Part 9
Nothing is lovelier than the sight of a perfectly happy child--a little, laughing, dancing, restless, sparkling bit of humanity just beginning to expand into life like a plant putting forth leaves and tendrils and buds that promise fairest flowering--a creature of unspoilt confidence and innocence whose whole consciousness is absorbed in wonder and delight at the strange newness of the world around it, and all the beautiful, amazing things the world offers for its attraction and pleasure. The flight of a bird--the delicate caperings of a butterfly--the flicker of sunshine on the wall--the ripple of water--the sound of joyous laughter and dainty music--all these pleasures and many more captivate and move a child to smiling and pleased gesture--the little voice, the little hands, express wordless ecstasy--the young eyes glisten with unutterable meanings. Fresh from the unseen Power that declared “Let us make man in Our image,” it displays a pathetic faith in good--it trusts all the big, grown-up people around it in an exquisite confidence that none of them will allow it to suffer harm--it accepts life as it finds it, with the beautiful assurance of a flower which opens to the sun, instinctively certain that all is, or shall be, well. Let us remember that a child might never know evil if its elders did not instruct it therein! It is as innocent as any other young animal--innocent as a kitten or St. Bernard puppy, than which nothing is more blunderingly simple and touchingly confident. If we watch the unspoilt, natural gaiety and playfulness of all young things we cannot but realise the truth of the Divine pronouncement on creation, “Behold, it was very good!” and that we were meant to be happy on this planet--moreover, that we _should_ be happy, if it were not that we cannot leave each other alone--we must always be backbiting and hurting each other, interfering in our neighbour’s business and grudging our neighbour his or her special form of happiness. No child can be honestly said to know evil till we assure it that evil exists--till we frown and say “Naughty! That is wrong!” heedless of the bewildered eyes that mutely ask “Why?” As the Italian proverb says: “The ‘Why’ of a child is the key of the Universe.” Generally speaking, a child’s attitude towards life is one of complete reliance on unknown but trusted destiny, and in very early years, if that reliance should be broken, the little spirit so startled by some cruel blow is seldom or never the same again. But a few years ago, when we who plead for the children now were all children ourselves, the phrase “a bolt from the blue” was a phrase merely, expressing a possible calamity, too sudden almost to ever take place--and little did any of us dream that we should be forced to realise its literal achievement. The ingenuity of man, warped to devise schemes of wickedness rather than beneficence, has brought about a state of things in which the once secure loveliness of the heavens has become accursed by his vindictive presence, bearing with him through the offended air the means of destruction and death to the innocent and non-combatant populations of peaceful earth places below--and without a generous human thought for the lives of others, he speeds his selfish and devilish flight, insanely convinced that he is a brave man in his efforts to kill his fellow-creatures from the air, as well as on the land and under the sea. Nothing more heroic is left to him by his governments, teachers, propagandists and the like but to kill--to kill! Were he--apart from the red crime of War--to murder man, woman, or child in cold blood, with circumstances of mutilation and burning, he would be condemned to the gallows--but the wind-blown scarecrow of a false “patriotism” speaks, nay, shouts, “Herein killing is no murder!” and he rushes on his way through the air as though to perform an errand of mercy instead of slaughter, dropping bombs of destruction anywhere that seems to him feasible, and when he can have, as he reports, “good results!” “Good” results! “O Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do!” Let us look with the eyes of the mind and the heart on such a scene as has been enacted many times recently--a group of little children in a school, singing their little play-songs, or repeating their earliest lessons--happy, innocent, confiding--when, suddenly and without warning, a murderous crash and thunderburst of explosives is launched from the air through the roof above them, and where the young lithe bodies a moment ago disported themselves, there lie mutilated corpses drenched in blood. Our foes call that “war”--but I would fain believe that in their own hearts they know it is butchery, and that they deplore the merciless militarism that compels them to perform such deeds. And even worse than death for these little ones is the stunning blow on their mentality--the horrible knock, as it were, on the delicate membrane of the nervous system, which bruises it in a subtle, creeping way that is almost unimaginable. Contrast a healthy, happy child, playing fearlessly in the fields among the flowers, with one who is suffering from “raid shock”--and who sometimes sits lost in a vague stupor, unwilling to move--afraid to look up at the sky lest something fiendish should fall from it! I know one such child who refuses now to raise his eyes from a morose study of the ground. Hour after hour he sits frowningly absorbed. Pressed recently to look at the flight of a butterfly through the air, he gave a terrified glance at it sideways, and then resumed his downward staring. A kindly nurse, trying to rouse him, said, “You mustn’t be frightened of the sky--God is up there!” but he uttered a little pained cry and covered his face, sobbing, “No--no--no! Wicked man up there--not God!”
