Part 4

He was the embodiment of kindness, and his consideration for others was unfailing. These characteristics manifested themselves so naturally that they were part and parcel of the man. Perhaps one story, that illustrates this side of his character better than any other, was told by Lady Laurier. Occasionally, in later years, an impression would arise in the household that some of the servants were not as attentive to duty as they might be, and, at times, a suggestion was made that it might be well to speak to them about some oversight. Sir Wilfrid’s invariable admonition was, “Oh, don’t do that. It’s bad enough to be a servant.” At other times, disappointment would be expressed at the speedy disappearance of some good things that had been provided for guests who were to arrive. If Sir Wilfrid chanced to hear any discussion on this topic, he would intervene with, “Well, after all, that is very natural; the servants are human like ourselves.” It was this constant regard for the feelings of others, and his lightning-like ability to adapt himself to any occasion, no matter how suddenly it might arise, that made him so different from other men, and constantly increased the love felt for him by those who were fortunate enough to be brought within the circle of his daily life.

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His marvelous memory and his grip upon the Parliamentary proceedings of over forty years was unexpectedly instanced in the House of Commons on September 7th., 1917. Senate amendments in the income tax bill were before the House, and the point of order was raised that the Red Chamber could not amend a money bill.

Hon. Speaker Rhodes, after hurriedly consulting authorities, found a case in May, 1874, in which Hon. Alexander Mackenzie, then Premier, had moved to accept the Senate amendments to an act respecting the appropriation of certain Dominion lands in Manitoba, stipulating that the action should not be accepted as a precedent.

“It so happens that I was a member of this House at the time,” said Sir Wilfrid, rising. “I was, of course, a very young member then, but I have a recollection of the debate that took place.” The veteran Liberal leader then recited in some detail the debate of forty-three years ago, differentiating between the land act then under discussion and the money bill now before the House. Meantime the Speaker had sent for the ancient Hansard, and subsequently placed the record before the House. It was in exact accordance with Sir Wilfrid’s memories, and both sides of the House paid its senior member the tribute of hearty applause.

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Many stories are told which illustrate the wide range of his information and his remarkable memory. On one occasion Sir Adolphe Chapleau, who was a member for many years of successive Conservative Cabinets, was relating his experience as a captain in the Union Army at the Battle of Antietam. A Union battery had taken a position in a corn field which masked its presence from the Confederates.

“When the proper moment came,” said Sir Adolphe, “the order to fire was given by General ——.”

“You are, I think, mistaken,” said Sir Wilfrid, apologizing for the interruption. “It was General ——, who gave the order.”

Sir Adolphe paused in amazement; then he said:—

“You are right. I was there, yet I had forgotten. You were not there, yet you remember. I will tell no more experiences.”

At another time, in Paris, in 1897, Sir Wilfrid and other Canadians, who had visited England for the Jubilee of Queen Victoria, were being conducted about the city. At the Arc de Triomphe, inscribed with the names of the great victories of the Napoleonic wars, an army officer undertook to give the dates of the different battles.

“Marengo,” he said, “was fought in July 14th., 1801.”

“Was it not 1800?” asked Sir Wilfrid.

“It was,” replied the officer, abashed. “Evidently we must go to Canada to learn French history.”

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Sir Wilfrid Laurier in a very real sense was passionately fond of children. He relaxed to them, he loved them, and they loved him. Children seemed to get closer to “the Chief” than anyone else. There were times, in the stress of big events, when matters of policy were to be determined, when situations had to be gauged and met, when Sir Wilfrid seemed to shut himself behind an expressionless face to do his thinking. His friends and lieutenants sought counsel from him then without success. No premature intimations were forthcoming. He became to all associated with him a seeker—not a giver—of information. One left his presence, having gone for guidance, with the conviction that he had laid bare his whole mind and thought at the delicate prompting of the Chief’s skilful interrogations, but realizing that the latter had communicated nothing.

At the time of the long naval debate and Parliamentary embroglio, when the threat of closures was in the air and all the strategy of statecraft was being brought into play by both parties, a Liberal caucus waited anxiously one winter morning for the advent of the leader. Newspaper-men who proceeded to the main entrance eagerly watching for his coming witnessed the septuagenarian spending the valuable moments prodding in the snow with his walking-stick and seeking to locate a “lost mitt” of an all-alone baby girl, who was crying pathetically at her loss and the cold. It was only when the missing mitten was found and restored and the child had been comforted that Sir Wilfrid turned his attention to the waiting caucus and the problems of the moment.

