I've been pessimistic, you'll think, maybe, in what I've just been
saying to you. And you'll be wondering if I think I kept my promise--
to prove that this can be a better, a bonnier world than it was before
yon peacefu' days of 1914 were blotted out. I have'na done sae yet,
but I'm in the way of doing it. I've tried to mak' you see that yon
days were no sae bonny as we a' thocht them.
But noo! Noo we've come tae a new day. This auld world has seen a
great sacrifice--a greater sacrifice than any it has known since
Calvary. The brawest, the noblest, the best of our men, have offered
themselves, a' they had and were, upon the altar of liberty and of
conscience.
And I'll ask you some questions. Gie'n you're asked, the noo, tae do
something that's no just for your ain benefit. Whiles you would ha'
thought, maybe, and hesitated, and wondered. But the noo? Wull ye no
be thinking of some laddie who gave up a' the world held that was dear
to him, when his country called? Wull ye no be thinking that, after
a', ought that can be asked of you in the way of sacrifice and effort
is but a sma' trifle compared to what he had tae do?
I'm thinking that'll be sae. I'm thinking it'll be sae of all of us.
I'm thinking that, sae lang as we live, we folk that ken what the war
was, what it involved for the laddies who fought it, we'll be
comparing any hardship or privation that comes tae us wi' what it was
that they went through. And it's no likely, is it, that we'll ha' the
heart and the conscience tae be saying 'No!' sae often and sae
resolutely as used tae be our wont?
They've put shame into us, those laddies who went awa'. They ha'
taught us the real values o' things again. They ha' shown us that i'
this world, after a', it's men, not things, that count. They helped to
prove that the human spirit was a greater, grander thing than any o'
the works o' man. The Germans had all that a body could ask. They had
numbers, they had guns, they had their devilish inventions. What beat
them, then? What held them back till we could match them in numbers
and in a' the other things?
Why, something Krupp could not manufacture at Essen nor the
drillmasters of the Kaiser create! The human will--the spirit that is
God's creature, and His alone.
I was in France, you'll mind. I remember weel hoo I went ower the
ground where the Canadians stood the day the first clouds of poison
gas were loosed. There were sae few o' them--sae pitifully few! As it
was they were ootmatched; they were hanging on because they were the
sort o' men wha wouldna gie in. French Colonials were supporting them
on one side.
And across the No Man's Land there came a sort o' greenish yellow
cloud. No man there knew what it meant. There was a hissing and a
writhing, as of snakes, and like a snake the gas came toward them. It
reached them, and men began to cough and choke. And other men fell
doon, and their faces grew black, and they deed, in an agony such as
the man wha hasna seen it canna imagine--and weel it is, if he would
sleep o' nichts, that he canna.
The French Colonials broke and ran. The line was open. The Canadians
were dying fast, but not a man gave way. And the Hun came on. His gas
had broken the line. It was open. The way was clear to Ypres. That
auld, ruined toon, that had gi'en a new glory to British history in
November o' the year before, micht ha' been ta'en that day. And, aye,
the way was open further than that. The Germans micht ha' gone on.
Calais would ha' fallen tae them, and Dunkirk. They micht ha' cut the
British army awa' frae it's bases, and crumpled up the whole line
along the North Sea.
But they stopped, wi' the greatest victory o' the war within their
grasp. They stopped. They waited. And the line was formed again.
Somehow, new men were found tae tak' the places of those who had deed.
Masks against the gas were invented ower nicht. And the great chance
o' the Germans tae win the war was gone.
Why? It was God's will? Aye, it was His will that the Hun should be
beaten. But God works wi' human instruments. And His help is aye for
they that help themselves--that's an auld saying, but as true a one as
ever it was.
I will tell you why the Germans stopped. It was for the same reason
that they stopped at Verdun, later in the war. It was for the same
reason that they stopped again near Chateau Thierry and gave the
Americans time to come up. They stopped because they couldna imagine
that men would stand by when they were beaten.
The Canadians were beaten that day at Ypres when the gas came upon
them. Any troops i' the world would ha' been beaten. The Germans knew
that. They knew just hoo things were. And they knew that, if things
had been sae wi' them, they would ha' run or surrendered. And they
couldna imagine a race of men that would do otherwise--that would dee
rather than admit themselves beaten.
