Noel Robinson wrote the following tribute in the January of 1944 to mark the death of Judge William Howay (1867-1943), former president of the BCHF.

In paying tribute to the memory of my old friend Judge Howay I do so with the feeling that anything I may write will fall short of what I should like to write, for he occupied a unique niche in my esteem and affection for a period of about thirty years.

Widely known though he was in Canada, and particularly British Columbia, as jurist, historian, and lecturer, there will be many, even among the readers of this Quarterly, who did not know him intimately. It is for these, particularly, that I would endeavour to paint a little pen-picture of one who was not only an outstanding Canadian, but a very lovable and intensely interesting and versatile man.

It is as I knew him during the innumerable afternoons and evenings I have spent with him in the delightful study of his home in New Westminster that I shall always remember him best. Many walls of his home in New Westminster were hidden with shelves of books from floor to ceiling, but it was in this sanctum, the windows of which afforded a spacious view of the great Fraser River far below, where he was surrounded by the pick of his priceless collection of British Columbiana, as well as his more intimately prized volumes of prose and poetry, that he always seemed most at home. There, and in his summer home up the North Arm of Burrard Inlet, where he was an equally happy host, and where I was able to appreciate his talent in backwoods lore - yes, and as a cook and very practical skipper of his motor-launch.

In that room, less than two weeks before he died - he played me two games of chess upon the old chess board that showed signs of its immersion when, upon one occasion, his launch shipped a sea which poured into the cabin while he /p. 16/ was playing a game. That afternoon we "boxed the compass"; in conversation for the last time upon those literary matters that were so dear to him. His mentality was unimpaired, but we were both aware that he had, in all human probability, received an intimation of the approaching end. It was characteristic of him that this knowledge made no difference to the zest with which he engaged in those games - both of which he won - or in the discussion that followed. He may be said to have died, as he would have wished, almost with his boots on.

He was at that time preparing a programme for the New Westminster Fellowship of Arts, of which he had been the moving spirit for a quarter of a century, and the interests of which, together with those of the Vancouver Dickens Fellowship, of which he was life Honorary President as well as a Vice-President of the parent Fellowship in England, were very close to his heart. This winter the subject of study of the Fellowship of Arts is the Scandinavian countries, their peoples and history, and the Judge had saturated himself in the lore of the Vikings and the prose and poetry of their descendants.

He had an almost phenomenal memory for prose and verse, and this was never more apparent than upon that afternoon, when he quoted to me from memory stanza after stanza of ballad poetry dealing with early Viking history and feats of arms. In the midst of one of these quotations he was reminded of Napoleon's connection with Scandinavia (Bernadotte). He had a whole shelf of his library devoted to Napoleon, and a picture of the Little Corporal stood upon his mantelshelf. Apropos of this digression he recited a rolling Napoleonic balled.

Judge Howay, as his friends well knew, and as befitted an historian, had a passion for accuracy. There was hardly one among his historical books dealing with British Columbia and Northwest America that was not profusely annotated. His mind was so well stored, too, with general historical data that, no matter what knotty problem came up for discussion, he would get up from his chair, remove his pipe from between his lips, with the remark: "I think we can find something on that,"; and, walking to his shelves, would take down a book, turn the pages, and with: "Yes, here it is,"; read an extract bearing upon the point at issue.

Though a man of less than medium height, Judge Howay was possessed of a cast of countenance, a dignity, and a mode of expression that, in some indefinable way, seemed to add to his stature and impressiveness upon occasion. At other times his fresh complexion, the snow-white curl upon his head, his keen, sometimes quizzical eyes, and the pipe between his teeth, would give him quite a Dickensian air. I can see him now at the annual Twelfth Night revels of the Fellowship of Arts (which are always in the costume of the period being studied), made up as Mr. Pickwick, or dancing Sir Roger de Coverley, his ermine robe flying, his crown awry, when he had impersonated King Henry the Eighth.

