Читать книгу Candid Chronicles: Leaves from the Note Book of a Canadian Journalist - Hector Willoughby Charlesworth - Страница 12

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Certain "progressives" in Canada are busily engaged in an agitation for measures which they imagine will eliminate from the minds of boys a taste for military parade. It is a good deal like the wisdom of those who thought that a taste which has existed in every section of the human race since the beginning of recorded time, and long before that, could be eliminated by statutes like the Volstead Act and the Ontario Temperance Act. In my school days there was no cadet training on the systematic method that prevails to-day, but the boys were very keen about military affairs for all that. And it should be added that if their elder brothers had not been equally keen we should to-day have no Western Canada at all for "progressives" to represent in Parliament. In 1885 the Canadian Northwest was saved for the Dominion in the main by youths from the offices, factories, and universities of Montreal, Toronto, and Winnipeg, despatched to the scene of Riel's activities without any preliminary training to speak of, at the very worst season of the year, for travel in a wild and undeveloped country. I am glad that in John Buchan's Life of Lord Minto, who as Lord Melgund was Chief of Staff under Gen. Middleton in that campaign, due credit is given for what these untrained levies accomplished.

Vividly I recall the thrill and excitement when, on a slushy Saturday morning in March, the call to arms came, and orders were given that the Queen's Own Rifles and the Royal Grenadiers of Toronto must entrain before noon on Monday en route for the Northwest Territories. It was a much more difficult expedition than it would be to-day, for the Canadian Pacific Railway was not yet completed, and there were gaps in the wilds of New Ontario which could only be bridged by marching over frozen lakes. Later the Queen's Own Rifles, mostly clerks out of offices, made the long march to Battleford over the snow and slush of a prairie in spring. In the winter of 1915 when I read of the complaints made by the first Canadian Expeditionary Force about the hardships of wintering on Salisbury Plain, I could not but think of what the lads of 1885 went through with no preliminary training.

My father was one of many merchants and manufacturers called together by the City Council on that exciting Saturday of March, 1885, to help solve the problems of supply and equipment. A primary necessity for the marching in New Ontario which lay before the men, was lumbermen's shoe-packs, a combination of moccasin and top boot, and he as a shoe-man was instructed to get hold of all he could. Through Quebec trade connections he had shipments rushed to Toronto in time for debarkation on Monday and in co-operation with his rivals in the trade located supplies elsewhere. Altogether the despatch of the Toronto regiments in forty-eight hours was a fine achievement in military and civil co-ordination.

To a boy of twelve it was a thrilling sight to see the young soldiers in uniform scattered through the church on that anxious Sunday. As it turned out they all came back, but no one knew just what they had to face, for there were many rumours of American intervention, and of Fenian battalions in formation at Chicago and other Western cities to go to the assistance of Riel. The superintendent of the Church of the Redeemer Sunday School was Edward Campion Acheson, a young student of Wycliffe College, now the Rt. Rev. Dr. Acheson, Bishop of Connecticut, and at that time a junior chaplain of the Queen's Own Rifles. He was one of the handsomest of men, fair and of pure classical type, with aquiline nose and all. I remember his presiding over the Sunday School devotions in his uniform, and later he wrote letters to be read to the pupils, intimately describing the experiences of his campaign. One description of how the soldiers spent Easter Sunday of 1885, marching over a frozen northern lake near Jackfish, Lake Superior, and singing "Onward Christian Soldiers", has always lingered in my memory. The Bishop of Connecticut retained his military enthusiasm, for he was perhaps the most eminent of chaplains of the U.S. Army in the Great War.

