Tag: 1920 Page 1 of 3

By Gregory Clark, March 13, 1920.

The descriptions of the opening of the Ontario Legislature that appeared in the daily newspapers were written for The General Public. The following description of that ceremony is written for The Man on the Street, and is therefore addressed–

Dear Bill-

To get a picture of the opening of the Legislature you must imagine yourself in a large and prosperous Presbyterian or Methodist church of the late Victorian style of church architecture and decoration.

The Chamber in Queen’s Park, has not an arched roof, and instead of pews it has little old-fashioned, leather-topped desks. But in all respects it suggests, on opening day, a church gathering.

This may be due to the preponderance of women, dressed in their Sunday clothes. Or to the ornate brass chandeliers hanging from the fancy ceiling. Or to the numerous high court judges, justices and such officials as Mr. Speaker and the sergeant-at-arms, who wear black flowing gowns and those white two-piece bibs, and who, therefore, can’t be distinguished from ministers of the Gospel.

It is like the induction of a new preacher. The downstairs part, known as the “floor of the House,” is absolutely jammed with women, who fidget and whose multi-colored garments bewilder the eye. The galleries on all four sides are steep, at an angle of about 60 degrees. And they, too, are jammed with moving, fluttering women.

Down the centre aisle is a very churchy strip of dark red carpet leading to the Speaker’s throne; you might say pulpit.

The air is stuffy. A subdued buzz of feminine conversation fills the wide room.

You expect to hear the pipe organ boom gently forth every moment.

Instead, from the vestry, or whatever the Parliamentary term is for the rooms behind the Speaker’s chair, emerge the wives of the Cabinet Ministers. Mrs. Glackmeyer¹, wife of the sergeant-at-arms, welcomes each lady and escorts her to one of the front pews. The Ministers’ wives are thus placed in a conspicuous position, and the effect on the crowded congregation is precisely that of the arrival of the family of the new pastor at the induction service. Much rustling, much craning of necks and leaning forward and whispering among the rows and tiers of spectators.

A Burst of Applause

The church-like atmosphere is broken for a moment by the entry of Mrs. Drury², wife of the new Prime Minister. She is greeted by a burst of applause. But the arrival of ten dignified judges and justices in their ministerial garb restores at once the churchy illusion.

Three o’clock draws nigh. You begin to worry. Here are these hundreds of ladies jammed into the members’ benches. There is hardly room for Mr. Glackmeyer, the sergeant-at-arms, to hurry up and tie down the aisle, in preparation — Why so many women? Fifteen of them to one man!

Then, the door at the far end from the Speaker’s throne swings wide and in strides a dapper lieutenant. Following is Mrs. Lionel Clarke, wife of the Lieutenant-Governor, on the arm of Mr. Drury. The congregation Irises to its feet and applauds.

A moment of waiting, then the doors again swing wide, and up the purple carpet come the Lieutenant-Governor and the Prime Minister, again followed by a gorgeous array of generals, colonels and majors.

The House is on its feet. The ladies are thrilled. The craning, leaning. bobbing, rustling has grown furious.

Here the illusion of a church ceremony begins to fade.

The bevy of generals and colonels group themselves standing gracefully about the Speaker’s chair, in which sits the Lieutenant-Governor³. These doughty soldiers represent the majesty and force of the Government. They are all armed with swords, though it is safe to say, Bill, that these swords have never hurt anything yet, unless it was the wallpaper at home. General Sir Henry Pellatt, who was among the military escort, seems ill at ease. Does he fear for his liege, the Lieutenant-Governor, in this unprecedented assembly? Anyway, he tries seventeen different postures in the fifteen minutes he is in the chamber, first on one leg, then on the other; but not even the last one seems to suit, and he appears relieved when the Lieutenant-Governor leads the way out.

I was disappointed about the members. I thought we’d see some fun when the members arrived and found those hordes of women occupying their benches. But it appears that the members don’t sit in their proper places on opening day. They seclude themselves almost invisibly along the sidelines and behind pillars. Opening day is the ladies’ innings. When the Speaker calls for votes on some formal matter of ritual, he says-

“All in favor, say ‘Aye’!”

