AFTER I had been to the front that first time--I went back on more than
one occasion and carried out similar programmes—my mind was held by one
supreme purpose. That was to aid my country and the Allies in every way
possible. What I had been privileged to see behind the lines inflamed me
with a tremendous zeal. So I came home to London and renewed my hospital
work, my lecturing, and my visitations of the military encampments with as
much energy as I could throw into the task. Yet anything I could do seemed
so small, so ineffective, compared with the stupendous job our men were
carrying on in France, that I again began to chafe for a more active share
in the fight. I do not think it would be advisable on my part just to
say how the suggestion came about—war diplomacy
is a ticklish thing to deal with even ten years after the event— but a few
months after my return from France I was approached to know whether I
would go to America and tell the people there the simple story of what I
had seen in the war zone. Not as a propagandist, purely and simply, but as
an actual observer. America, it was well known had been over-run by all
kinds of special pleaders, and these had been stating their case too often
with an eye on what the United States had to give in a material sense. So
much had this been the case that many Americans had grown tired and
suspicious, and small blame to them, too.
The project was discussed from
all its angles. When I was asked my own considered viewpoint I said that I
did not think I should go to America and get audiences simply to lecture
them. If I went at all I should go as an artiste, doing
my work as I had done for many years but always accepting any opportunity
of putting the British case before the people of the States. Curiously
enough at the very time the question of my going over the Atlantic was
being discussed in high diplomatic quarters an urgent invitation arrived
from my friends in New York. Here was a way out of any difficulty. I
cabled back at once stating my willingness to go on condition that I was
allowed a free hand to speak as much as I cared to, quite apart from my
professional duties, on Britain's part in the titanic struggle. This was
agreeable to my friends both in London and in New York and a few days
later it was announced that the American Y. M. C. A. had invited me to
make use of their great organization to address the youth of America.
So once more I found myself on the Atlantic. The U-boat
menace was very real at this time and I remember we spent one or two most
anxious days on board the Mauretania, especially when we were running
without lights at night. I had been under shell-fire in France several
times but it always seemed to me that there was something tangible, as it
were, inland warfare—at least you had a chance of being missed or passed
over! At sea, on the other hand, with invisible and swift Death hissing
its way towards you from beneath the waves a full ship-load of innocent
and helpless people might be launched into Eternity in a few moments.
Bullets and shells, it appeared to me, were inhuman enough; torpedoes an
invention of the Devil himself! I never was at ease while on board ship
all through the war years. But though I crossed the Atlantic and the
English channel many, many times between 1914 and 1918 I never saw an
enemy submarine at close quarters.
I fired the
first shot in my new American campaign at a great gathering in the
Hippodrome, New York. It was held on a Sunday evening and the big building
was crowded to the doors. The platform party embraced many notable and
important figures in the civic and business life of the city. There was
also a good sprinkling of well-known British men and women present. I
rather forget now just the lines I followed in my speech—the longest one I
had ever deliv ered in my life up till that night—but I told them all
about my trip to the war zone and laid special emphasis on the work done
at home by the women of Britain, France, and Belgium. My idea was to give
American womanhood some idea of the responsibility that lay before them
when their own men went to the war. All my life, at all events since I
first started going to America, I have had a very genuine regard for the
women of America. They are the most purposeful and completely competent
women in all the world and well I realized how vital it was to have them
heart and soul behind their husbands and sons in the field. Throughout my
campaign I addressed myself particularly to the women. That opening night
in New York they listened to me with rapt attention; I could perceive many
wet eyes as the women followed my stories of feminine bravery and
sacrifice across the sea. And how they laughed, too, at my tale of the
English woman scrubbing the floor of a Red Triangle hut at a base in
France. "Hi, there!" she called out to a young soldier passing along the
hut. "Bring me some more water, will you?" The young man stopped, looked
down at the woman in astonishment and replied, "My good person, I'm an
officer. Dash it all, you can't address an officer like that." Quick as
lightning came the retort from the woman with the scrubbing-brush in her
hand, "Dash it all, man, I'm a Duchess."