There is no need to comment on the effect of such impressions on a child’s vivid imagination; it is altogether dreadful and disastrous, for who can tell what damaging results to the brain may be in store for the innocent little victim! Time and care, with healthful surroundings and healing influences, may do much to eliminate the evil and disperse the horror and cruelty of such experiences--and this is why the “St. Nicholas Home” exists to-day, thanks to the loving heart and patience of its founder, Mrs. Kimmins, whose tenderness for children makes one feel that Her guardian angel, as well as the angels who watch over Christ’s little ones, must always “behold the Face of the Father.” No one with even a small amount to spare from the multitudinous claims made on the pocket of the unfortunate British taxpayer, whose Governments have dragged him into the incredible wickedness of a war for which he had neither the taste nor the inclination, will refuse that mite to assist the work of the “good Saint Nicholas” in the home over which his childhood-loving spirit presides, while those who are making much of the “filthy lucre” out of the exigencies and demands of the nations’ slaughter-houses will perchance salve conscience by munificence. Some of the donors may call to mind the story of the father who murdered his three sons, and whose crime St. Nicholas discovered in a vision. Going to the inn where the murderer was, the saint forced him to confess his wickedness, and forthwith raised the three boys to life again. In this legend we may find a happy symbol for the “Home” on whose behalf we plead. For the “raid-shock” children are, in a sense, murdered, though alive--murdered in their natural confidence, hope, and gaiety, and crushed by the oppressive consciousness of an ever-looming evil. We wish, as St. Nicholas did with the three boys, to raise them to life again--to re-establish their youthful trust, to make them forget that there are men who are devils--but perhaps to persuade them that there are women who are angels! Women, with mothers’ hearts, ready to put mothers’ arms round them--to play with them and talk “fairy bits”--as a sweet little girl asked me to do the other day--women who will care for them and see that nothing scares them from their healthful sleep at night, or their innocent games by day. This is the object of our appeal for “St. Nicholas Home”--a worthy cause--a noble, humane, and sacred cause, for we must “take heed” that we “offend not one of these little ones.” And most earnestly do I join with all who have put their shoulders to the wheel of this great Car of good effort steadily going a stiff way uphill--a strong push, a big push, and a push all together, and we shall stand on the shining summit of success with our saved children gathered round us in the light of happier days!
APPEAL FOR THE FRENCH RED CROSS
(_Written for the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre, July, 1918_)
DEAR FRIENDS!--We are here to-day in the name of France; France, the beautiful, the beloved country, now ravaged and desolated by the crudest enemy that ever dishonoured the name of War. I am asked to make an appeal to you,--to you, the people of the land of Shakespeare, on behalf of the people of the land of Victor Hugo,--and I esteem it an honour, a privilege, and a duty to plead this great Cause. I ask you to look away from yourselves, your own interests, your own comforts in this peaceful town, which has never known the horrors of invasion and destruction by brutal foes,--I ask you to think of other towns and villages, once as happy, but now ruined and desolate, where thousands of harmless people have been driven out of their homes and forced to endure miseries such as you have never known! Remember, too, with what heroism they have borne their sufferings!--with what courage and fortitude! Never complaining, they have put their own sorrows and losses in the background for the sake of their country, and when all the tale is told, the splendid and unflinching patriotism of France will shine on the page of history as a deathless example to all the nations of the world!