And you hear “Ayes” said shyly from all over the chamber. This immediately causes a great flurry among the spectators. For many of the ladies, who have been glaring at some impudent and insignificant male who has been trying to catch a glimpse of the proceedings, are horrified to hear him utter the “aye” of a member.

Not Much Punch in It

They talk about the ceremony still being observed, Bill, but it Is all very perfunctory and half-hearted. They seem to hustle it through, as if it embarrassed them. They don’t put any punch into it. You would see ten times the ceremony at any small-degree lodge meeting.

Nobody wears any regalia but the new Speaker, Mr. Parliament. And all he has on is the three-cornered black hat, the bib-and-tucker, the black, braided coat and Minister’s gown. You should have seen the expression on Mr. Tom Crawford, who was standing back in an obscure corner. Tom Crawford is not only an ex-Speaker of the Legislature, but a great Orangeman; and what he doesn’t know about ceremonial! Still, it wasn’t all the hustled ceremonial that brought the wistful expression to Mr. Crawford’s face.

The only other items of ceremonial are the great gold mace, which is a kind of a big club; the funny little sword worn on one pantleg by the old gentleman who carries the mace; and the business of having Mr. Clarke, the Lieutenant-Governor, solemnly march out of the room while the scattered members elect the Speaker, (which was all pre-arranged, anyway, as Mr. Parliament was all dressed up in those fancy clothes beforehand), and then solemnly return to the throne.

The only members in their desks were Premier Drury and Mr. Raney on the one side, and Mr. Dewart on the other. They carried on all the conversation, except the speech from the throne, which Mr. Clarke delivered.

It is all over in exactly one-half hour.

Then the session adjourns. A sneaky smell of coffee, tea and sandwiches has been creeping up into the Chamber the last few minutes, just as at a church social. When the adjournment is moved, the congregation rises, buzzes and files slowly in the direction of the smell.

A big part of the crowd, Bill, seemed to be present to size up the new Farmer-Labor Government. Some of them seemed disappointed when no breaches of urban etiquet were made. It is funny how the professional blatherskite class imagines no outsiders can engage in Government. There were several known has-beens scattered through of the House, whose faces betrayed a mixture of envy and curiosity. They grew pallid and limp as they searched in vain for one grain of hayseed, one wisp of straw, at which to grasp for conversational material for the next few weeks. But not one slip was made. The portrait of Wm. Lyon Mackenzie out in the corridor, cynical of expression enough, seemed to glow with unholy glee as the professionals filed dejectedly past him.

The Prime Minister was the most at ease of all the leading characters in the act. You could hear his voice clear, sharp-cut, and assured, while Mr. Dewart’s was high and muffled, and the others were indistinct.

Best-Dressed in House

And the lady spectators, many of whom were not members wives, but the usual representation of Toronto at this function, were a little taken back when the Ministers’ wives, with all ease and grace, took their place in the conspicuous centre of the scene. They were the best-dressed ladies in the House; not the most brilliant nor the most dazzling, but the most tasteful and dignified. What the Toronto ladies expected of the ladies of the U.F.O-Labor Government is hard to say. But by their neck-craning and staring, it appears they were taken aback.

Another item of interest, Bill, was the conduct of Mayor Church. Yes. he was there. He arrived at the main door just a moment before the entry of the Lieutenant-Governor. He didn’t get a hand, so I suppose his nerve left him, and he stayed by the door all the rest of the ceremony. The expression on his face as the gubernatorial party and escort of generals swept up the aisle with him on the side lines was rich. Here was a function at which he was merely a spectator. He must have felt strange. And it was a unique sight for Torontonians, too, after all these years. He was up by the throne the minute the session adjourned, but the crowd was too quick for him, and he only shook hands with fifteen or twenty.

The newspapers all talked about the “gowns” of the spectators. I counted one section of the House, and found 20 blouses. 11 suits and only three gowns.

But I think we’ll have to take a hand in this ceremonial business, Bill. If they are going to have ritual why not have it good? Take the bowing to the Lieutenant-Governor and Mr. Speaker, for instance, as they sit in the throne. Why, it would cause a scandal in our lodge. We’ll have to initiate some of these officials and show ’em what a real obeisance is like.