The
significance of the story was fully appreciated. After the laughter had
died down I pointed out that that was the spirit in which all our people,
rich and poor, high and low, were conducting the war. And then, towards
the dose of my remarks, I warned the women of America that soon the long
lists of casualties would be flashing to them beneath the tides, spoke of
the heart-pains and the tragedies that were bound to come, and counselled
them to clench their teeth and hold fast to the purpose of victory. This
New York war rally in the Hippodrome was the grandest meeting I have ever
addressed in my life. I shall never forget it. The papers published full
reports and I was inundated with requests for speeches from all over the
country. Before leav. ing New York I was invited to speak outside the Sub
Treasury on the occasion of a big Victory Bond demonstration. The chairman
on that occasion was U. S. Vice-President Marshall, if my memory serves me
rightly, and we sold over half a million dollars' worth of Bonds in a few
minutes. It was estimated that the crowd amounted to fully two hundred
thousand people. The enthusiasm was so intense that my emotion got the
better of me and I cried for very joy to think that this mighty nation was
now with us in the conflict. If at times I had begun to despair of the war
being soon over I now felt that complete victory could not long be denied
the Allies, supported and encouraged by the soul and the endless resources
of America. That great surging, cheering, high-spirited concourse at Wall
Street did me more good than anything else for months. I was so affected
that I had to go home to my hotel and lie down for an hour or two.
Of course every town I visited did not respond so
readily or so whole-heartedly as did the people of the vast commercial
metropolis. Here and there my efforts were frowned upon. I was again told
that I was not wanted in my capacity of British booster. Open hostility
was shown to my work in some places. Misunderstandings and criticisms met
me at many turns. Even newspapers which had been marvellously kind to me
as an artiste were severe in their condemnations of my war speeches.
Threats were levelled against me in cities where the German element was
strong. But I felt like a soldier; I was "carrying on?' for the sake of my
country and my dead son. Occasionally I was encouraged in a very difficult
task by incidents which proved to me that, after all, America was really
with the Old Country in sentiment and ideals and in her determination to
put a stop to the Bloody Thing. A poem which appeared about me in one of
the New York weekly journals gave me much pleasure at the time. I came
across it a few days ago when rummaging among my American documents and
readers of my memoirs may forgive me if I reprint it here.
THE FIERY CROSS (Dedicated to Harry Lauder)
He stood behind the footlights and he set the crowd
a-laughing With the same old crooning chuckle that we loved in other
years, And only those who knew could guess the grief behind the
daffing But for those who did, the laughter had a secret salt of
tears. Then at the last he came out in his grass-green coat and bonnet
With his gaudy tartans coloured like a garden in the sun, The same
quaint little figure—but a different face was on it When he sang about
the laddies that so well had fought and won.
A face lined hard with furrows where the plough of pain
had driven. Blue eyes that now were shadow-set through many a
sleepless night, The face of one who more than life ungrudgingly had
given Who called on us to do as well—and, ah I we owned his right.
We saw in him the Fiery Cross of Scotland, charred and gory And our
spirit burned within us to the challenge that he gave, For the player
was a prophet as he spoke his people's glory, "We're a wee land, and a
puir land, but, by God above, we're brave."
Please do not think for a moment that I take the liberty of reprinting
these verses because I agree with their all too flattering picture of
myself at the time of which I am writing. But they certainly represented
the spirit in which I appeared before the American public in 1917. The
authoress signed herself "Amelia J. Burr," but I do not know her and never
met her. Many different people sent me copies of the New York Outlook in
which the poem appeared and the mere fact that they did so showed that my
efforts were being generally appreciated—and understood.
My theatre work was interspersed daily with attendances
at Rotary and Kiwanis Club meetings, with trips to U. S. Training Camps,
or cantonments as they were called, and with private functions all
convened for the pursuit of war aims and movements. My Sundays were given
up entirely to entertaining the troops in training. Here I would like to
say a word or two concerning the magnificent young manhood which
represented the first fruits of the United States war effort. These boys
were simply wonderful. Every man- jack of them was a study in physical and
mental fitness. They filled me with intense admiration, reminding me of
the early Scottish regiments that had marched away to battle three years
before. And their spirit was as high as their bodies were clean and strong
and handsome. With all the American soldiers I was a great favourite I am
glad to say and they sang my choruses with lusty glee and vim. I wrote a
song specially for "the boys" and taught them to sing it as well. It was
entitled "Marching With the President." It was sung in every camp all over
the States and also in France later on.
To see
young America in training for the art and practice of war, as I saw her in
these months of '17, was to realize something of the greatness of this
robust, vital, energetic, and pulsating nation. Probably no American
citizen, with the exception of several in high places, had half the
opportunities I had of seeing the flower of her young army. Here were
indeed Lindberghs in the making--many of them. Clear-eyed, clean-mouthed,
frank of face, heads held high; I was as proud of them as though they had
been wearing the tartans of my own land. And when they went to France they
fought with tremendous gallantry as I knew they would. Never mind who won
the war! If you really ask me that question I will tell you. I was asked
it once at a big social affair in New York two or three years ago and the
answer I made them is the answer I will give you now—."After long and
serious consideration of the whole subject I have come to the conclusion
that the English and the French and the Belgians and the Americans all
admirably assisted Scotland to win the war!"
