Owing to the fog I could see only the spires of the House of Parliament,
and the different blocks when I looked out of my window this morning.
But then, after we had breakfast, and left the Boardin’ House and walked
up Parliament Hill, I saw them shining in the bright frosty air, in the
winter sunlight and through the fading mist; they seemed to express the
character of a young and healthy nation. As we walked past them and came
to Nepean Point, and looked over the river and the hills of Quebec,
wrapped in forest, some dreams of Empire came into my mind. Here I was
at the heart of a nation; what was to be its development? A hundred
years hence, for instance, what rank would Canada take among the
nations? Would I could think our future was as bright as the physical
prospect before us! All seemed so beautiful, so clean, so strong, so
perfect! For the first time in my life I felt my personal
responsibility, that I had a duty to this, my country.
We gazed upon the prospect for many minutes, Mr. Bang and Uncle pointing
out the Chaudiere, the location of Rideau Hall, and other objects of
interest. As we turned away Mr. Bang with a sigh exclaimed, “What a pity
our people are so dishonest in their politics!” Doubtless his mind was
filled with thoughts similar to mine.
Uncle took leave of us, saying he must attend to business; so we were
left with Mr. Bang as our sole guide. We visited the House of Commons,
the Senate Chamber, and the Library. In some way the things I saw did
not match my expectations. Of course I was much interested in the Senate
Chamber, for here I understood His Excellency would open Parliament on
Thursday at three; and here would I make my bow on Saturday evening.
Sight-seeing is tiresome work, and I was glad when lunch-time came.
At tea Mr. Bang informed us of a bazaar to be held in the evening, at
which the Government House party would attend. This filled me with
joyous anticipation. I would for the first time cast eyes on a real,
live Lord, and his Lady, and their noble family. I wonder what they will
look like. I am interested because my grandmother, my mother’s mother,
was the grand-daughter of an earl. Poor little me! It does not do me
much good—those exalted antecedents!
At dinner we had a dissertation on guinea-pig directors. When a rascally
promoter wishes to lend credit to his enterprise he employs a guinea-pig
director to act for him or, when the promoter has a reputation and is
careful of it he does the same. The guinea-pig director must be of
commanding presence, have a title, or some notoriety to give his name
value and be able to make an after-dinner speech. Colonel Grass is a
professional guinea-pig; Colonel Sir Lancelot Pill is lapsing that way.
“Colonel Sir Lancelot Pill!” I exclaimed, “why I thought he was one of
our highest citizens.”
“I have no doubt,” responded Mr. Bang, “he would feel grateful could he
hear you say so: he gives away vast amounts of money but then he can
only do that because the public buy his wares. But Sir Lancelot began to
lose cast ever since he promoted ‘The Slough of Despond’.”
‘The Slough of Despond’ it appears was a mining venture capitalized for
an enormous sum.
“When Sir Lancelot found the boom had burst and the public would not buy
the stock, he conceived the idea of asking authority from the
Legislature for the company to buy in its own stock. This was
granted—which shows what fools make our laws—and the gallant Colonel
used his company’s treasury to support the market. And then with
quotations marked up by such unusual methods, another shuffle of the
cards took place and the stock was issued in London to the accompaniment
of more market rigging. So do our patriots establish our credit abroad.”
“How on earth did Sir Lancelot ever get such authority?” asked Uncle.
“There is only one way: he went to Wee Macgregor, who in turn fixed it
up with the Mulligan Guards.”
“What a name!” I exclaimed. “Who—”
“The Mulligan Guards is our Conservative Club where our members
foregather to select the sheep from the goats, barter and sell our
legislation. Wee Macgregor was a lawyer and no doubt he received an
enormous fee in the guise of a reward for professional service. What do
our farmers know of high finance?”
“Here I should have thought was a chance for Timkins—”
“Timkins did—but what was the result. Some years afterwards Timkins
decided, being a good Tory and the Mulligans being a good lunching club,
to go up for election. He was turned down. Think of it, a man of
Timkin’s brains and character being refused membership of the Mulligan
Guards—”
“Rather thick,” commented Uncle.
“Time was when clubs were supposed to be homes for gentlemen. To-day,
from such point of view our clubs are jokes. Politics, finance, and
society are intimately interwoven. Our society is no better than our
politics, and our finance is as rotten as its two associates. Colonel
Sir Lancelot Pill was able to employ our legislature to put one over on
the British Public. Timkins was kept out of the Mulligan Guards to wreck
a personal spite, and all this in our enlightened age, our democratic
age.”
“How did Sir Lancelot get his title?” I asked.
“He lent the Prince—”
“That be blowed for a story!” broke in Mr. Bang. “He carried a
speculative account for one of Laurier’s Ministers, an old reprobate,
and the game ended up two hundred thousand dollars to the bad. Pill
accepted a knighthood as the only thing to be had in the premises. There
is nothing in the white charger—Prince story.”
“I suppose,” ventured Uncle, meekly, “it is quite on the cards the
knighthood was a complete ‘quid pro quo’?”
“Quite, oh quite,” agreed Mr. Bang, “most useful for stock market
purposes.”
The bazaar, I found just like bazaars at home, only larger; and Lord and
Lady Saffron had nothing remarkable about them, while Ladies Margaret,
Muriel and Millicent were dressed quite dowdily. To me the three girls
seemed ordinary, and one of them, Lady Muriel, stood talking to Mr. Bang
before everybody for quite a long time. I know the people of Ottawa did
not like it, from a conversation I overheard.
During the evening Mr. Bang went off by himself to play roulette and
evidently after this had palled on him, wandered among the booths and
soon met Lady Muriel, who was selling tickets for a lottery. I happened
to see them meet, for Mumsie, who had fallen in with an old acquaintance
was engaged, and so I had nothing to do but to see everything and hear
everything I could. Two ladies were conversing in the most English of
accents.
“I don’t know why their Excellencies allow their daughters to take so
much interest in a beastly bazaar. Bazaars are all the same, wretched
things. I came of course, because of the vice-regals.”
“I quite agree with you. Look at Lady Muriel, selling tickets just like
any common girl! And who is that she is talking with? Oh, really this is
too much.”
“I don’t know, really. Ask Montie.”
The other called to a man, evidently their cavalier, and asked him who
Mr. Bang was.
“Oh that fellow,” was the ready response in contemptuous tones, “he
comes to Ottawa often. He is a railway navvy, contractor, or something
like that. I’ve seen him about the hotels.”
“How dreadful! Just a common navvy. I suppose he’s made money some way.
I’ll—”
At this point in the conversation the ladies had sauntered beyond my
hearing.