Editor’s Notes:

1. Frederick Glackmeyer was the first Sergeant-at-Arms and served 57 years. He served through 16 different Legislatures, under 9 Premiers and 16 different Speakers.  ↩︎
2. They would interchange the term Prime Minister and Premier back then. Ernest Charles Drury was a farmer, politician and writer who served as the eighth premier of Ontario, from 1919 to 1923 as the head of a United Farmers of Ontario-Labour coalition government. ↩︎
3. The lieutenant governor at the time was Lionel Herbert Clarke. ↩︎

To the Bewildered Ordinary Citizen It Is Merely a Cacophony of Sounds.

Like a Big Bass Fiddle, the Mayor’s Voice Croons Steadily On Through It All.

By Gregory Clark, January 31, 1920.

Toronto’s brand new City Council is assembled functioning. It had its first business meeting and all went merry as a marriage bell. But it is so like all its predecessors that hanged if City Clerk Littlejohn, who has seen forty-six City Councils come and go, can tell, for a minute, whether this is the year 1920 or 1895. You might say, nothing changes in Toronto’s City Council but the names of its members and the fashion in clothes. And as for the latter, they change but slowly – in Toronto’s City Council.

The one thing that marks this year’s Council, the one bright incident that brings a faint ray of relief to the dreary round of City Clerk Littlejohn, in the ennui bred of nigh half a century of the company of City Fathers, is the presence of Alderwoman Mrs. L. A. Hamilton, the first City Mother¹.

In the assembled Council, Mrs. Hamilton sits at the toe of the big horseshoe of benches, directly facing the Mayor’s throne. Should any alderman so far forget himself as to us open up one of those pre-1920 barrages of vituperation, the vain cry of “order, order!” is now reinforced with the presence of a lady. And some of our most irate civic parents have thus had their best teeth pulled.

But City Clerk Littlejohn, whenever the day grows drear and the Council meeting unduly tangled, scrambled and undone, raises his melancholy gaze to the toe of the horseshoe, refreshes his spirit with a glance at the lady member, and returns to his task of keeping the Mayor on the tracks, as one who breathes – “Ah, well! There are signs in the sky! A new day may dawn!”

After the manner of college magazines, we might categorize the new Council as follows:

This year’s Handsomest Man: Either Controller Alf. Maguire or Alderman Brook Sykes. It all depends how your taste runs. Controller Maguire is of the rich, autumnal type of manly beauty; somewhat on the stout side of what is called a man’s prime. His election photos temper justice with mercy. Brook Sykes is the youngest-looking member of the Council; blond, quiet, is alert. One could easily imagine him a movie star of the Doug Fairbanks or Tom Moore type; the manly kind, easy to look at. At any rate, he looks like one apart in that circle of Fathers. He looks like a Civic Son.

Homeliest Man: (Censored).

Youngest Man: Alderman Josephus Singer (who, not being Irish, and therefore not superstitious, occupies Seat No. 13).

Heaviest Man: Alderman Birdsall.

Lightest Man: Alderman Miskelly.

Noisiest Man: His Worship the Mayor.

Most Silent Man: This is a race, of apparently, between Aldermen Winnett and F. W. Johnston, with Alderman Cowan running up. Alderman Cowan’s ordinary speech consists of an ejaculation. A sentence is good going. Two sentences is his limit.

This Year’s Prophet: Mrs. Hamilton. The male members are regarding her as a sort of Mrs. Elijah. They are waiting for her to wave her mantle and hurl the challenge magnificent.

Most Serious Man: Alderman Plewman. He engages not in argument or vain clamor. When he sees his chance he points his order paper confoundingly at the assemblage, and says his say.

This Year’s Poet: Alderman Donald MacGregor.

The Most Aggressive Man: Controller Cameron, who in spite of his recent illness. still dominates the meeting, whenever he feels like it, with his Celtic fire.

Now, the plain citizen might regard with some awe and not a little sneaking veneration the assembling of the City Fathers. One would expect of them, dignity, precision, ease.

Let us attend a Council meeting and see.

The meeting is called for two-thirty, o’clock in the afternoon.

At 2.20, we peek into the Members’ Room: a nice, comfortable room furnished with leather chairs and cigar-fumes.

The City Fathers are already gathering. A dozen of them are draped in easy attitudes over the leather chairs and benches. All are smoking either cigars or pipes.

