The station at Ottawa is quite the grandest I have ever seen and on
entering it I was so lost in wonderment, so overcome by its immensity,
that I followed my seniors without any questionings. We entered a tunnel
and walked up an incline which seemed interminable. En route, Mr. Bang
remarked: “This passage-way always reminds me of the tunnel that leads
to the tomb of Seti in the ‘Valley of the Dead’,” I suppose he was
referring to some distant parts.
Soon we came into a room flooded with electric light and then passed
into an elevator and so up one floor, where we stepped out into what
struck me, as being of necessity a great hotel. Uncle and Mr. Bang
passed to the counter, and registered. I could restrain myself no
longer, so I whispered a question to Mumsie.
“That was only Jack’s joke: this is one of the really good hotels of
Canada.”
I looked about and saw ceilings immensely high and passage-ways that
led—anywhere. I felt really happy.
Porters struggled with our hand-luggage and a bell-boy holding keys in
his hand passed into the elevator and so we went to our rooms. I entered
mine and in a moment was alone. I opened one door and looked into a
clothes-closet. I opened another and saw a bath. And then I pulled up
the blind and looked out. To my left lights flashed far below, to the
right impenetrable space, in front of me were great spectral masses—an
inspiration—the Houses of Parliament! I felt sorry I had been so unkind
in my thoughts of Mr. Bang. I was indebted to him for all this grandeur.
My trunk was brought into the room. Would I dress? Certainly. I felt
satisfaction in my worldly wisdom when Mumsie called for me and I found
her in full dress and Uncle and Mr. Bang in their dinner-jackets.
I know my putting down these trivialities would appear childish to
anyone who read them; but this is actually the first hotel in which I
have ever been a guest.
I felt small in the great dining-room, and overawed by the tall waiter
who led us to our table. What a blessing it is that thoughts are not
visible! I was given a bill of fare and immediately lost myself in a
world of words and figures. I was asked what I would have, but the cost
of everything seemed so great I felt positively too frightened to
choose. Dear old Mumsie saw my embarrassment, and ordered for me; then
my nervousness left me.
Uncle and Mr. Bang pointed out different politicians in the dining-room,
whom they recognized; but I am really not interested in politicians.
Being Sunday there was nothing for us to do, so we sat long at dinner
discussing politics and politicians. Mr. Bang hates the Liberals, or
“Grits,” as he invariably calls them most cordially. Would the
Government again introduce the Navy Bill?
“The Grit opposition to the Navy Bill is politics, merely dirty
politics. They claim to advance the scheme for a Canadian Navy, but had
the Government advanced their scheme they would have opposed it, they
would have had some other,” he said.
“Is it not the duty of an Opposition to act such a part as a process of
sounding the popular will?” queried Uncle.
“In some cases, yes: but not in this. The Government did the most
practical thing: Ministers went to England and consulted the Admiralty.
The British Government told them what they deemed expedient, suggested
three Dreadnoughts, told them of an emergency and gave them the benefit
of their secret service. What could be more practical? The Grits carried
their opposition too far.”
“The Senate did the deed.”
“Subservient to the Grit caucus the Senate did the deed,” agreed Mr.
Bang.
“You really believe there is an emergency,” asked Mumsie, “that there is
need for these ships?”
“I do. What is more evident than that the British Government is taxing
the Mother Country to death to meet an emergency, real or fancied, and
it is the duty of Canada to bear a part. Isn’t it an Empire concern? But
the Grits think that Canada, forgetful of all else but money-making, is
willing to play the stability and existence of the Empire against a
stake of thirty-five million dollars. The populace has an open ear for
pleasing assurance. So they figure chances, but life and liberty are not
given us to be gambled with. There are some things we may not gamble
with—and one of them—” he went on, “is a maiden’s reputation.”
Mr. Bang’s remark surprised Mumsie and frightened me. I wish I could
sound the depths of that young man’s mind. True he did not glance at me.
Had he done so, it could only have meant a warning, that he had
knowledge of my—intrigue. And here I feel the pain of my folly, my
duplicity. Oh, what a fool was I! Social-climbing—the folly of it!
“You don’t accuse the Grits of being disloyal, do you?” asked Mumsie.
“The Grits have no political affiliations outside Canada and are not
disloyal. Given an occasional opportunity to misgovern[4] the country,
they are happy enough. They look upon the Yankee as a success, that is
the Scotch Grits do——”
“How about the French?” queried Uncle.
“The Canadian Frenchman does not like the Yankee and is not a
money-seeker. He, like the Scotch Grit, has no outside affiliation. He
has no love for British institutions. How could it be expected of him?
He is not actively disloyal: he does not lie awake at night worrying
about the vitality of the British Empire. Being, perforce, a guest of
the Empire, he has decided to enjoy its privileges and dodge its
obligations.”
“That would seem reasonable enough,” suggested Uncle. “Put ourselves in
his place.”