Those who accompanied the then Prime Minister on his memorable tour of the West in the summer of 1910 will never forget an incident while he was speaking at Edmonton. So great was the crowd that had assembled in Alberta’s capital that hot August afternoon to hear his message that all attempts to hold an indoor meeting were abandoned. Sir Wilfrid spoke from a balcony at the central corner of the main thoroughfare, and windows, balconies and streets were peopled with spectators. Suddenly, in the midst of his speech he paused, and gazing over the seething mass of humanity, pointed to one of the upper windows in a block diagonally opposite to the balcony from which he spoke. A midget was seated alone on the ledge, swinging her feet over the street far below. Anxiously he inquired: “Is that little one safe?” Amid all the display and acclaim Sir Wilfrid’s eyes were on the child in danger.

One of the most charming revelations of Sir Wilfrid’s thought for children and his understanding of them occurred on the same tour during a public reception at a temporary stand built upon a Manitoba prairie. An eight-year-old maid of the harvest field, with unadorned straw hat and bare feet, stood, like the publican of old, afar off. She looked on with wide, wondering eyes while a more fortunate little lady, in the fluffy, beribboned, spotless daintiness so dear to all daughters of Eve, be they big or little, gave the great man a beautiful bouquet of roses. She had seen him stoop and kiss her. Then she separated herself from the cheering crowd. She strayed to a spot on the prairie where she knew they grew. She gathered them herself, a little ill-assorted bunch of wild weed blossoms. Then she edged her way back through the throng. She had almost reached him as he was moving on, when a badged committeeman stopped her, and taking her by the sleeve of her patched print dress thrust her back. Tears sprang to her eyes.

For an instant the procession wavered. There was a break in the line. Sir Wilfrid turned. Unwittingly the little one found herself almost confronting him. Feverishly now she sought to squirm back into the oblivion of the crowd. But he had seen her. He stepped toward her, and the committeeman released his hold.

“Were you good enough to mean those flowers for me, little girl?” he asked with a smile. She thrust them toward him now half-frightened.

He bowed and took them. He kissed her. Then he drew a sprig from the bunch and fastened it upon the lapel of his coat. And when the great man mounted his car and waved his hat to the cheering hundreds there was one happy little girl who feasted her eyes upon a faded wild weed blossom still drooping on his breast.

Sir Wilfrid never lost a chance to “make up” to the little folk. He travelled on the first passenger train over the National Transcontinental from Fort William to Winnipeg, when construction gangs were still at work and the primitive condition of the country caused the workmen to be housed in log and frame shanties along the line, and took a remarkable interest in the several children who had accompanied their pioneer parents to the wild and picturesque outposts of coming civilization. He was the earliest riser on the train, and one morning, when the call of breakfast found him missing, there was some anxiety as to whether he had lost his way in an early morning walk through the bush. “No need for worry,” volunteered one, who knew his Chief well; “you’ll likely find him outside somewhere with the youngsters.” He was right. Sir Wilfrid was “playing catch” with a sturdy four-year-old behind a nearby shanty.

One day as the train lay in a switch near Humboldt a boy mounted the steps with a new birthday present, and explained that he wanted to take his first picture of “Mister Laurier.” A few moments later the tall figure was standing patiently on the track till the juvenile photographer “got it right.” The little fellow secured first-hand what scores of correspondents and local photographers had for weeks been struggling with crowds and erecting pedestals to obtain.

The devotion of the habitant of rural Quebec to Sir Wilfrid Laurier was well illustrated by an incident during the campaign of 1911. The Liberal leader was leaving Bonaventure station, in Montreal, very early one morning to proceed, via Coteau, to accept the nomination for Soulanges. At the station he passed a little girl, the daughter of a basket-laden woman, on her way to market. He stopped to pat the child’s head and exchange a greeting.

“Qui est l’homme?” (“Who is the man?”) asked the astonished mother of a bystander.

“Sir Wilfrid Laurier,” replied one of the group of newspapermen nearby.

The woman’s face was a picture. “En vérité?” (“Indeed, truly?”) she persisted, turning from one to another for confirmation.

When she was convinced she ran after the departing figure and stroked the sleeves of his coat as if it were something holy. Sir Wilfrid turned and shook her hand, ere the poor woman fled in confusion.

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His love of children was very sincere. On one occasion he was visiting a friend at his farm near Aurora. One evening he sat down to dinner, and after commencing, excused himself, went upstairs and shortly returned. Next day the little granddaughter of his host, who was also staying at the farm, said that, “Mr. Wilfrid” had forgotten to say goodnight to her the night before and that he had come up from dinner to kiss her goodnight and speak to her before she went to sleep.