Think for a moment what it would mean to you, if you had to look on at your beautiful old Church, the holy shrine of Shakespeare’s rest, battered into ruins by the bombs and shells of the remorseless German foe!--your houses shattered--your gardens laid waste--your streets broken up by the machines of war, and you yourselves turned forth as homeless wanderers without hope or refuge!--your little children murdered before your eyes! This is what France has had to endure, and it is your happy fortune to be spared these terrible calamities only because brave men are fighting for you and giving their lives for you that you shall never know such desolation! And not only your own brave men but the brave men of France are fighting, for _you_ as well as for themselves! France and Britain are friends and brothers-in-arms; and in the great and terrible struggle they fight as one soul! We, who are protected in our island home by the magnificent heroism and self-sacrifice of such splendid men, can do but little to show our grateful love and admiration towards France for her unmatched endurance, resolution, fortitude, and courage; but such little as it is and must be, let us do it with a full and generous heart! Let us take pride and joy in helping to rebuild the ruined towns and villages,--let us try to comfort the brave people by giving homes to the homeless, and restoring in some measure their lost peace and prosperity. Every pound that can be spared goes to alleviate some trouble. No money brings such divine interest as that which we spend in helping those in need. Therefore let us not grudge our offerings to the heroic martyr of the nations! She is pierced with many swords,--she is scourged and crowned with thorns,--but her invincible faith and honour and patriotism will bring her through the darkness to the light of a triumphant and glorious Day! _Her_ cause is Ours; _Our_ cause is _Hers_! Now is the time when we, who are not in the stress of battle, can cheer and help her by proofs of love and sympathy in her sorrows. Most earnestly do I hope, and most ardently do I pray that the noble, ever-living spirit of the Master Poet of the world whose name and memory make this town honourable, may so influence your hearts that you will give freely all and more than you can spare, in generous tenderness, and with that “quality of mercy” which brings blessing beyond all wealth, and reward beyond all fame!
(_The above Appeal was spoken in French on the stage of the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre, Stratford-on-Avon, by Monsieur Combet de Larenne as follows_:)
MES CHERS AMIS,--Nous nous réunissons aujourd’hui en l’honneur de la France, la France, ce beau pays, ce pays aimé, à cette heure ravagé, désolé par le plus cruel ennemi qui ait jamais déshonoré la guerre.
On m’a demandé de m’adresser à vous, mes amis, à vous qui foulez la terre de Shakespeare, en faveur de ceux qui foulent celle aujourd’hui dévastée de Victor Hugo, et je considére comme un honneur, comme un privilége, et an même temps comme un devoir de plaider auprès de vous cette grande cause.
Je vous demande de vous recueillir, de considérer votre situation propre, de jeter un coup d’œil sur votre confort, vous, habitants de cette ville paisible, qui n’avez jamais connu les horreurs de l’invasion, de la destruction causées par le plus féroce des ennemis! Je vous demande de diriger votre pensée vers d’autres villes, vers d’autres villages, autrefois joyeux et prospères aujourd’hui ruinés, désolés, au des milliers de malheureux innocents ont été chassés de leur foyer et contraints de subir des misères plus terribles que toutes celles que vous pouvez imaginer!
Rappelez-vous aussi avec quel héroisme ils ont enduré leurs souffrances, avec quel courage, avec quelle force d’âme! Sans se plaindre, ils ont, pour le salut de leur patrie, refoulé dans le plus profond de leur être leurs chagrins et leurs angoisses, et quand l’Histoire parlera, le splendide et inébranlable patriotisme de la France, brillant d’une lumière étincelante, sera pour toutes les nations un noble et impérissable exemple!
Pensez, mes chers amis, un instant seulement aux angoisses qui vous étreindraient le cœur si vous deviez considérer votre vieille et belle église, le sanctuaire vénéré au repose Shakespeare, réduits en cendres par les bombes et par les obus de l’impitoyable ennemi allemand! vos maisons abattues, vos jardins dévastés, vos rues détruites par le fer et par le feu, et si vous deviez vous trouver vous-mêmes errants, hagards, sans espérance, sans refuge! vos petits enfants massacrés sous vos yeux!
