Part 3

The princeliness of his bearing was that which impressed the British public most when he first went to Great Britain in 1897, as a guest at Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee. Richard Harding Davis, who described that event for “Harper’s Magazine,” said that in the procession to Westminster Abbey on that occasion, the two individuals, who, after the aged Queen herself, most aroused the enthusiasm of the myriad spectators, were Lord Roberts, the typical military hero, and Sir Wilfrid Laurier, whom most of them saw for the first time. He appealed to England as an essentially romantic figure; typical of what British Imperial prestige stood for—a man of foreign race, whom Britain’s wise colonial policy had made a distinguished servant of the Crown.

During the Royal tour of 1901, and at the Quebec Tercentenary celebration of 1908, one saw Sir Wilfrid in contact with the coterie of distinguished men that the present King, first as Duke of Cornwall and York, and later as Prince of Wales, brought with him to this country. To Canadians, whatever their politics, it gave a deep sense of satisfaction to recognize in their own Prime Minister, a man who seemed to embody the flower of civilization. Knighthood, though it be a bauble, never sat more fittingly on a modern man, than on him. Among all the men who constituted the Royal entourage, on both occasions, only one was his equal in this peculiar quality of high physical distinction, and that was Viscount Crichton, afterwards the Earl of Erne.

In so far as possible, Sir Wilfrid Laurier confined business to business hours. His habits did not vary. In the days of his premiership he rose each morning before eight o’clock, and after breakfast his private secretary would go to his library and the morning’s mail would be opened. Replies would be dictated without delay. By pursuing this policy Sir Wilfrid left himself free to receive callers and transact other business when he arrived at his office. Sir Wilfrid’s mail was large, but not so large as that received by many of his ministers. In his younger days he had an extremely large personal correspondence, but the passing away of many of his early associates reduced it considerably as years went by.

When he was Prime Minister, he usually arrived at his office at 10.30 a.m. Everyone in Ottawa knew Sir Wilfrid and his commanding figure always attracted attention. Once in his office there was usually a steady stream of visitors or deputations to be received. The deputations were usually heard after appointments had been arranged. In the afternoon the callers as a rule were not so numerous, and if the House was sitting there was frequently a meeting of the Cabinet Council before it came together at 3 o’clock.

In the late years of his premiership Sir Wilfrid avoided the night sessions whenever possible. Frequently he would occupy his seat for an hour after business was resumed in the evening and then go home leaving the fortunes of the Government forces in the hands of his ministers. When the House was not in session he usually left off business about 5 o’clock, sometimes being detained to a later hour by a meeting of the Cabinet Council.

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The late leader as an English-speaking parliamentarian, was the wonder of his day and generation, and one had to be well acquainted with both languages to notice the least error in his English grammar. Sir Wilfrid always tripped up, however, in the use of the English verbs “to do” and “to make,” which are one and the same “faire” in French, for very frequently he would make use of “do” when “make” was the proper English word, or vice versa. As a bilingual orator, it is safe to say, however, that Wilfrid Laurier stood alongside of such men as Real de la Valliere and ex-Premier Waddington of France, who spoke English and French. In the House of Commons Sir Wilfrid Laurier’s English was simply magnificent, and, in fact, his models were John Bright, William Ewart Gladstone, Pitt, Earl of Chatham, and others of that splendid galaxy of British statesmen, whose names so brilliantly illuminate so many of the most fascinating pages of the Empire’s history. He would, in fact, become so impregnated with English-expressed mannerisms that at the close of a long session of the House of Commons his English accent, when speaking his own mother tongue, would be distinctly marked. He was not always consistent, but was ever happy when pleading the cause of a minority or a lost cause, his speeches on the execution of Louis Riel, the Remedial Bill, and others, being amongst the most eloquent pages of the Commons Hansard. Sir Charles Tupper, when sitting opposite the late leader during his address on the amendment to reject the Remedial Bill, remarked to his desk-mate that if he had Laurier’s facility of speech in the two official languages of this country he would willingly sacrifice whatever reputation he possessed as a public man.

Sir Wilfrid, it has often been said, had the distinction of an old world seigneur. His stature, his irregular but strong features, his dome-like forehead, his calm, wide eyes, his benevolent smile marked him down as the last seigneur of old French Canada. But about this distinction of his there was nothing put on or affected. He was above all things natural, and joined with this was a simplicity and a bonhomie essentially Canadian in its lack of all starched frills. He was one of the easiest men to see at Ottawa. With him red tape did not exist.

Pomp and pretence, decoration and display did not appeal to this great Canadian. He had no use for the sycophant, the bore or the grafter.