The return of the troops in the early summer of 1885, a burning hot day, was a gala occasion; to each bayonet was attached a bouquet, and the rigours of the campaign were apparent in their uniforms. The red tunics of the Grenadiers had faded to streaky neutral tints, and the dark green of the Queen's Own Rifles were similarly despoiled by rain and sun. The better known officers of the expedition, like Col. (now General Sir William) Otter and Major (afterwards General) James Mason, got their individual ovations, but to most of the throng the centre of attraction was Capt. Howard of the U.S.A. Army and his Gatling gun. The Gatling, one of the early models of the machine gun, has long since been superseded, but forty years ago its facility in rapid fire was regarded as miraculous, and it was first tried out in active service in the Northwest Rebellion. Howard was sent to the North West to demonstrate its use and was permitted to wear his American uniform. He made a striking picture in blue, riding ahead of his famous arm, the terrors of which had been celebrated by all the newspaper correspondents—and scores of boys and men ran along beside it, enthralled by its brass barrel burnished for the occasion.

The Sunday School of which I have spoken was more or less of an adjunct to Wycliffe College, and not only Mr. Acheson but others of the students served as teachers. They used to invite the boys of Bible class age to tea in the college refectory very frequently, so that while I myself never entered the University of Toronto I have been familiar with its environs and its history for forty years. The old feud between High Church and Low Church has since died down, though the ancient rivalry between Trinity and Wycliffe cropped up at the last election for a Bishop of the Diocese of Toronto. But when I was a youngster the quarrel was almost as much discussed in Anglican circles as Church Union among certain other communions to-day. The very foundation of Wycliffe College, as a centre of evangelical thought, had been opposed by the Bishop of Toronto, the Rt. Rev. Dr. Bethune; certain evangelicals like the Hon. Sam Blake, whose father, William Hume Blake, had been chiefly instrumental in establishing it, brought a great deal of bitterness into the struggle.

In after years when I had become a newspaper reporter I was present at the celebration of an anniversary of the opening of the college, when the Hon. Sam Blake, telling of Wycliffe's history, lost control of his emotions—as he was apt to do in moments of excitement. He told of the many obstacles that had arisen at the outset and how the original founders had met each obstacle with prayer—prayer which had been answered. After retailing several incidents which he regarded as direct answers to prayer, he dealt with what he termed "the final obstacle", the threat of Bishop Bethune that he would refuse to ordain graduates of Wycliffe. "Well," said Mr. Blake, "we had overcome many obstacles with prayer, but this seemed most formidable of all, and so we prayed once more that this cup should pass from us, and prayed fervently, and again it pleased God to answer our prayers—for shortly afterward Bishop Bethune died."

Mere type cannot do justice to the mordant fire of Mr. Blake's tones. His voice was naturally biting and vibrant, and it was clear that in the rapture of triumphant recollection he had become oblivious to the diabolical implication of his words. Among the officials of Wycliffe College were men of very sweet and gentle piety, like Dr. N. W. Hoyles, K.C., and the first Principal, the Rev. Dr. Sheraton, who were appalled at Mr. Blake's speech. And afterwards Dr. Sheraton came to the reporters almost with tears in his eyes and implored them to suppress the allusion to Bishop Bethune. It was a bitter pill to have to cut out the very liveliest part of a rather uninteresting report, but so finely did Dr. Sheraton plead the case of his College, and the irreparable harm that might be done by the widespread publication of what might be twisted into a charge that the evangelicals had prayed for the death of their bishop, that the reporters did what they have done in thousands of instances,—took the kindly course and struck out the utterance. Most of them knew that, for all his uncontrollable bitterness of tongue, "Sam" Blake, as he was universally known, had a great and kindly heart; much warmer it was believed than that of his eminent brother, the Hon. Edward Blake, who was not emotional and apparently took very little interest in the controversy of the "Highs" and "Lows".