Ces sant ces terribles supplices que la France endure! Vous avez la bonne fortune d’échapper à ces épouvantables calamités grâce au dévouement des braves qui combattent et qui donnent leur ire pour vous, et c’est a eux que vous devrez de ne jamais connaître une si abominable désolation! Ce ne sont pas seulement les enfants de l’Angleterre qui se battent pour vous: ce sont aussi les enfants de la France; ils sont frères dans la grande et terrible lutte actuelle; ils n’ont qu’une âme!
Nous qui sommes protégés dans notre île par le magnifique héroisme et par le dévouement d’hommes aussi splendidement grands, donnous une preuve de notre amour reconnaissant et de notre admiration pour la France, pour son incomparable ténacité, pour sa résolution indomptable, pour sa grandeur d’âme et pour son courage, et si peu que nous puissions les uns et les autres faire pour elle, faisons--le avec tout notre cœur, avec toute notre générosité! Sayons fiers et joyeux d’aider à reconstruire les villes détruites, les villages anéantis; essayons de donner un peu de confort aux malheureux éprouvés, en leur procurant un abri, en leur rendant un peu de la paix et de la prospérité perdues! Chaque obole allégera une part de souffrance! Nul placement ne peut rapporter d’intérêt plus divinement profitable que celui consacré à secourir les malheureux dans le besoin!
Donc, donnans san hésiter à l’héroique nation martyre! Elle est meurtrie de coups de lance, elle est flagellée et couronnée d’épines, mais sa foi invincible, son honneur et son patriotisme la conduitent à travers les ténèbres vers la lumière éblouissante d’un jour de gloire et de triomphe. Sa cause est la nôtre; notre cause est la sienne. Le moment est venu au nous qui ne sommes pas dans la fournaise de la lutte, nous pouvons venir en aide à la noble nation et lui donner les preuves de notre amour et de la profonde sympathie que nous ressentous pour elle.
J’espère ardement que le noble et vivant esprit du génial poète dont le nom et la mémoire illustrent cette ville, inspirera vos cœurs et que vous donnerez à l’œuvre française ce que vous pourrez, tout ce que vous pourrez, presque plus que vous ne pourrez, dans un élan de tendresse généreuse et avec cette qualité de miséricorde dont parle notre grand Shakespeare, cette qualité de miséricorde qui apporte une bénédiction supérieure à toute richesse, une récompense supérieure à toute renommée!
GLORY OF THE WORCESTERS
(_Written by request in aid of the Homes for Disabled Worcestershire Soldiers and Sailors_)
A TRIBUTE TO A FAMOUS REGIMENT
“You have deserved nobly of your country.” _Shakespeare._
Far down the long annals of past history we must look for the beginnings of the brave breed of Worcestershire men--the outcome of that ancient heroic blood which nourishes the flower of chivalry and strengthens the spirit to perform imperishable deeds of valour. Between a band of tenacious Britons holding the summits of the Malvern Hills, and a military guard and outpost of Roman warriors at Worcester itself, was seemingly produced that special type of Englishman who, ever since those far-away days, has been famous for courage and conquest. The native fighting force of the Gael, and the trained skill and prowess of the Roman are mingled in his being, and they make him, almost unconsciously to himself, a hero from his youth. Something of the salt of ocean, as well as of the salt of the earth, is in him, bracing his energies and hardening his muscle and, indeed, if we grope farther back in the dark recesses of time, we shall find geology suggesting that Worcestershire was once a sea, and the hills of Malvern, islands, and that the projecting bluffs on each side of the gaps in the opposite range were capes standing out from what some imaginative folk called the “Severn Straits,” so that we may be permitted to fancy the earliest progenitors of the Worcestershire breed were, perhaps, bold mariners, sailing round a veritable archipelago of islands, and skilfully steering their primitive craft into harbours sheltered by the very headlands which confront us to-day; or they might have been hunters, chasing the innumerable wild beasts which at one period infested the formerly dense “Forest of Malvern”--a forest that even in the Middle Ages stretched from the plains to the very tops of the hills. Be this as it may, our redoubtable men of Worcestershire must have been born and bred from strong beginnings; they come of a stock which knows no fear, no hesitation, no failure. The “Firm” fighters whom we delight to honour are the product of centuries of heroism. Heroism comes so naturally to them that they think little or nothing of it. Their pride is in each other--not in themselves individually; what is said of one man, must be said for the whole Regiment. Their spirit is expressed in Shakespeare’s lines,--
“In this glorious and well-foughten field We kept together in our chivalry!”
