Chapter XI

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.