His clear eye, stately carriage, firmly compressed lips and general demeanour revealed the born leader of men, and in any gathering he stood out in picturesque relief from those around him like a Saul among his fellows. His dignified and courtly bearing as he walked to his seat was that of the French Empire period. Like Gladstone, Disraeli and other great men, his dress was always distinctive without being obtrusive. At all times he looked every inch the type of a statesman and a leader that appealed to the imagination of a people. His great strength as a leader lay in his personal charm and manner. Between Sir Wilfrid and his followers there subsisted the most intimate relations. To see him flit from seat to seat in the House for a quiet chat with some Liberal member was to discover one source of his marvellous hold on the affection of the Liberal rank and file.

When not engaged in debate or in conversation with his colleagues, Sir Wilfrid generally spent his time reading. There were three books that had a singular fascination for him—the Authorized Version of the Bible, Shakespeare’s plays, and the Encyclopaedia. Like all great orators, Sir Wilfrid drew freely from the Bible for illustrations, and his speeches were replete with passages whose imagery suggested the sublime source of their inspiration. In the House he stood in a class by himself as a Parliamentarian.

When about to speak in the House he rose slowly, impressively. Proceeding with his argument, his gestures were not wasteful. He would point, perhaps, with the extended index finger of his outstretched right hand. Sometimes, this finger he held rigidly straight, and at other times crooked a little. And somehow by this slight change Sir Wilfrid conveyed a wholly different significance to his gesture.

When Sir Wilfrid came to a climax he would square his thin shoulders, throw his head gloriously back and upwards and look out over the listening benches as from a conning tower. He would even perhaps cease his vibrant utterance for an instant to gain an added emphasis to his words.

When annoyed little fine wrinkles would corrugate his forehead. Otherwise the whole of his personality was absolutely under control. His voice, though slurring, was penetrating, and ate its way into your attention by reason of its peculiarly blurred timbre. It was marked by an even consistency. His speeches were always animated and winning, but the speed at which he travelled never changed much, nor did he go to extremes of inflection. Sometimes he would be quietly humorous. Where he shone was in repartee, for he was always mentally alert and keen.

Whether he spoke in English or in French, it was the same Laurier, the orator of the “grand style.” And like all speakers of this type, Sir Wilfrid was a past master in the coining of apt phrases that stick in the popular imagination. For example, he once called Ottawa the “Washington of the North.” Ever since then the label has stuck. And so, in a hundred other cases, Sir Wilfrid has given journalists and those that come after him the necessary turn of thought, the needful word. His “grand method” was simply the outcome of his own nature—a nature at once distinguished and noble. And consequently not even his bitterest enemies ever charged him with doing a “mean” or “shabby” thing. As soon as you set eyes on him in the House you recognized that there was a man above buying or selling, a man with a code of honour, a man with a dignity. So his “grand” manner was but the visible and outward sign of this.

But this “grand” manner had nothing ponderous, heavy or deliberate about it. Laurier was French in his vivacity and finesse, in the quickness and brilliance of his repartee. He was the master of the quick, swift way in which he slipped off into the heart of his speeches. A handful of compliments or a short, sharp, stinging sarcasm; a gentle musical phrase, to jog someone’s memory, or a word of aroused dignity, and Sir Wilfrid was easily racing along at full speed. And in his speech he had Gallic lucidity. Everything served to strengthen his argument. He not only appealed to his auditors’ reason, but also to their emotions—and that was the secret of his popularity. He had the gift of being able to charm, move and stir. And it all perhaps was achieved more by his personality than by what was actually said. His mere appearance could raise enthusiasm.

The extraordinary thing was that no one seemed to remember that he was not speaking in his own tongue. Indeed, few of the English-speaking representatives have ever attained to a vocabulary half as large as his.

Sir Wilfrid always looked his part. He was one of those few public individuals, whose actual appearance did not disappoint you. The striking face, with its broad, lofty forehead; its tufted crown of white hair, its long, prominent nose, indicative of dominance and power, its alignment of chin and mouth sent your mind irresistibly back to memories of other great statesmen. It was the face of an aristocrat, while the mind belonged to the aristocracy of democracy. His eyes were set wide apart and they gazed steadily out at you. As a rule, his face was immobile, but when his eyes half closed, it was quick to break into a smile, the wrinkles running upward on his face like little waves succeeding one another on a beach. When listening or following a debate, Sir Wilfrid would lean forward with elbows rested on his desk and one hand up to his ear to convey the sound better.

As a rule, he wore a black frock coat with vest, the lapels lined with a white frill. His collar was straight and high, while his tie was so big and broad that you could not see his shirt. It literally choked up the opening of his vest with its splendour. The creases of his trousers were always perfect. His boots were the old-fashioned elastic-sided ones.