And though they have performed prodigies of valour in bygone great battles, as in the terrific “World War,” they make no boast of their proved mettle, nor have they called upon the country they so nobly serve for special consideration. It is with difficulty, and only by piecing dry and desultory bits of history together, that we are at all able to read their Golden Chronicle, or to realise the nature and worth of their splendid services, splendidly performed in defence of “This dear, dear land, this land of such dear souls--This England!”
* * * * *
We do not know with any certainty the character or military qualifications of their first Colonel, Thomas Farrington, who raised the Regiment in 1694, but we do know many of their brilliant exploits since that far-off day, especially in India, such as the carrying of the Delhi Gate and the storming and capture of Bangalore, which helped to bring about the vanquishment of that notable rebel, Tippoo Sahib; and though the overladen pages of historians find little space for special mention of special companies of soldiers, the Duke of Wellington’s praise of the Regiment after Badajos has not slipped notice, nor is it likely to be forgotten:--
“It is the best Regiment in this Army, has an admirable internal system and excellent non-commissioned officers.”
But the laurels of the past, thickly showered as they were on the “Worcesters,” are little to compare with those of the present, when valour is put to its utmost test, and when war weapons contrary to all international usage, more deadly and treacherous than ever were known before, are employed by the most inhuman and dishonourable of foes. We have only to recall the dramatic scenario of the village of Gheluvelt during the battle of Ypres, when the Worcesters literally saved the day. No page of romance was ever more thrilling! The Germans had carried the village, but the Welsh, true sons of “Gallant Little Wales,” remained, firing, holding their ground and refusing to admit any sort of defeat. Even when they had been given the order to retreat, they hung on with the grim tenacity of their Celtic ancestors, and it depended on the merest chance as to whether any company of men could advance to their assistance under the deadly fire of shrapnel which covered and cut them off from the rest of their line. But rescue was forthcoming--a mere handful of Worcesters--six hundred of them, were stationed but a mile off Gheluvelt. Their commanding officer gave the order--“Advance without delay and deliver counter-attack.”
“Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die!”
They responded, and rushed for about half a mile under the battering rain of shrapnel, going for two hundred yards without cover.
“Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Ran the Six Hundred!”
Shrapnel showered thick and hot in front of them, and on their right flanks the Bavarians poured bullets upon them from rifles and machine guns. In crossing the two hundred yards without “cover” they had one hundred casualties. But what did death or danger matter to the Worcesters? What have they ever cared for shots that have sped their brave souls to Heaven? They pressed on, up on the left of the splendidly stubborn Welsh, and opened fire with so much success that the foe was forced to retreat. The effect of their action was such that the position was entirely changed--the Germans fell back and the British line was reinstated. In Sir John French’s despatch it is written:--
“The recapture of the village of Gheluvelt at such a time was fraught with momentous consequences. If any one unit can be singled out for special praise it is the Worcesters.”
Quite recently, a British General, whose name, for some occult reason or other, was withheld from the public by the newspaper reporter, gave an enthusiastic account of the fine deeds of the Worcestershire Regiment on the Somme.
“The Worcesters have a wonderful record,” he said. “They have seen some of the hardest fighting of this war, and they have won new honours for a fine regiment, which already boasts some of the most glorious records on our military history.”