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A man who visits Ottawa from time to time tells of an unexpected interview with Sir Wilfrid. Word was brought to him that the Liberal Chieftain wished to see him. The remainder of the story may be told in his own words:—

The friend who brought me the message made an appointment for me to visit Sir Wilfrid at two o’clock in the afternoon. When I reached his home on Laurier Avenue, he was waiting for me, and although I had never met him before, his welcome was so simple and kindly that I felt at home at once, and felt as if we had been life-long friends. In a sense we had been, for I had admired him since I had first seen him on a platform over thirty years ago. The acquaintanceship was at least complete on my side. I felt that I knew him very thoroughly, and his welcome made me forget that his knowledge of me must be very casual.

But though his greeting made me feel not only at ease but flattered and happy, it was not long before I noticed something that aroused an old-time critical attitude. It so happened that many years ago I had served my time as a dramatic critic, and had learned to notice the little niceties by which an actor achieves his affects. Now I do not wish to accuse Sir Wilfrid of being an actor, but if his methods were spontaneous and merely happened so, they were still worthy of Booth, Irving or Belasco.

I was shown into his sitting-room, where a grate fire was burning. After a most cordial greeting, in which he referred to some of my activities, which had attracted his attention and pleased him, he motioned me to a chair and when I had seated myself he sat down beside me. While standing he towered over me in height, but to my surprise, when he sat down I was looking down into his earnest, attentive face. I instantly noticed that the chair on which he sat was several inches lower than the one on which I sat. The stage trick was so apparent that although I did not betray the fact that I had noticed it, it made me keenly alert for anything else of the same kind that might happen. For over an hour we engaged in a most animated conversation. I had information which he wanted, and by his shrewd questions, but even more by his absorbed attention, which never wavered, he made me tell everything I knew about the subject in hand.

During the hour that I spent with him I could not help feeling his magnetic personality. His wonderful graciousness and flattering attention to every word I spoke made me realize that he was more compelling and captivating when met privately than when seen on the platform. No outburst of eloquence could surpass the delightful persuasiveness of his ordinary conversation.

Finally, he rose as if some thought had suddenly occurred to him. He walked over to the open fireplace, and stood with his back to me for a few moments. As he rose from the low chair on which he had been sitting and stood erect his height seemed more than mortal. Standing with his back to me, he seemed absorbed in profound thought, but presently he turned and his whole manner had changed. Instinctively I came to attention and stood before him. With the smile which made his followers adore him, he began abruptly.

“Now, Mr. ——, what I want to know is what constituency are you going to contest in the coming election?”

“Why!” I stammered. “I never thought of such a thing!”

“Ah, but I have thought of it,” said Sir Wilfrid.

I protested that I had no political experience and would probably bring confusion upon myself and the party, if I attempted to take a public part in politics. With a magnificent gesture he brushed aside my objections.

“But I want you with me in Parliament. I need you there!”

This compelled me to speak somewhat intimately of my personal affairs, and to make it clear to him that it was impossible for me to change the whole current of my life and take part in politics. My explanations convinced him, and the subject was dropped.

Though I was deeply moved by the compliment implied by his request, the dramatic critic was still alert at the back of my head and chuckling with inward appreciation. The scene had been worthy of Booth at his best. Cardinal Richelieu could not have surpassed him. As a matter of fact, I have always thought of him since then as “the Cardinal,” and have used the title when speaking of him to intimate friends.

Though I had other interviews with him, none of them equalled the first in the exquisite attention to detail in the stage setting—the low chair, the open fireplace and the turning towards me with infinite suavity and appeal to make his request.

But I do not wish to leave the impression that he was consciously an actor. He naturally made use of his surroundings for dramatic effect. It was not so much that he put on a grand manner as that it was impossible for him ever to lay it off. It was part of the man.

The same man also said:—

One of the last interviews I enjoyed strengthened the impression of the “Cardinal.” On the day on which he started to Winnipeg for that triumphal tour which raised such high hope before his defeat in 1917, I had an hour with him in his home. He received me in his study on the second floor. He had just been taking a nap to prepare himself for the fatigues of the journey. He had on a dressing gown of which I remember that the predominating color was a decorative figure in dull red.

The “Cardinal” received me with his customary graciousness, and for an hour we reviewed the chances of the campaign. When I was leaving him he followed me to the top of the stairs, and as he shook hands he said, with that peculiar serenity that was one of his outstanding characteristics in his later days:

“I may be defeated, but I will not be dishonoured.”

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On one occasion Sir Wilfrid spoke in the pavilion of the Horticultural Gardens. During his address hisses came from the audience when he mentioned a paper that had taken issue with him. Sir Wilfrid exclaimed, rebukingly, “How dare any man hiss when another has the courage of his convictions? I do not find fault with the paper because it does not agree with me. We Liberals have our differences, but that fact does not justify hisses.”

