Chapter II: Part 2

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.

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

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.”

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

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.”

* * * * *

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.”

* * * * *

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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He did not ignore the material side of nation-building. He realized the importance of the country’s natural resources and the necessity for industrial development; but it was of the very nature of the man that he should think most of the happiness of the people. He saw in Canada the opportunity for a wonderful experiment in nation-making. He realized that wealth and prosperity and national glory are not everything. His ideal of a great nation was that of a free, contented, united and intelligent people, living at peace with each other and with the world. He sought to break down the barriers of prejudice and bigotry and ignorance that those of different races and creeds and parties might live together on terms of harmony and good will. His love was for people rather than for material things, and he attracted the love of people in return. No man in Canada ever attracted a more generous or more genuine measure of love. This was shown by the spontaneous display of personal feeling which his death called forth. And he was loved by the people, not for any great thing he had done, but rather because of what he was.

It was Laurier’s desire, too, that Canada should have an opportunity to develop according to the genius of her own people, free from entanglements with old-world feuds and passions. The nations of Europe were the victims of European history and tradition. They lived in an atmosphere of war and strife. So far as it was possible he would have saved Canada from the influence of this old-world spirit. He hesitated about participation in the early days of the South African war. He was thinking of Canada and the Canadian people. When the present war broke out he saw that it was a struggle to the death between civilization and barbarism, and he did not hesitate for a moment as to Canada’s duty. But he was not prepared to go to the length of supporting conscription. To him conscription meant militarism, and he dreaded militarism as he hated it.

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The Canadian nation stood grief-stricken around that august bier. The hero of so many a gallant fight had succumbed to Death, the last great enemy of all—and even that enemy came to him like a friend.

“When a great man dies,
For years beyond our ken,
The light he leaves behind him lies
Along the paths of men.”

So it will be with Sir Wilfrid Laurier. Intrinsically and essentially he was a great man—great in natural gifts, great in vision, great in heart, great in soul, and “as the greatest only are, in his simplicity sublime.” Great men, it has been well said, are like great mountains. One cannot fully judge of their real grandeur at close range. So it may well be that we shall have to interpose some distance of time between Sir Wilfrid Laurier and ourselves before we can gauge, with anything approximating to adequacy, how much a bigger man he was than any of his contemporaries.

To the end he was “the greatest fighter of them all.” Forty odd years of strenuous public life brought no slackening in the vigour of mind or energy, nor any discouragement as to the ultimate triumph of the principle for which he always stood. There is an elixir of perpetual youth in a good cause and in a good fight.

“I have endeavoured to meet success without elation and reverse without discouragement,” he said to his followers in Parliament in May, 1914, in acknowledging their testimonial to him on the completion of forty years of continuous membership in the House of Commons. The “father of Parliament,” in point of length of service as in point of ripe judgment, oratorical graces and public experience, he remained, in Opposition as in power, an optimist and an unflagging worker. During the fifteen years of his Premiership Sir Wilfrid Laurier, with the exception of his Imperial Conference trips and his western tour of 1910, and during election campaigns, was scarcely ever away from his post at the Capital. As leader of His Majesty’s Loyal Opposition he was daily in his office attending to a large correspondence, looking after the details of party organization, receiving many callers who sought advice or assistance, and keeping abreast, through books and periodicals, of all national problems and world movements.

For half a century Wilfrid Laurier fought the battles of Canadian democracy—for responsible government, for social justice, for equality of opportunity, for freedom for the common people—the ordinary, everyday folk—in the age-long fight between entrenched and aggressive self-interest and altruistic common interest.

“The happiness of the masses of the people is the underlying consideration of government,” he said to the students of the University of Toronto, in an address in December, 1913.

And in the policies which he advocated there was proof of his sincere belief in the ideal of government he thus stated. He led the fight for the revision of the tariff downward, so that greedy men might be prevented from taking undue tolls from their fellow-men, so that combines and corporations should be curbed when they attempted “to fix prices one way to the producer and another way to the consumer.”

