Hon. James D. Edgar.
The _Mail_ first appeared in 1872 with T. C. Patteson, the father, along
with Harry Good, of the sporting page in the Canadian newspaper. The
_Globe_ would not go in for horse racing, so the _Mail_ made a specialty
of this sport and ultimately the older paper had to come in. The _Mail_
was to have been started on April 1; but the foreman printer drew
attention to the danger involved in the selection of that date for the
first number. So the paper came out a day earlier than was intended. Yet
the _Mail_ did not escape the sort of humor appropriate to the first of
April. It had the city laughing soon after it was founded by reason of
some curious typographical errors incident to the haste of production.
One of these arose out of a St. George’s Society service at St. James
Cathedral. It appears that a boy in the composing room had been
entertaining himself by setting up sections of a dime novel relating the
adventures of “Cut Throat Dick, the Bold Roamer of the Western Plains,”
or of some other celebrity of that type. When the report of the St.
George’s sermon was being placed in the form preparatory to printing the
paper, the “make-up” man used instead of the second half of the sermon a
selection from the story of “Cut Throat Dick” with the result that the
preacher, Rev. Alexander Williams, was represented as using language
that was quite unsuited to the pulpit.
In the same paper somebody played a practical joke at the expense of Mr.
M. Homer Dixon, the Consul-General for the Netherlands. Mr. Dixon always
appeared at state functions wearing the diplomatic uniform of blue cloth
and gold lace. A letter appeared in the _Mail_ offering a vigorous
defence of this practice and was signed apparently by Mr. Dixon himself.
The missive, which was a forgery, set everybody laughing.
But there was a louder laugh at a practical joke played by my old
friend, W. R. Callaway, general passenger agent of the Soo Line, and
formerly of the C.P.R. at Toronto. Mr. Callaway is nothing if not a wag.
The jobs he has put up are innumerable, and this is one of them. He
issued “swell” invitations to the leading citizens of Toronto to visit
his office on King street and see the first cycle used in the
construction of the C.P.R. which had just been completed. The
acceptances were many. Amongst those who came to see the wonderful and
historic machine were Sir George Kirkpatrick, the mayor and aldermen of
Toronto, and many society ladies and gentlemen. They were escorted to a
rear room where they beheld a brand new wheel-barrow, especially
borrowed for the occasion from Rice Lewis & Son. The crowd took the
“sell” good naturedly, but Mr. Callaway was conveniently absent in
London.
Returning to the newspapers—in a later day came the _Sun_, the _World_,
edited by W. F. Maclean, M.P., the _Empire_, both afterwards absorbed by
the _Mail_, and the _Telegram_, the last and highly successful venture
of John Ross Robertson. John Ross in this enterprise made municipal
politics his specialty, and woe to the man he opposed. One candidate for
the mayoralty to whom he objected was Angus Morrison. Mr. Morrison was
not a good or strictly coherent speaker. John Ross went after him by
printing verbatim reports of his campaign speeches, and thus did him no
end of harm.
Toronto’s Chief Magistrates.
Toronto’s mayors have been of all types and of all brands of politics.
Next to Tommy Church, the most tenacious was Francis H. Metcalfe,
“Square Toes” as he was called, who had five terms. Mayor Church has had
six, and is now enjoying his seventh. He toes the line with even greater
energy than did Mr. Metcalfe. “Square Toes” was a notable member of the
Orange Order, and the joke was on him when he had to give protection to
the Catholic processions that celebrated the Papal Jubilee. E. F. Clarke
and Horatio C. Hocken were also chiefs of the Orange Order. Ned Clarke
was taken away all too early.
* * * * *
Some of the mayors had a good streak of humor. Mayor McMurrich was one
of these. It falls to the lot of the mayor to give names to the
foundlings coming under the protection of the city. One newspaper man,
Ephraim Roden, had criticised Mr. McMurrich in the course of his
journalistic duties. Shortly afterwards a colored foundling had to be
named, and the mayor conferred upon it the full name of his critic. Mr.
Withrow was a mayoralty candidate but was not elected.