In my mind's eye I can see him, too, very vividly, in tail silk hat and frock coat year after year among the worthies of New Westminster at the historic crowning of the May Queen of the Royal City, a ceremony that has taken place for seventy years. For years he wrote the addresses to be spoken by the May Queen and the May Queen - elect- right down to the last year of his life, when he happened to be away in Eastern Canada, and delegated that pleasurable duty to me.
He was so saturated in the literature and lore of England, from Chaucer, through the Elizabethan ear, the prolific age of Anne and onwards; so familiar with the atmosphere of the countryside there, its castles, cathedrals, abbeys, and manorhouses, that it was sometimes difficult to realize that, though he had travelled widely upon the American continent and in Hawaii, he had never visited the Old Country. His intimate acquaintance, through reading, with all the places Dickens has made familiar to his readers and peopled with his characters was encyclopedic, and he was heard at his best in those little cameo-like talks, so full of acute judgement and wit, which he delivered annually to the members of the Vancouver Dickens Fellowship.

Many years ago, as a youth, I found myself reporting a case in court at Worcester, on the Oxford Circuit, when Sir Henry Fielding Dickens, notable son of Charles Dickens, was either counsel for the prosecution or the /p. 17/ defence. If I remember correctly he, too, was a comparatively small man, and his mode of expression and witticisms were recalled to me many years later by similar characteristics in Judge Howay.
Upon this occasion a dinner was given by the mayor and aldermen of Rocky Mountain House in Judge Howay's honour, and it was preceded by a cocktail party at the mayor's home. At that party the Judge was greatly attracted by a small statuette of a Kentucky colonel. The mayor pressed him to accept it as a memento of his visit, but the Judge demurred. There upon His Worship whipped off the head of the "colonel"; and took from the interior a bottle of whiskey, with the remark: "Well, Judge, if you won't accept the gentleman as a whole you shall certainly sample part of him."; But Judge Howay was a teetotaller!

His love of the sea and ships, and his knowledge of the latter, their construction, and their rigging in the days of sail, was particularly intimate for a landsman. I like to remember how he revelled in recalling the days of Drake and the Spanish Main, and the voyages and explorations of Captains Cook and Vancouver. In connection with the two latter, much valuable material was published from his pen as a result of his researches. For many years he visited Boston annually to dig into the archives of the Massachusetts Historical Society for data regarding the early fur-trading on the North American coast.

This is a reminder that he was as well known in historical circles of the Northwest on the other side of the border as he was in Canada, and that he was the recipient of several honours from historical bodies there. In a recent issue of this Quarterly he paid tribute to the memory of a distinguished historian on the American side of the line, Mr. T. C. Elliot, one of his oldest and closest friends, whose work he admired greatly.

Let me carry the reader back half a century or more in the life of Judge Howay. I have before me as I write a paragraph, yellow with age, which was found among his newspaper cuttings. It is from the columns of the British Columbian of New Westminster of about 1890 and was written when the Judge, as a very young man, was about to enter upon his professional career in the Royal City. It is worth printing in full:

Mr. F.W. Howay, a graduate of Dalhousie Law School, who has recently returned home after making a very credible record in his examinations, has opened a law office in McKenzie St. No. 17, near to Mr. Whiteside's office, and intends to practice his profession in the city, upon which, in common with Ruskin and Dockrill, he has reflected an appreciable honor in his college career. Mr. Howay is only a boy in appearance, but he has shown that there is the right sort of material there. He is on the first round of the legal ladder but hopes to climb to fame through perseverance. And he will probably do it.

How right the author of that paragraph proved to be in his forecast.

In closing this tribute may I add I have never known a man who possessed in quite so marked a degree the judicial capacity combined with so strong a vein of sentiment-his emotions were very near the surface, especially in later years-pronounced sense of humour, and genius for friendship as Judge Howay. To quote his favourite author, Charles Dickens-it will be easy to keep his memory green.

-- Noel Robinson, born 1879, was a Vancouver Columnist for newspapers that included the Vancouver World, Star and Province. He contributed historical articles and received a Good Citizen award in Vancouver for his work with organizations that included the museum society, Little Theatre and the B.C. Historical Society. He co-wrote Blazing the Trail Through the Rockies, the Story of Walter Moberly and His Share in the Making of Vancouver. Robinson died in 1966.

British Columbia Historical Quarterly, January 1944