Bishop Bethune's successor, the Rt. Rev. Arthur Sweatman, D.D., was a man of peace. As those familiar with the old controversy of the seventies are aware, he was a "compromise" candidate after the long deadlock in the Synod had become a public scandal. He was a very tall and distinguished man with a mincing accent, born, I think, of some inherent disability of speech, which he had painfully overcome. When I was a very little boy my home was not far from where he lived, and his love for children was known to every youngster in the neighbourhood. He would stop and pat one's head in an absent-minded way, and say something quite inconsequential but very endearing; and it was considered quite an honour to be caressed by the new bishop. Despite the hesitation of his utterance I never heard a speaker who carried with him a finer atmosphere of philosophic dignity, or gave a more complete suggestion of sincerity and refinement. And he could on occasion exercise authority with almost electrical effect. Once, when reporting the Synod, I heard him silence a prominent lay delegate who had indulged in unchristian utterances. The quickness with which he rose in his vestments and lawn sleeves; and the rapier-like swiftness with which he said, "Sit down sir, you forget yourself," utterly cowed the truculent speaker. He delivered a short address on the occasion when I was confirmed, in which he explained the "grace" or divine effluence that should come with the laying on of hands; it was one of the most beautiful imaginable and really seemed to bring down blessings from the skies.

Though no ecclesiastic ever filled the episcopal office with more essential dignity than Bishop Sweatman, he was no lover of canonical dress for its own sake. He liked to don a blue serge suit and sail with the young boys on Toronto Island where he lived in summer; and his breadth of view rendered him more or less suspect by the more extreme evangelicals of the Anglican Church. Into the Toronto Club, of which he was a member he never carried his office, and though a most temperate man, had no hesitation in ordering a whiskey-and-soda when he thought it would do him good. In 1893, when I was a junior on the staff of the Toronto World, which was carrying on single-handed a fight for Sunday street cars, I went to see him with a request that he sign a petition asking for their introduction. We had already learned from Prof. William Clark of Trinity University, their ardent and scholarly advocate, that the Bishop personally favoured the innovation, but nevertheless I was rather timid in approaching him. He was most genial about it, and did not disguise his hope that our campaign would be victorious. "But," he said, "I speak as Dr. Sweatman, the private citizen, and I must ask you in honour not to publish his views. You come to me as Dr. Sweatman, the Bishop of Toronto, and I have many in my flock, laymen as well as clergy, who do not share my views, and to whom an expression of them in my official capacity would be an embarrassment. Therefore I must refuse, but good luck to you."

In my youth I came to like Anglican clergymen of all shades of thought; and indeed I am disposed to think that in all churches, the majority of the clergy are fine, self-sacrificing men, much maligned because of the actions of a few truculent bigots and marplots, who sometimes get the public ear and whose tirades are unendurable to all tolerant men. Though Dr. Sweatman was not an orator, the Anglican Church in Canada boasted many fine speakers forty years ago. Finest of all, I think, was the Rt. Rev. Edward Sullivan, D.D., Bishop of Algoma, who on his retirement from the terrific ardours of that diocese, as it was in his day, became Rector of St. James' Cathedral. He had a rich Dublin accent, the most graciously virile and musical that I have ever heard, and he preached the doctrines of the simple heart. The sanity and sincerity of his utterances did much to redeem the pulpit in my eyes, for the critical faculty developed early in me, though I was careful to keep my opinions to myself. In the eighties, Bishop Sullivan, Canon DuMoulin (afterwards Bishop of Niagara), and Dean Carmichael of Montreal, who had been fellow students at Trinity University, Dublin, and who had come to Canada together, were regarded as the three great orators of the Church. Dean Carmichael I never heard, but Canon DuMoulin was much sought as a speaker for all occasions. His voice had not the music of Dr. Sullivan's,—there are indeed many types of Irish accent, and his was peculiarly flat and unattractive. But when he spoke his phraseology was so racy, thoughtful, and vital that he was at all times fascinating.

I remember an occasion when the swiftness and raciness of Canon DuMoulin's wit was publicly manifest. In the spring of 1887 the Irish Nationalist Party sent the notorious political gad-fly, William O'Brien, M.P., and a minor Irish land-owner, Richard Kilbride, to Canada to attack the then Governor-General, Lord Lansdowne, who was accused of evicting tenants on his Irish estates. Their purpose was to secure a demand by the people of Canada for his recall, and so injure his public career. Needless to say the effort failed completely,—Canadians refused to formulate such a demand, and Lord Lansdowne lived to enjoy one of the most varied and notable careers in the history of Great Britain. But O'Brien's visit did much to let loose the tide of bigotry, and was injurious to the status of Irishmen in Canadian public life. O'Brien and Kilbride were scheduled to speak at a public meeting in Queen's Park, Toronto, on a certain Monday afternoon in June. On the preceding Saturday, a great meeting of loyalists was announced for the same place. I was early on the scene and wiggled my way into a good place at both meetings. I have never seen Queen's Park so full of people since—except on one occasion, the open-air reception of the Rt. Hon. A. J. Balfour in 1917.