* * * * *
I remember coming to one of the exhibitions which preceded the
establishment of the Industrial. It was held just where the
Massey-Harris factories and yards are on King street. King street west
then ended at Strachan avenue, and big gates, where King street stopped,
guarded the entrance to the fair grounds. The most notable feature of
the Fair was the glass structure known as the Crystal Palace. Here all
the best exhibits—the quilts, the amateur paintings, the cakes by the
farmer’s wife, the sewing machines, the pumpkins, the parlor organs and
the stoves were displayed. Outside on the grounds were agricultural
implements, animals none too well housed, and mud—for the weather as a
rule was hostile to the Fair. Mr. Withrow and some other leading spirits
worked for the transfer of the Exhibition to the Garrison Common, and
now Toronto has the big show of the country—if not of the continent.
”Ned”—Hon. Edward Farrer.
There had been no better known newspaper man in Canada than Ned Farrer,
and none more popular with those who knew him. He was a brilliant
writer, an interesting conversationalist with an unlimited fund of
information and humor, and knew so many stories and told them so often
that he actually believed them himself.
While Ned had been chief editorial editor of the Toronto _Mail_ and the
Toronto _Globe_, he was also on the Winnipeg _Times_, succeeding me as
editor-in-chief in 1882, and in later years he became a free lance and
wrote for many papers, chief amongst which was the London _Economist_,
and he was also employed by large corporations on account of his grasp
of subjects and the readiness of his pen. A better writer I never knew
who could put a case more clearly and succinctly than he could, and his
great mind could see both sides of a question, so that he could reply to
his own arguments without any difficulty, and then controvert them to
the Queen’s taste. His style was incisive and telling.
* * * * *
Once when Chief Justice Wallbridge, of the Manitoba bench, who had
reached a good old age, fiercely denounced the reflections of the
Winnipeg _Times_ on the court, Ned made very brief reference to it, and
concluded: “Senility has its privileges.” That repartee has been quoted
to me many a time since. He had been in earlier years on the New York
press, but wandered to Canada where his services were always in demand.
So greatly were his talents appreciated, and so esteemed was he by Sir
John Macdonald and Sir Wilfrid Laurier that, it is said, he wrote the
platforms for both political parties on one occasion. While we were most
intimate for more than forty years he never admitted it to me, but what
he didn’t tell of himself was monumental. No one except his wife and
myself knew that he was the Honorable Edward Farrer, and that he was a
nephew of Archbishop O’Donnell of Cork.
Many is the story he has told me of how he was the intermediary between
the Archbishop and the chief of the Irish Constabulary in dealing with
the Fenians when they were the disturbing element in Ireland. If the
suspect was a pretty decent, harmless fellow the Archbishop would
arrange for him to be freed and sent home; if he was a dangerous
character and an undesirable, he would be shipped to America, with
passage paid and sufficient money to give him a fair start in the new
world.
How he himself happened to come to America is a queer story and has
never before been told in print, for I promised not to tell it until he
had passed away. While at college in Rome where he was studying for the
priesthood, he, with a brother student, as remarkably clever as Ned,
were taking a stroll the afternoon before the day of their ordination.
One asked the other: “Do you want to be a priest?” and both agreed they
didn’t. Just then, a little breeze blew a piece of an Italian newspaper
against Ned’s leg and picking it up he read an advertisement for two
interpreters—English and Italian—applications to be made to the
captain of a ship, then in port. They hastened to the vessel, but the
captain seeing their student’s garb at first refused to engage them on
the ground that the college authorities missing them would search and
find them before they could get away. They, however, persuaded him that
they could hide in the forecastle until the ship sailed, which they did.
Shortly before the advertised time of departure, the captain saw the
searching party heading for the ship, and, although the tide was
unfavorable, immediately cast off ropes and started—landing the two
young men in New York almost penniless.
* * * * *
They, however, quickly procured employment, and later Ned became one of
the most powerful newspaper writers in Canada, sought after by prominent
politicians of both parties. Besides Sir John and Sir Wilfrid, Sir
Richard Cartwright was a close personal friend, and many members of the
different cabinets sought his sound advice and pleasant company. At
Washington, he had many friends in high political positions, Jas. G.
Blaine, Senator Hoar and Congressman Hitt being amongst those most
intimate with him.
* * * * *
Ned was a good cricketer in his earlier days, and later an enthusiastic
baseball fan. He played in cricket matches in England against some noted
players, and would travel long distances to see a league baseball game
in Canada or the United States. And he dearly loved a game of
cards—Black Jack or Catch the Ten, an old Irish game, being his special
favorite. He used to wire me Saturday mornings to come up sure—the
first one being that Clifford Sifton wanted to see me. When I reached
his home in Ottawa that evening, I naturally asked what Sifton wanted to
see me about. And he looked apparently amazed, and asked:
“What Sifton?”