The National Security League was one of the most important organizations
in the States during the war. It was my privilege frequently to co-operate
with the League in its mass meetings. It was a real "ginger" body and a
lady who had much to do with its success was Mrs. Preston (formerly Mrs.
Grover Cleveland) whose work as secretary was tireless and indefatigable.
She and I had many long "cracks" together about the League and its labours.
There can be no doubt that the N. S. L. rendered service which for
precision and thoroughness can seldom have been equalled in a national
emergency. Altogether I found America, during the latter months of 1917,
in a grip of war fervour I had never thought, even dimly, possible. This
fervour conscripted industry, intellect, -Wealth, time and devotion of
men, women and children in a manner which amazed me then and has amazed me
ever since. Happy shall I always be that I was able to lend a humble hand
in this period in the history of the country. Hail, Columbia!
This tour took me from coast to coast. I also spent
several weeks in Canada, going right up to Montreal from Boston. I was
now, as you may imagine, worked up to a white heat of enthusiasm and
patriotism. I felt that it was now or never. I knew the situation at home.
I had just come from the States where a wave of war effort, tremendous and
unparalleled in its own way, was sweeping everything before it. It had
been arranged that I should address the Montreal Rotarians immediately on
my arrival. I looked forward with immense delight to renewing my intimate
and enjoyable relations with my Canadian friends. I had a lot to tell
them, too, of the immortal bravery of their own Canadian troops at the
front—soldiers who had carved their names in letters of Fire and Death
while serving with one or other of the British corps on the Somme, the
Ancre, or in Flanders. It was common knowledge in Europe that the
Canadians had proved amongst the very best and most gallant fighters in
all the dramatic happenings of the past eighteen months. Britain was
ringing with their exploits. With all this on my mind I was distressed, on
reaching Montreal, to find so many young and splendid fellows stroll- ing
about the streets. I could not believe my eyes as I walked down St. James'
Street and observed crowds of what I deemed to be eligible men in mufti.
Naturally, the first thing I did, on rising to my feet
at the Rotarian lunch, was to make reference to the impression that was
uppermost in my mind. I did not stop to think of any racial or religious
or political undercurrents among the French Canadians. As a matter of
honest fact I knew of none. I am no politician, thank God, and I have
always said just what I thought at most times, thank God again. But when I
began to speak at that meeting about Mother France pouring forth her
dearest blood from every vein and asked if the French blood in Canada was
not mingling as freely as it ought with that of the Motherland I sensed
that I had ventured on dangerous ground. My speech created a furore. What
I said was said in all innocence, with one desire only in my heart—to
strengthen the hands of those who were fighting for the security and the
sanctity of human rights. But I was entirely misjudged. The Montreal
newspapers did not do anything to lessen the turmoil my speech had
created; one or two of them fanned the flames and openly accused me of
referring to the citizens of the town in terms of opprobrium and race
prejudice. The excitement was terrific. By tea-time the town was in a
swirl of rage at Harry Lauder and his insolent speech. Aggressive callers
at the hotel and angry ringers-up on the telephone showed how much I had
annoyed certain citizens. I was casually threatened with bodily punishment
for my presumption. My friends advised me to stay indoors for the rest of
the night and some of them implored me to cancel my week's show at the
theatre. Both pieces of advice I refused to act upon. Instead I put on my
kilt and Balmoral bonnet and walked alone as far as St. Catherine Street
and St. Lawrence Boulevard. I was not molested in any way but I had to
listen to many awkward and nasty observations. Guards were posted outside
the place where I was living and I was told that troops were being held in
readiness to cope with any outbreak that might take place. At eight
o'clock I drove down to His Majesty's Theatre and had a great reception
from a large crowd. The theatre itself was full to the doors and after my
performance I made my usual speech but refrained from adding any fuel to
the fire I had unwittingly kindled earlier in the day.
All this matter of the Montreal adventure I refer to
now so that I can officially and emphatically deny that there was anything
behind the remarks which caused such a sensation. As God is my witness I
had not the slightest intention of coming across anybody's fingers or
interfering with religious or political affairs or complications. I am
getting to be an old man now and as my record and reputation are every-
thing to me I wish them to bear no stain of prejudice or unworthy motive,
particularly in the work I attempted to do during the Great War.
From Montreal to Toronto. Any fear that I might have
forfeited the affection of my Canadian admirers was dispelled for ever
from my mind by the extraordinary reception I received there. And in every
other city in Canada throughout that tour the same story was told—"We are
with the dear Old Mother Country to the last man and the last dollar!"
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