“I was in Ville Marie, a French village, that remains in its primeval
state. About it I saw floating a dozen French flags, but no British. Of
what was this the expression? Not of loyalty to Britain. But it was not
necessarily the token of love of France. In fact your French-Canadian
hates the old country Frenchman. Laurier—” Mr. Bang stopped with the
one word and beckoned a man passing from his dinner. The gentleman came
towards us, was introduced and invited to join our party. He was Mr.
Fraser, a Western Member.
“You are a personal friend of your chief: what is his outstanding
characteristic?” asked Mr. Bang.
“Serenity,” came the quick response.
“We were discussing politics,” explained Mr. Bang, “and I am conscious I
am prejudiced.”
Mr. Fraser chatted a few moments and then excused himself.
“A most apt description,” said Uncle. “I don’t know any better.”
“Fraser is a clever fellow, the wonder is he remains a Grit,” agreed Mr.
Bang. “Serenity—the serenity of his mind; that’s it. Polished to
reflect the philosophy of others. A man of learning, but of no
understanding: that’s Laurier.”
“No understanding! how could a man have been the Premier of Canada
without understanding?” I asked.
“By the serenity of his mind. Cleverness is a native attribute. In
homely circles it is called common-sense. A serene mind is the
complement of a healthy body and the polish of learning. A man may be
learned and yet not clever, or he may be clever and yet not learned.
Herein is the world deceived.”
“What do you call a clever man?” asked Mumsie, smiling.
“That needs some definition too. A clever man is a man of understanding,
one who has his mind in tune with the scheme of the universe; a man who
can feel the influences at play about him and foresee to some extent the
play of events. Clever men are rare: and are seldom attractive. They
work their minds so assiduously that they have no time for the
commonplace. In a general way as man’s best study is man, so the clever
man is he who has the clearest understanding of human nature. Laurier
has no understanding of human nature.”
“And Borden, what of him?” I asked.
“Borden’s outstanding impulse is affection for the British Empire. As
Laurier is a French-Canadian, so is Borden a British Loyalist. At the
present time this is the most valuable attribute in the Premier of
Canada. French Canada is hunting for an impulse, and so its tide of life
is dormant. Loyalist Canada is responding to its inherent virility,
reaching out. Borden is doing his best to train its growth. Beyond his
loyalty Borden is a kindly gentleman.”
“Is he not clever?” I enquired.
“You are probably labouring under the mistaken idea that a Prime
Minister is a Napoleon. You don’t trouble to realize that the Prime
Minister is selected by his associates. With the Grits the custom is to
choose a man of upright character and turn the limelight on him, so that
they may practise their rascalities in his shadow. In this process the
stronger the light the greater their immunity.” Mr. Bang did not answer
my question and I did not repeat it. But his systematic and patronizing
abuse of the Grits amused me.
“You know, Elsie,” remarked Mumsie, “these two have decided that the
whole parliamentary system is wrong.”
“Good Lord!” I exclaimed inwardly, “they must be out of their minds.”
“Not the parliamentary system,” corrected Uncle, “but the processes of
electing members———”
“We won’t inflict our arguments and ideas upon you,” cut in Mr. Bang,
with what was intended to be a pleasant smile. “But the public is such a
poor judge of character, we are all of us so easily caught by the
pleasing ways which cover either weakness or villainy, that it would be
better were the selection of representatives taken from us and left to
the goddess of Fortune.”
I looked puzzled while Mumsie smiled. Uncle explained: “The idea is that
our judges select, say, twenty candidates in each riding, to represent
all classes, and from these twenty one is selected by lot and sent to
Parliament whether he would or not. The larger questions of the day
should be settled by direct vote, by plebiscite, so that the popular
will could find direct expression.”
I did not feel interested but pretended that I did. Mr. Bang tried
further to enlighten me.
“In England at the last election, if a man wished to support Home Rule
he would vote for the Government, or, if he desired to support Free
Trade he would do the same, but there was no process by which he could
support the one and oppose the other, whereas, if he had a ballot—or
referendum—on which these definite, different principles were set down,
a clear expression of the national wish could be given. That is
impossible under the present system.”
“I thought you did not value public opinion,” I said. I thought I had
caught him there.
“The public mind is suspicious, shallow, vacillating and generally
contemptible. In other words the public is a cad and not too honest. So
much for my opinion of the public. But the point I would make is that
Parliament does not necessarily express the public mind. The party
system has robbed Parliament of its full capacity, and as an institution
I’m inclined to think it will pass away.”
“Jack is looking some far distance into the future,” said Uncle.
“The growth of ages as the system of Parliament is does not die in a
night,” said Mr. Bang. “But I daresay there are some people, mostly
Grits, who are fond of saying, ‘Vox populi, vox Dei’; whereas really,
the voice of the people is the braying of an ass. The homely idea is
that the ordinary mother is fitted by nature with an instinct, which
directs her properly to look after her infant, whereas, as any doctor
will tell you, the human mother is naturally extraordinarily incapable.”
The mother and her child! on what subject has this strange man not an
idea?
On the whole, as at the end of the great day I snuggled into bed, I felt
pleased with the way the world was treating me, and looked forward with
pleasurable anticipation to the morrow.
[4] Doubtless Mr. Bang would not have said this had he known the
rottenness existing in Manitoba.