And sae, do you ken hoo it was the German officers reasoned?
"There is something wrong with our information," they decided. "If
things were really, over there, as we have believed, those men would
be quitting now. They may be making a trap ready for us. We will stop
and make sure. It is better to be safe than sorry."
Sae, because the human spirit and its invincibility was a thing beyond
their comprehension, the German officers lost the chance they had to
win the war.
And it is because of that spirit that remains, that survives, in the
world, that I am so sure we can mak' it a world worthy of those who
died to save it. I would no want to live anither day myself if I didna
believe that. I would want to dee, that I micht see my boy again. But
there is work for us all tae do that are left and we have no richt to
want, even, to lay doon our burdens until the time comes when God
wills that we maun.
Noo--what are the things we ha' tae do? They are no just to talk,
you'll be saying. 'Deed, and you're richt!
Wull you let me touch again on a thing I've spoken of already?
We ken the way the world's been impoverished. We've seen tae many of
our best laddies dee these last years. They were the husbands the wee
lassies were waiting for--the faithers of bairns that will never be
born the noo. Are those that are left doing a' that they should to
mak' up that loss?
There's selfishness amang those who'll no ha' the weans they should.
And it's a selfishness that brings its ain punishment--be sure of
that. I've said before, and I'll say again, the childless married pair
are traitors to their country, to the world, to humanity. Is it that
folk wi' children find it harder to live? Weel, there's truth i' that,
and it's for us a' tae see that that shall no be so.
I ken there are things that discourage them that would bring up a
family o' bairns. Landlords wull ask if there are bairns, and if there
are they'll seek anither tenant. It's no richt. The law maun step in
and reach them. Oh, I mind a story I heard frae a friend o' mine on
that score.
He's a decent body, wi' six o' the finest weans e'er you saw. He'd to
find a bigger hoose, and he went a' aboot, and everywhere, when he
told the landlords he had six bairns, they'd no have him. Else they'd
put up the rent to sic a figure he couldna pay it. In the end, though,
he hit upon a plan. Ane day he went tae see an agent aboot a hoose
that was just the yin to suit him. He liked it fine; the agent saw he
was a solid man, and like tae be a gude tenant. Sae they were well
along when the inevitable question came.
"How many children have you?" asked the agent.
"Six," said my friend.
"Oh," said the agent. "Well--let's see! Six is a great many. My
principal is a little afraid of a family with so many children. They
damage the houses a good deal, you know. I'll have to see. I'm sorry.
I'd have liked to let the house to you. H'm! Are all the children at
home?" "No," said my friend, and pulled a lang face. "They're a' in
the kirkyard."
"Oh--but that's very different," said the agent, growing brichter at
once. "That's a very different case. You've my most sincere sympathy.
And I'll be glad to let you the house."
Sae the lease was signed. And my friend went hame, rejoicing. On the
way he stopped at the kirkyard, and called the bairns, whom he'd left
there to play as he went by!
But this is a serious matter, this one o' bairns. Folk must have them,
or the country will gae to ruin. And it maun be made possible for
people to bring up their weans wi'oot sae much trouble and difficulty
as there is for them the noo.
Profiteering we canna endure--and will'na, I'm telling you. Let the
profiteer talk o' vested richts and interests--or whine o' them, since
he whines mair than he talks. It was tae muckle talk o' that sort we
were hearing before the war and in its early days. It was one of the
things that was wrang wi' the world. Is there any richt i' the world
that's as precious as that tae life and liberty and love? And didna
our young men gie that up at the first word?
Then dinna let your profiteer talk to me of the richts of his money.
He has duties and obligations as well as richts, and when he's lived
up to a' o' them, it'll be time for him tae talk o' his richts again,
and we'll maybe be in a mood tae listen. It's the same wi' the
workingman. We maun produce, i' this day. We maun mak' up for a' the
waste and the loss o' these last years. And the workingman kens as
weel as do I that after a fire the first thing a man does is tae mak'
the hoose habitable again.
He mends the roof. He patches the holes i' the walls. Wad he be
painting the veranda before he did those things? Not unless he was a
fule--no, nor building a new bay window for the parlor. Sae let us a'
be thinking of what's necessary before we come to thought of luxuries.