“Why, the Minister of the Interior.”
“Never heard of him,” he replied.
“But,” I said, handing him his dispatch, “here’s your telegram.” He took
it, scrutinized it carefully, and returning it casually remarked:
“Can’t you see that’s not my handwriting—it’s a forgery.”
And then we would play Black Jack until three or four in the morning and
important visitors would be told that “Mr. Farrer was very busily
engaged, and could not see them.” He was very busy—trying to beat me,
which he usually did.
I couldn’t tell you all the rich stories about Ned Farrer, but one will
suffice. The two of us with Mrs. Farrer were on a westbound C.P.R.
train. Ned was an early riser, so I asked him to awaken me when he got
up as I was very tired.
He and Mrs. Farrer were in lower 11 and I was in lower 7. After they had
retired a young lady from Yale, B.C., whom I knew, entered the sleeper
and after a few minutes’ conversation told me that she didn’t know where
she was going to sleep that night. I told her that I did—in lower 7.
She said that she had no berth secured, and I explained that lower 7 was
her’s, although it had been mine but I had another. In the middle of the
night Mrs. Farrer had occasion to visit the toilet, and on her return
accidentally got into the berth of our Mr. Cambie, of Vancouver. Then
trouble commenced. She told him to lie over, and he told her to get out
of the berth. “Don’t be a fool, Ned, get over farther,” was followed by
Mr. Cambie saying, “My name is not Ned.” Then came a half-suppressed
shriek, and the flitting of a female form to lower 11. All this I
enjoyed from the upper berth in which I was supposed to repose. In the
morning, I heard Ned pattering down the aisle, and saw him pull aside
the berth curtains and give the poor innocent occupant a well-directed
slap in the proper part of her anatomy, accompanied by: “Get up, you old
devil, you.”
I think I put nearly all of one of the pillows in my mouth to silence
the laughter that was racking my body.
“George,” the porter, having been duly instructed, explained to the lady
that a lunatic had escaped from the day coach, but had been recaptured
and handcuffed—and the rest of the day I held Ned in awed subjection by
threatening to point him out to the lady as the person who had committed
the assault, and in dire fear, the well-known editor spent most of the
day and part of the night in the baggage car, occasionally sending to
the rear to find out if the female was still vengeful, or if she had got
off the train, receiving emphatic assurances of “Yes” and “No” with the
necessary verbal frills each time.
I breakfasted with the lady and then afterwards told E. F., who sat at
the extreme end of the diner, that she had been informed that “the big
florid-faced man at the end table was the guilty party” and that “she
was laying for him” when he went into the sleeper. Which he did not do
until I finally explained matters and then dove-like peace reigned once
more.
One Good Friday night, while in Toronto, I got a wire from Mrs. Farrer
to come to Ottawa at once for Ned was dying. I stayed with him to the
end, and when he passed away, one of the brightest minds and one of the
greatest journalists of his time was lost to the world.
Theatrical Recollections.
No visit to Toronto in my early days was complete unless you had an
evening at the Royal or, to give it its full title, the Royal Lyceum, on
the south side of King between Bay and York. This theatre was not the
first to be built in the city. Its immediate predecessor, if I am
rightly informed, was on the south side of King between Bay and Yonge.
Here Denman Thompson, McKee Rankin, and Cool Burgess got their start.
All became famous on the American stage. Cool, by the way, was one of
the best of the earlier burnt cork artists, his Nicodemus Johnson being
irresistibly funny. He began as a local song and dance performer,
lending added humor to his terpsichorean efforts by reason of the length
of his feet, which, it is hardly necessary to say, were artificially
prolonged. Soon his fame spread throughout the States, and he is said to
have literally coined money there.
Report has it that when brother workers adjourned from the theatre to
blow in their earnings in liquid refreshments or card games, Cool went
to his bed and his money went home. So that, in his advanced years, when
the stage had lost its charm for him or vice versa, he was a well-to-do
citizen of Toronto, enjoying a life of ease. Denman Thompson created
“The Old Homestead,” from which he made a barrel of money. His play was
the precursor of “Way Down East,” which is now playing to fine houses in
a movie in New York.