“Hello, Bill!” yells one City Father to another across the room. “Did ye get yer house yet?”

“Sure,” replies the other in the same prevailing tone, “bet yer hide I did.”

“Well, well!” cries another, “if it ain’t my old friend Henry!”

“Yep. Large as life and twice ‘s natural!”

I quote thus to show the easy air of friendly banter, airy badinage, that relieves the lighter moments of the City Father’s life.

The members continue to arrive. The air becomes thick with cigar smoke. Alderman Mrs. Hamilton enters, gently pressing her kerchief to her nose.

Just before 2.30, in stalks the spectacled and solemn Mr. Littlejohn, City Clerk. Several of the older aldermen attempt pleasantries with him. He seems, however, to be thinking of other things.

He sizes up the assemblage, never relaxing his dignified aloofness. Then he disappears for a moment. He has gone to see if his Worship the Mayor is ready. He is.

A loud bell rings in the Members’ Room. City Clerk Littlejohn takes the up his position at the door and stands looking in upon the members with an air of menace.

The members file blithely into the Council Chamber.

Let’s also go there.

The Council Chamber is high, but none too large for the twenty-eight members of the Council. The horseshoe row of little desks is drawn up facing the Mayor’s throne. There is an empty throne on each side of the Mayor’s. These are for visiting potentates. The Mayor’s dais is guarded by the banners of the 180th Sportsmen’s Battalion, one of the unfortunately broken-up.

The members take their seats behind their little desks. Eighteen citizens and two policemen in the steep little gallery lean eagerly forward to see.

“Order gentlemen!” booms a solemn voice from the door beside the throne. It is City Clerk Littlejohn again.

Then, with long strides, cutaway coat-tails flapping, in flies his Worship, the Mayor. The members rise to their feet. It’s a sort of “Parade, ‘Shun!” affair.

Now comes the startling part of our adventure.

Our eyes have scarce left the flying figure of the Mayor to note the rising members, the members are just in the act of sitting down, when a sudden, droning, nasal and unintelligible voice begins-

“Controller Maguire the minutes of last meeting be taken as read, seconded, carried!”

In the rustle and confusion of all the roomful getting seated, we fail at first, to locate the sound. Just as the last syllable is sung, we trace it to his Worship, the Mayor.

Yes, sir! He started his incantation as his foot touched the dais; and just as his coat tails brushed throne, he had got through the first item on the program.

Thereafter that strange, droning monotone was the motif of the whole piece.

For there is only one way to describe a City Council meeting: it is a symphony in jazz.

To be sure, the various members, officials, clerks, etc., seem to enter everything that is being said or done. But to the bewildered, ordinary citizen, it is merely a cacophony of sounds, a human jazz symphony of the cubist school.

The aldermen talk to each other. Four aldermen make at once. The City Clerk and the Mayor’s amanuensis, Mr. James Somers are both explaining something to the Mayor, while the Mayor, in his low cello-jazz voice, is reading a bill and Controller Alf. Maguire, as the chairman of the Council, is on his feet, twiddling his watch-chain and serenely explaining to the Council the meaning of the bill the Mayor is reading.

It’s a sort of mild pandemonium.

Now and then, as in all good jazz music, there is a pause, and somebody with a voice like a piccolo or a melancholy saxophone (one of the aldermen), picks up a new theme, plays it lucidly, daintily, musically, and then with a crash, fortissimo down come fiddle and drums, trombone, cymbals and bazoo; and they jazz that theme to ribbons and run. And like the oom-oom of the bass fiddles, the Mayor’s voice croons steadily on through it all.

And when it’s all over and you buy a copy of the sporting extra, you are astounded to see, all set out, the items of business done.

It’s a miracle, that’s all! A spectacle de jazz.

One thing we did catch, however, Alderman MacGregor (whose mythical voice corresponded to the fiddle in that mad symphony), rose a couple of times to a point of order and found he was just a couple of jumps ahead of the party on the order paper. His musical protestations were rudely stilled by several members.

One alderman, levelling a withering glance at Alderman MacGregor muttered:

“Fer heaven’s sake, sing!”

Editor’s Notes:

1. Mrs. Hamilton was the first-ever female city councillor elected in Ontario. ↩︎