Addressing a great gathering of new foreign settlers in western Canada as Premier, in welcoming them and bidding them partake of the advantages of British citizenship, he feelingly and significantly alluded to this step in his career.

“I live myself in this land,” said he, “as an example of the breadth and freedom of British institutions. It is an illustration of that thing upon which the British system is based. I am not of English blood. My ancestors were of the French race. Yet I am acknowledged as the leader of the Parliament of Canada, irrespective of the blood in my veins. Twenty-two years ago I took the leadership of the Liberal party. Friends came to me after Mr. Blake’s retirement and offered me the leadership. I hesitated. I told them that I thought it was not fitting that I, coming from the race of the minority, worshipping with the minority, should accept it. In reply they told me that the Liberal party knew neither race nor creed. They said: ‘Whoever is worthy of our land is worthy of our leadership.’ And I accepted.

“The race is open to all. Any man may come to this land who is willing to work. It matters not who his father was or from what land he came, or at what altar he bows, he can aspire to the best and the highest this land has to offer. Whatever a Briton-born can claim he may claim. British institutions know no difference whatever.”

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He had great differences to reconcile, and he had more especially to meet and overcome the presumptions which would naturally bar the way to leadership and popularity in the case of a public man whose native tongue was French, but who aspired to rule a community predominantly English in blood and speech.

It is a tribute to the greatness of his character and to his memory to reflect that even in Opposition he was the great outstanding figure in the political life of the country. He did not need office to clothe himself with the dignity that came to a public man. And he was equally a political force in or out of office. There was a glamor that hung over him that attracted men to him. He was the very incarnation of the political aspirations of thousands of men and women, who never saw him in the flesh. To his own immediate followers and political friends he was the proverbial guide, philosopher and friend.

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It was with great misgivings that Sir Wilfrid accepted the leadership of the Liberal Party, when Edward Blake gave it up. He realized that for a young man of French-Canadian extraction and a Roman Catholic in religion, the road would be difficult for him to traverse. And truth to say, not a few of the Liberals felt dismayed at the prospect. But Sir Wilfrid was not long in showing the people of Canada that they had in him a leader who was guided solely by a desire to do his best for his country no matter who would suffer.

When he took office in 1896, Canada was in a state of business stagnation. Factories were closed, thousands of men were walking the streets for lack of work, and thousands more were fleeing to the United States as from a pestilence. Soup kitchens were kept busy doling out food to those who could pay for none, and it is a fact that idle men in some cities, had to stay in the house for fear of being arrested as vagrants. This was the condition of affairs when Sir Wilfrid took the reins of office.

The change that came over the country was magical. People took new heart. Factories began to fire up. Men got back to work. The waste places of the Dominion became settled with thousands of families from the old lands, a home market was procured and the foreign market was again established. An impetus to the forging of the chains of empire was given when Sir Wilfrid in 1897, and again in 1900, granted the British preference. It is now a matter of history how his pilgrimages to England lifted Canada out of the darkness into the light, how this picturesque Canadian figure dazzled the British people and how under his guidance this Canada became a nation in the eyes of the world.

Sir Wilfrid was an optimist. In victory or defeat he never lost sight of his goal, and he never gave up. However, his opponents professed to doubt his loyalty, they had no reason to doubt it. Much misrepresentation of Sir Wilfrid Laurier arose over his action in connection with the Boer war. Yet it is to be remembered that he was the first Canadian Premier to send a Canadian contingent abroad to help the mother country against a common enemy. On this occasion the London Times said: Sir Wilfrid Laurier, the French Roman Catholic Premier, of a self-governing federation, in which British Protestants are in the majority, has expressed more faithfully and more truly than any statesman who has spoken yet, the temper of the new imperial patriotism fostered into self-consciousness by the South African war.

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