The Royal was made famous by the Holmans who managed it and played in it
for years. The family was highly talented and exceedingly well balanced
from the point of view either of the drama or the opera. There were two
girls, Sally and Julia, who sang like nightingales, and two brothers,
Alf and Ben, also singers and actors of more than average ability. The
former one was also a rattling snare-drummer. Mrs. Holman, the mother,
was an accomplished pianist, and an all-round musician. At first the
Holmans played the stock dramas with Sally as leading lady, and Alf as
the heavy villain. But ultimately they went into opera and made a
success of the venture. A night at the Royal certainly was a treat for
the boys. The house was not at all gorgeous, nor was it outrageously
clean. The mastication of tobacco, a popular method of enjoyment in
those days, gave the floors, particularly in the gallery where the
twenty-five centers assembled, a pattern and an odor not to be
experienced in the modern theatres, where chewing gum is employed and
indiscriminately parked. How the habits of the people have changed!
[Illustration: TORONTO TO-DAY.
The three tallest buildings in the British Empire. The C.P.R. Building in
the centre. ]
The beginning of the performance was heralded by the appearance of a
“supe” who amidst cheers lighted with a taper the gas jets which
provided the foot-lights. Then, Mrs. Holman, wearing a comfortable white
woollen shawl, squeezed through the musicians’ trap door and made the
piano lead the modest orchestra in the tunes appropriate to the
occasion. Up went the green baize curtain a few minutes later, and the
play was on. Applause for Sally and Julia was continuous and
well-deserved. Hushed during the intermissions when the male section of
the audience adjourned to the nearby bars for the purpose of acquiring
fresh inspiration, it broke out with renewed vigor when the performance
was resumed.
Old-timers will remember, too, that the celebrated bass singer, Crane,
of Robson and Crane, made his début with the Holmans.
Fire brought the business of the Royal to a standstill and the Holmans
gave summer performances, either in the pavilion of the Horticultural
Gardens, or in a temporary structure on Front street, just west of the
Queen’s. Since then the Royal has been rebuilt and burned again. After
the second burning it stayed burned, and the business of catering to the
public in a dramatic or operatic way passed to the Grand, which was
managed for years by Mrs. Morrison, whose husband, Dan Morrison, had
edited the _Colonist_. They had good bills at the Grand. Once when Sir
Henry Irving was there it was given out that the distinguished tragedian
required the assistance of a body of young men to play the part of
soldiers in one of his Shakesperean plays. The boys volunteered by the
hundred. They were going to see Sir Henry at close quarters and on the
cheap. When the great night came they were assembled in the basement,
uniformed, and provided with pikes—machine guns not having been
invented at that period in which they were engaging in war.
After a long wait for Act 3, scene something or other, they were marched
upstairs and hustled across the stage a few times, yelling as
instructed. Then the door of the basement opened and they descended to
disrobe and make for the street without once having cast eyes on Sir
Henry, and without seeing a fragment of the play.
The contrast between the theatrical equipment of Toronto in my early
days and now is really marvellous. Then there was one struggling
theatre. Now there are three devoted to the legitimate, four given up to
vaudeville, two to burlesque, fifteen huge picture houses, and a host of
small moving picture places too numerous to count. The city certainly
loves pleasure.
Bonifaces of the Old Days.
The Queen’s and the Rossin were the swagger hotels. The names of McGaw
and Winnett are, and have been for years, intimately connected with the
former, and the latter is now the Prince George. There were also the
Albion, which John Holderness and James Crocker at different times
managed; Lemon’s; Palmer’s; the American; the Walker; the Metropolitan,
Revere and many others which were comfortable hostelries and also the
Temperance Hotel on Bay street, which was not so comfortable nor so
clean as those which had bars attached. Then there was the old Bay Horse
and Cherry’s beyond the north end of the city—a popular road house.
Eddie Sullivan’s, Fred Mossop’s, the Merchants on Jordan street (first
run by Jewell, then by Morgan and till its close by good old John
Cochrane) were favorite places of public resort, not only for leading
Torontonians, but for people from all parts of Canada. Eddie’s was at
the corner of King street and Leader Lane, and has been demolished to be
replaced by an annex to the King Edward. Fred’s was the Dog and Duck on
Colborne street, and he afterwards ran the Mossop House on Yonge street,
until the O.T.A. put him out of business. When these three disappeared
it was a distinct loss to the eating public.