As I recall them the speeches at the loyalist meeting were mostly "tosh" of the familiar flag-waving order—the exceptions being those of the Rev. Principal Caven of Knox College, whose high-keyed Gaelic accents were difficult to hear, and the Rev. Canon DuMoulin. The latter as a native Irishman conversant with the situation from the Unionist standpoint had the other speakers somewhat at a disadvantage and his voice had wonderful carrying power. It was his task to put the resolution affirming good-will toward Lord Lansdowne, and when he asked for the "Ayes" a forest of hands went up. He then rather superfluously asked for the "Nays", and presently his voice rang out, "I see but wan hand,—and (with a dramatic pause) it looks as though it should be taken home and wa-ashed." Of course there was a great roar but I have since reflected what splendid courage the possessor of that single unwashed hand must have possessed to brave such a mob. Canon DuMoulin's sally, however, left everyone in such good humour that no harm came to him.

The O'Brien meeting two days later was a more riotous affair. It was called for late in the afternoon so as to insure a large attendance. I was carrying home from school a large Union Jack which we had lent for a celebration there, and I remember that as I hurried toward Queen's Park a kindly stranger told me I had better hide it if I wished to avoid trouble,—advice which I took. But though I again wiggled my way near to the platform and was within good hearing distance, I did not catch a word,—such was the din raised by the loyalist part of the throng, including many of the university students waving the bull-dog sticks then an indispensible part of a student's outfit. I can still see the spectacled William O'Brien, who with his pointed beard bore a resemblance to Bernard Shaw, standing on his toes and screaming at the throng without avail. Kilbride with his heavy ruddy countenance fared no better. He was a well-to-do man, owner of a celebrated race horse "Campaigner", and had refused to pay rent for land he had under lease from Lord Lansdowne. So he was greeted with a chorus of "Pay Your Rent". Among the sights I saw was that of an aged Irish woman trying to thrash a student with her umbrella amid the laughter of his comrades. There was one moment when matters looked serious. The northern part of the site of the meeting was flanked by great piles of brick for the foundations of the new Ontario Parliament Buildings then in course of construction. The Chief of Police had taken the precaution to place a long line of constables to guard this ready ammunition. Once the crowd broke and rushed toward them and the police drew their clubs ready for rough work. But in reality the crowd was merely fleeing from another body of police who were clubbing their way through the crowd to arrest a group of men engaged in fighting.

In connection with the visit of William O'Brien, there was one man who kept his head, the late Edward F. Clarke, editor of the Orange Sentinel and afterwards Member for West Toronto in the House of Commons. Though a prominent Orangeman Mr. Clarke was tolerant by temperament, and he suggested that O'Brien be offered the Orange Hall to say what he had to say and then ignored. It was sane advice, but it brought on Mr. Clarke considerable criticism. My father had a singular experience in connection with the visit of O'Brien and Kilbride. It chanced that he had business in Montreal and Quebec on the very dates they were to speak there. Curiously his goings and comings by train and steamer in both cities coincided with those of the Irish party, and he stayed in the same hotels. For three full days he could not escape them. O'Brien was attended by some American sympathizers who came to the conclusion that my father must be a spy. Finally in St. Lawrence Hall at Montreal one of these henchman approached and with meaning in his eye informed him of what the Irish did to "informers". It chanced that my father was in company with the late William Mullarky of Montreal, a strong supporter of the Irish cause; and the vocabulary the latter let loose on the interloper, convinced him of his error.