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Mention has been made of a certain similarity of viewpoint between Laurier and Gladstone. It is true that the great English Liberal was born to large opportunity. His magnificent intellectual gifts were enhanced by all that wealth and culture could do to polish and prepare perhaps the largest mind ever devoted to the service of the State since Parliamentary government began. From his earliest years he had consorted with world-figures—with men who were playing a great part on the great stage of the world. He was admirably trained and equipped at all points to play the part of the public man.

With Sir Wilfrid Laurier it was otherwise. He lacked the adventitious aids of fortune and station which smoothed the path of Gladstone as, until the last ten years, they have smoothed the path of every British Premier, with the solitary exception of Disraeli. The two great Liberal leaders were akin in spirit—and it is the things of the spirit that really matter. It is possible that there was in Sir Wilfrid Laurier, as certainly to the last there was in Gladstone, a certain strain of conservatism, using that word in no narrow party sense. Both belonged to the old school which valued fine manners, and, in the case of both, their fine manners were the outward and visible sign of minds that were rarely fine. But, in spite of this strain of conservatism, both were men imbued through and through with the spirit of genuine Liberalism. The life of each, to his last and latest moment, was a life of growth.

It is as impossible to set bounds to the growth of Liberalism as it is to set bounds to the aspirations of a nation. Those who would seek to reduce Liberal doctrines to formulae, to compress them into a creed, and who would say: “This is the Liberal faith, the whole Liberal faith, and nothing but this is the Liberal faith,” have small conception of the inherent function of Liberalism. That function is to keep abreast of the times, to be in harmony with the spirit of the times, and to be prepared to face the problems of the times with high heart and high hopes, with unconquerable courage and unfaltering faith. Liberal beliefs are no effete and petrified dogmas. They are a living, energizing, vitalizing force. They are that—or they are nothing.

It was Sir Wilfrid Laurier’s distinction, as it was Gladstone’s to take this view of Liberalism. It is true that he belonged, as he himself often said, to the school of Gladstone and Bright. But he did not hold that the tenets of that school must necessarily comprehend all truth. He realized that it is the spirit in which political problems are approached that constitutes the great difference between Liberalism and its opposite. Even he approached those problems in a spirit of sympathy with the aim and ideals of the common people. His ears had caught the tramp of the marching feet of the New Democracy, and to his heart the sound brought not fear but lofty hope. Old in years, but young in heart, he had an unquestionable faith in the honesty of this New Democracy and in its ability to solve its own problems in its own way. Not long ago, speaking of the fuller life for the people which might be expected as one of the outcomes of the war, he said that the England of the future would not be so picturesque or so dignified as the old England, but that it would be a far happier England for the masses of the people. It was the welfare of the masses which was ever nearest his own heart. He saw that all over the world the People’s Day was dawning. He saw it and was glad.

That Sir Wilfrid Laurier was a great, and will prove to have been a lasting, dynamic force in Canadian public life seems to us unquestionable. On the many years of material prosperity that Canada enjoyed while his hand guided the helm of State; on his great achievement in the realm alike of legislation and of administration it is beside our present purpose to dwell. These things are a part, an imperishable part, of the history of our country. But he did much, infinitely much, to give Canadians a sense of national unity and a sense of the dignity of nationhood. His efforts were often frustrated by the schemes of smaller men, with their appeals to racial prejudice and religious intolerance. But he himself steadily strove to weld the Canadian people into one harmonius whole. He certainly did not live to see the consummation of his work in this regard. But there will come a day when the people for whom he laboured will surely remember it and not with ingratitude.

Whoever he may be, the successor to Laurier must take no smaller view than this. Appeals to classes, to interests, and to sections—whether to farmers, to labour, to the manufacturers, or what not—are not the appeals that Liberalism makes. For that appeal is to all good citizens. It is to the civic sense of the whole country.

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Sir Wilfrid Laurier has not had an approach of an equal during the last generation. It is not easy to exactly define in what his personality consisted. Facial charm was certainly one of his greatest endowments. He had a remarkably fine and open countenance, with a finely chiselled and expressive mouth, and with a classic brow that was one of the gifts of the gods. No one ever forgot Sir Wilfrid who had the privilege of seeing or hearing him once. The late Sir George Ross once referred to him as “a picture gallery all in himself.” His voice was also one of his great endowments, and his gestures of hands and body were in perfect sympathy with the thoughts he had to express. Behind all this was a finely cultured intellect, and behind this again was a burning French-Canadian soul that added warmth to all his words, gave action and gesture and fire, and made him from a purely speaking standpoint one of the greatest and most finished orators of his time. But there was more even than this. No man can hold followers simply by words alone. Sir Wilfrid had a wonderfully sympathetic heart, a keen appreciation of the human qualities in man, and coupled with his own personal magnetism, there was a winsomeness that bound his followers to him as with hoops of steel.

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