Then there was Carlisle & McConkey’s on King street with a huge terrapin
shell on the sidewalk as an inviting sign. Other places were Eddie
Clancy’s—he’s now running the Wellington Hotel at Guelph; Gus Thomas’
English Chop House; Sam Richardson’s at the corner of King and Spadina,
diagonally opposite which was Joe Power’s Power House. When in Toronto
in the early 90’s I used to go up to see Sam, and enjoy a good glass of
ale, and it was there that a fine body of mechanics nightly gathered.
They found pleasure in a glass of bitter, and didn’t argue or discuss
revolutionary questions, as too many of them, deprived of their harmless
tipple, do now. On Yonge street there were the Athletic, run by John
Scholes, the champion boxer; the Trader by Douglas & Chambers; the St.
Charles, which was managed by James O’Neil, until the O.T.A. came into
force; and on King street was Headquarters run by the Purrse Bros. They
all had their convivial patrons.
Of course, I do not pretend to remember all the places or all the
changes that have taken place in the Queen City—no person could—but I
have a vivid recollection of a ride on the upper deck of a horse-drawn
street car; of the Great Western Railway Station at the foot of Yonge
street, now converted into a fruit market; of the old St. Lawrence
Market with its wonderful display of meats; of the lacrosse grounds, and
of the Queen’s Park, where I first played lacrosse with the newly
organized Whitby club against the old Ontarios in the early days of that
great national game.
I also remember Capt. Kerr of the then wonderful steamboat, _Maple
Leaf_, which was lost when going to New York during the civil war,
having been purchased by the American Government, and I have not
forgotten Capt. Bob Moodie, of the little _Fire Fly_, nor the old lake
liners, _Highlander_, _Banshee_, and _Passport_, the fastest vessel on
the lake, whose engines are still in active service.
In my frequent visits to Toronto nowadays I meet a lot of old friends,
and many new ones, but I sadly miss Charlie Taylor, of the _Globe_; Bob
Patterson, of Miller & Richard’s; Josh Johnston, of the Toronto Type
Foundry; John Shields, the contractor; Davy Creighton, who was the first
manager of the _Empire_, and Lou Kribbs, his right hand man; Charlie
Ritchie, the lawyer, Moses Oates, who lived on Isabella street, and told
me ghostly stories until my hair stood on end; ex-Ald. Crocker; Cliff
Shears, of the Rossin; ex-Ald. Jack Leslie; Ned Clarke, Jack Ewan and
Tom Gregg, the newspaper men; John Henry Beatty, who was a fast personal
friend of Sir John Macdonald; Johnny Small, the collector of customs;
John Maughan, father of Col. Walter Maughan of the C.P.R.; Lud Cameron,
the King’s Printer; Ned Hanlan, Harry Hill, secretary of the Exhibition,
Detective Murray and I really don’t know how many other princes of good
fellows.
But I occasionally come across T. C. Irving of Bradstreet’s, who can
tell two funny stories where there was only one before; Peter Ryan, who
has retired into official life; Fred Nichols, then on the _Globe_, now a
senator; Arthur Wallis, formerly of the _Mail_, now registrar of the
Surrogate Court; the Blachfords, who played lacrosse in Winnipeg in the
early days; M. J. Haney, the contractor, under whose direction the
Crow’s-Nest Pass Ry. was built; Hartley Dewart, the leader of the
Liberal party in the local legislature; the Bengoughs; Geo. H.
Gooderham; Col. Noel Marshall; Acton Burrows; Col. Grasett, Chief of
Police; Col. George T. Denison, the police magistrate, whose printed
reminiscences make very interesting reading; Arthur Rutter, of Warwick
Bros. & Rutter; William Littlejohn, the city clerk; and of course, His
Worship Mayor Thomas Church, and a big bunch of other live and
hospitable citizens.
No matter how large or how small, every city has something or other of
which it is pardonably proud. Halifax has it harbor, its citadel and its
Point Pleasant Park; St. John has its big fire, its high tides and
Reversible Falls; Montreal, its splendid situation Mount Royal and its
Royal Victoria Hospital; Ottawa, its Parliament Buildings and Chaudiere
Falls; Vancouver, its Stanley Park; Quebec, its romantic history, its
citadel, its Dufferin Terrace and its Chateau Frontenac; Moncton, its
“bore”; Peterboro, its big Trent Canal lift lock—the biggest in the
world; Kenora, its ten thousand islands; Lake Louise, in the Canadian
Rockies, its enchanting beauty; Oshawa and Galt their manufactures; but
Toronto’s great boast is that it possesses the biggest fair on the
continent and the tallest building in the British Empire.