Dickens, when he first visited Toronto, obtained the impression recorded in American Notes that it was a riotous city. And as I recollect it in the eighties the charge was still true. O'Brien during his visit was struck from behind by a coward while taking a quiet stroll. In the east end of the city Orange Young Britons out on parade thought nothing of rushing into the homes of Catholic families just to frighten them. In those days the city perhaps really deserved the epithet, "the Belfast of Canada," which I have always thought a disgusting and insulting accusation when employed of recent years. Among the many episodes which I heard of, but did not witness, was the man-handling of the Fenian leader, O'Donovan Rossa, which he had done much to provoke. An early street car strike which roused the forces of bigotry because the President, Sir Frank Smith, was a Roman Catholic was the occasion of much rioting, quelled by Col. Denison personally with his mounted Body Guards. The character of the little horse cars, not unlike the "Toonerville Trolley", which ran in the eighties may be judged from an incident I witnessed during that strike. The cars had not run for days when to my surprise I saw one coming up a main thoroughfare. Presently half a dozen men ran out from the sidewalk, ordered the conductor and driver out, unhitched the horses and with a slap of the lines sent them galloping up the street. Then with ease they shoved the car off the tracks over into the ditch. Reflect how many men it would take to ditch a modern street car.

Rioting came to a climax when in the late eighties Archbishop Walsh, a most kindly man who had been well liked by Protestants and Catholics alike at London, Ont., during his incumbency as Bishop of that Diocese, was stoned on his arrival in Toronto to assume the archiepiscopal office. Decent citizens hung their heads for shame, and the newspapers which had been encouraging brawling of this character were subjected to popular pressure to mend their ways. The fact that Dr. Walsh was a very close personal friend of the Conservative leader, William Ralph Meredith, perhaps tended to emphasize the brutality of the incident in the minds of some. At any rate a healthy public sentiment in favour of decency was aroused, and though there has at times been a recrudescence of the latent riotous impulse, nothing so disgraceful has occurred since.

The allusion to Canon DuMoulin's racy humour has carried me rather far afield. I recur to the old group of Anglicans to mention another orator of impressive personality, the Rt. Rev. Maurice Baldwin, Bishop of Huron, also of Irish descent, though purely a Canadian product. He had a vigour, intensity, and beauty of language that brought his hearers an authentic thrill. But for a boy at least I recall no more interesting preacher than the Rev. J. Goff Brick, a homely little weather-beaten Englishman, one of the early missionaries to the Peace River country. He had a marked cockney accent, but the tales he told of the far away wilderness in which he laboured were fascinating in a rare degree and he invariably succeeded in imparting his own enthusiasm to his hearers. Both Bishop Sullivan and Mr. Brick were insistent on the fine qualities of their Indian wards in districts where they have not been contaminated by association with white whiskey-peddlers and railway construction gangs. The days of the old missionary clergy of the East were passing in the eighties. I knew two who in the early days of Upper Canada had laboured under conditions such as their successors encounter in the Northern outposts. One was the Rev. Canon O'Meara of Port Hope, who to my childish mind was astonishingly like a turkey-gobbler, but who was greatly loved and esteemed. Later I also knew very well the late Canon Henry Bath Osler of York Mills, who prepared me for confirmation, and who was as devoted and indefatigable a country parson as ever lived, driving many miles to offer consolation at sick beds and to bury the dead,—a bright cheery little man who literally diffused human kindness. Both he and his brother, Canon Featherstone Osler, father of four famous sons, were originally missionaries, and in youth had encountered hardships in what is now rich pastoral country.

In my youth I think I had rather too much of church, enough at any rate to last a good many years; but I have never lost my love for that compendium of beautiful literature, the Book of Common Prayer. Teachers of literature, perhaps for politic reasons, in dealing with the treasures of the Tudor period, are apt to ignore its pure, fresh, sonorous prose. But I have long felt that if there is any distinction in my literary style I owe much to the fact that as a boy I was perforce in constant contact with the noble prose of the Prayer Book.