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Strangers coming into the gallery of the House of Commons for the first time always looked for Laurier. He knew it and rather enjoyed the limelight. It was his custom to enter the House just a moment before opening hour, and as he passed down the corridors of Parliament on the way from his office to the Chamber it was frequently through a lane of people, every one of them watching him intently. He would pass along straight as a guardsman, serene, dignified and quite unmoved.

In the Chamber he was much given to visiting. From his seat in the front row, immediately opposite his Parliamentary opponent, Sir Robert Borden, he would move back among his more humble supporters and spend hours in earnest conversation with them. He knew his men individually, as none but Sir John Macdonald ever knew a following. Laurier had undoubtedly learned much from his former great rival. There were little mannerisms and tricks of speech and gestures that old-timers around Parliament declared he got only from Sir John.

He loved to use that word “Grit,” especially in rural ridings, where he knew its effect on old-time voters. And he took a sort of impish delight in always characterizing his political opponents as “Tories,” rather than as Conservatives, or even as Liberal-Conservatives. He knew that in the minds of some of his hearers the use of the word “Tory” would convey an idea of class privilege and opposition to democratic ideas and movements. It was surprising, too, how he would adapt his utterances to his audience. It might be the same speech he had given elsewhere the day before, but he knew that his audience would differ, and little touches were added here and there that gave it individuality and touched responsive chords in his hearers. When stumping the country in an election campaign his stories and illustrations were always simple. The historical comparisons and the more subtle quotations were reserved for Parliament. When he spoke in Woodstock in the election of 1911, he told a story of an Irish friend of his, a conductor on the Montreal-Quebec train, for whom he brought a black thorn from Ireland in 1897. He had the conductor friend’s name put on it and when they met, presented him with the shillelah.

“He was profuse in his thanks,” said Sir Wilfrid, and he wound up by saying, “May Heaven be your bed, but may you be kept long out of it.”

“Now I hope that some day heaven may be my bed,” added the Liberal Chieftain, “but I don’t think I am ripe for it yet. I hope Heaven won’t be my bed until I have one more tussel with the Tories.”

There were two Tory rural members of the House of Commons, for whom Sir Wilfrid always had a tender spot in his heart. One of these was the late Mr. Peter Elson, member for East Middlesex. The Liberal leader would frequently cross over the floor of the House for a chat. The other was Mr. Oliver Wilcox, member for North Essex, also since passed away. Mr. Wilcox had a rollicking manner in his Parliamentary debating that would at times convulse the whole House, and those who were there in those days, will long recall the way in which he would point a finger at the Liberal leader, refer to him always as “My honorable friend, the leader of the Liberal Opposition,” and endeavour to convince Sir Wilfrid that he was a hopeless political sinner. Sometimes after one of these encounters they would meet outside in the corridor and walk away arm in arm.

Speaking to a young newspaper friend, he said, “Every young man ought to read the works of Gibbon.” He was enthusiastic, too, when he spoke of Parkman’s writings. “Read Parkman, and you will be proud of both races in Canada,” was his comment.

There were dull hours in the House of Commons when Sir Wilfrid had to remain on duty, ready for any emergency. Hours that were tedious, or would have been tedious, but for his little custom of sending to the Parliamentary Library for the English dictionary. The House used to smile when the page would come in with the big volume and place it on Sir Wilfrid’s desk. He would open it at a certain page and then begin to run down the columns carefully and slowly, adding to his store of English words. Is it any wonder that he possessed such command of the English tongue in public utterances? He rarely read anything but the dictionary in the House of Commons, not even the newspapers; but it was very evident that outside of the House he looked over all the important dailies and read widely in general literature. A newspaper friend, who called on him the day after the landslide of 1911, found him seated comfortably in his room, reading a life of the Dowager Empress of China. She, too, had known the experience of power passing away, and perhaps, the Liberal Chieftain was finding some of the philosophy of the Orient applicable to his own situation.

In his Parliamentary addresses he was always apt in the use of quotations and historical illustrations. He had read widely in both British and French histories, and in American history as well.

His influence among his followers was due to his long Parliamentary experience, but even more to the grace and courtesy of his manner, and his actual kindness. He was never abrupt, never too busy to be polite, never forgot that without his most humble associates he would fail to accomplish his purposes. Those who think of political life as a continuous strife, would be surprised indeed, if they knew of the close friendship that existed between Sir Wilfrid and some of his opponents on the opposite side of Parliament. He was elusive in many ways, difficult to measure by our accepted standards. For many years to come the recollection of his personality has impressed itself upon audiences and upon individuals in every part of Canada will remain to keep his memory green.

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A member of Sir Wilfrid’s last Cabinet, who, as a boy, greatly admired his Chief, contributes these reminiscences:

When Sir Wilfrid first became prominent it was his custom, while Parliament was in session, to go for a walk on Sunday afternoons, in the winter, on the north side of Rideau Street, and a number of boys, whose fathers were Liberals, would hurry along Sussex Street, and crossing over to the south side of Rideau Street, would walk along that side in perfect decorum and happiness as they watched the progress of the man on the other side of the street, whose name was heard more frequently than any other in their homes. Sir Wilfrid’s appearance and dress on those Sunday afternoons are still remembered. He wore a fur cap of plucked otter, a Persian lamb coat, and always carried a cane. His hair was wavy and dark, his face generally lit up by a smile, and his carriage was erect and dignified. He never seemed to be in a hurry. Usually, one of his Parliamentary colleagues was with him, and it was a matter of much interest for the boys on the opposite side of the street to watch the different ways in which Sir Wilfrid and his companion returned the salutes of passers-by. Needless to say, the companion, no matter whom he might be, always suffered in the comparison.

With the boys and young men who haunted the galleries of Parliament during the Franchise, the Riel, and the Home Rule debates, Sir Wilfrid was a hero. While charmed by his never-failing courtesy, they took him still closer to their hearts when, on a memorable night, in a later debate, he repelled the clumsy patronizing of an opponent with the withering phrase that “Quebec does not want his whining pity!” That flash revealed human nature that his youthful admirers in the gallery could readily understand, and they loved him all the more for it.

He was a great lover of birds, and on a beautiful day in September, 1911, just prior to addressing a great outdoor meeting, he was sitting on a lawn with several friends. The weather was unusually warm, and there were a number of orioles, and other birds, flying about the grounds, and, occasionally, singing in the trees. Sir Wilfrid noticed them, and, taking off his hat, he laid it on the grass, and, as if he had no cares or thoughts in the world, except for the homely things of nature, he told about the birds that used to come each spring to the woods around Arthabaskaville, and described minutely their plumage. Then he recalled that from time to time certain kinds of birds would disappear, and others would come in their places, and that, after a lapse of a few years, it was difficult to find any of the birds with which he had been familiar when a young man. His whole conversation indicated how close to nature he must have been in his youth, and how keen his powers of observation always were.

In the same way, he was an intense lover of trees. He took great pride in the shade trees of the city of Ottawa, and was always hurt when he saw any of them mutilated or wantonly destroyed.

One night before the last election he engaged in a chat about world conditions as they then existed. By degrees he became absorbed in the subject, and drew such a rapid and comprehensive world-picture that one could not help regretting that the whole Dominion was not listening to him. Referring to Russia, he contrasted the condition of the people there with the condition of the people in the United States, and remarked that perhaps the most extraordinary thing that had taken place within his life time was the effect produced by the general spread of education in the United States. In illustration of this, he pointed to the fact that, while it was the custom for people, when he was a young man, to sneer at the college professor in the neighbouring Republic, the Americans now had in Woodrow Wilson a college professor for their President. He went on to describe conditions in Russia, and deplored the fact that, as there were at least one hundred millions of illiterate people there, it would be impossible to effect a change, except in one of two ways, namely, by the spread of education—which would take too long—or by the appearance of another Napoleon. Thereupon a guest remarked that, for the sake of ending the world war, it was to be hoped that another Napoleon would soon appear. Sir Wilfrid made a slight gesture with his right hand, and, shaking his head, said, “No, it is not time. There were 1,000 years between Caesar and Charlemagne, and there were 800 years between Charlemagne and Napoleon. You see, it is not yet time for another Napoleon to appear.” Could anything be more graphic or concrete than this rapidly sketched picture?

In some respects, he was the most conservative of men. For instance, he was very reluctant to approve any changes in the rules or procedure of Parliament. He had found them sufficient for all purposes for nearly fifty years, and he looked up with a glance implying both surprise and a certain degree of opposition, when anyone proposed a change of any kind. Not that he would refuse to discuss it, or withhold his approval because a discussion of a suggestion of the kind usually wound up by his saying, “Well, I will be guided by whatever our friends may think.”

Another indication of his conservative inclination in matters of dress may be pointed out. Those who have been familiar with him for years, and even those who did not know him personally, but who have seen his photographs, will have noticed that he usually wore a scarf pin in the shape of a horse-shoe. While it decorated his ties of different colour, it never seemed out of place. In the same way he never wore a chain on his watch, and this habit he continued down to the end of his days. Even in these little things there was proof of his being different from other men.

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