Cambridge, just above "Byron's Pool"--a very familiar spot. I had often
plunged off the dam into the cool depths above and had even cooked
moorhens' eggs on the banks. I will admit that my ignorance of Rupert
Brooke and his genius showed a regrettably uninformed mind. I can only
murmur with the French shop keepers "_c'est la guerre_." These people
made me very much at home and they all had a good English accent--not
the affected kind, but a natural sort of accent.
American people then came in for their share of criticism. The Canadians
are learning many lessons from us. I think, of course, that America
ought to be in this war, but I do know that all my American men friends
would give their last cent to make the President declare war, and I have
learnt not to mention the subject.
They were very sympathetic about my having to live with the Yankees. One
very nice man said with a smile, I fear of superiority: "And how do you
like living with the Yankees?"
I was at a loss to know how to reply. I hate heroics, and I distrust the
person who praises his friends behind their backs with too great a show
of enthusiasm. It is a kind of newspaper talk and suspicious. Besides, I
desired to be effective, to "get across" with praise of my American
friends, so I merely stated all the nice things I had ever heard the
Americans say about Canada and the Canadians. This took me a long time.
They accepted the rebuke like the gentlefolk they were. Still, I thought
the feeling about America was very interesting.
Upon my return to the States, I mentioned this to a friend and he said
that he knew about the feeling, but he explained that it was really a
pose, and was a survival of the feeling from the old revolution days
when the loyalists took refuge in Canada. I then gathered that my
Canadian friends were merely "high flying after fashion," like Mrs.
Boffin in "Our Mutual Friend."
I went to church on the Sunday and enjoyed singing "God Save the King."
The minister spoke well, but like the American clergy, he preached an
awfully long sermon. Everything seems to go quickly and rapidly over
here except the sermons.
I went to a skating rink filled with many soldiers and was asked by a
buxom lass where my uniform was, and why was I not fighting for the
King. I felt slightly annoyed. However, I enjoyed the skating until a
youth in uniform barged into me and passed rude remarks about my
clothing generally.
This was too much for my temper, so I _strafed_ him until he must have
decided that I was at least a colonel in mufti. He will never be "fresh"
to a stranger again, and he left the rink expecting to be
court-martialled.
The next day I had influenza, and I remembered my friend in the train at
Detroit. However, I went to Toronto and endeavored to buy a light coat
at a large store. I am not a very small person, but evidently the
attendant disliked me on sight. After he had tried about three coats on
me he remarked pleasantly that they only kept men's things in his
department, so I _strafed_ him, and left Canada by the very next train.
I felt furious. However, I recognised a man I knew on the train whom I
had seen at Popperinge near Ypres. He had been a sergeant in the
Canadian forces, so we sat down and yarned about old days in
"Flounders." He was the dining-room steward. He healed my wounded pride
when I told him about the coat incident and said: "Why didn't you crack
him over the head, sir! Those sort of fellows come in here with their
'Gard Darm'--but I don't take it now. No, sir!" Still it was fine to
visit Canada and I felt very much at home and very proud of the Empire.
Now in the days of peace I should have come away from Canada with a very
firm determination never to visit the place again, but the war has
changed one's outlook on all things. Still I longed to get back to my
Yankee and well loved friends who don't mind my "peculiar English twang"
a bit.
I was urged one night at a country club to join a friend at another
table--to have a drink of orangeade. I showed no signs of yielding, so
my friend--he was a great friend--said, "Please, Mac, come over, these
fellows want to hear you speak." They wanted to listen to my words of
wisdom? Not a bit! It was my accent they wanted. But there was no
intention of rudeness; the fellow was too much my friend for that, but
he wanted to interest his companions. Sometimes I have apologised for my
way of speaking, remarking that I could not help it, and at once every
one has said, "For the love of Mike, don't lose your English accent."
Perhaps they meant that as a comedian I presented possibilities.
It might be a good idea to give you a few impressions of the folk in
Bethlehem. Obviously they can be little else than impressions, and they
can tell you little about Americans as a whole. The people of Bethlehem
divide themselves roughly into six groups--the Moravians (I place them
first), the old nobility, the new aristocracy, the great mass of
well-to-do store-keepers and the like, the working class of Americans,
largely Pennsylvania Dutch, and the strange mixture of weird foreigners
who live in South Bethlehem near and around the steel works.
But let me tell you about the Moravians; they have been awfully good to
me during the four months I have lived with them. Just to live in the
same town with them helps one quite a lot.
It is possible that some of my statements may be inaccurate, but I have
had a great deal to do with them, and I don't think that I shall go very
far wrong.
Anne of Bohemia married King Richard II of England. Obviously large
numbers of her friends and relations visited her during her reign.
Wycliff became at this time fashionable, and these tourists, being
interested in most of the things they saw, doubtlessly had the
opportunity of hearing Wycliff preach. A man of undoubted personality,
otherwise he would not have lived very long, he must have impressed the
less frivolous of Anne's friends, including John Huss who was a very
religious person. The whole thing is interesting. These Bohemians saw
numbers of the aristocracy thoroughly interested in Wycliff. Possibly
they did not understand the intrigue underlying the business, but they
could not have regarded Wycliff's movement as anything else but a
fashionable one.
John Huss returned to Bohemia and established a church, or reorganised
an older church. For the benefit of those members of the Church of
England and the members of the Episcopal church of America who regard a
belief in Apostolic succession as necessary to their souls' salvation,
it might be well to add that the first Moravian bishop was consecrated
by another bishop. After a time they ceased to be regarded with favour
by the Church of Rome in Bohemia, in spite of their fashionable origin,
so they grew and multiplied.
Still their struggles were great, and one wonders whether they could
have continued to thrive if it had not been for a friend who appeared
upon the scene to act as their champion. The friend was a certain Count
Zinzendorf, a noble German. He allowed them to establish a small
settlement upon his estates at Herenhorf.
If they were anything like my friends, their descendants in Bethlehem,
he must have loved them very much. One can easily picture the whole
thing. They were normal persons; they displayed no fanaticism; they had
a simple ritual, and they must have had among their numbers members of
the best families in Bohemia. This would help the count a little. They
had some quaint customs. The women dressed simply but nicely. A young
lady after marriage wore a pretty blue ribbon around her neck. Before
marriage she wore a pink one. I have seen some priceless old pictures in
the archives of the church here in Bethlehem of the sweetest old ladies
in the world, mostly wearing the blue ribbon. The artist must have been
a Moravian himself. The figures are stiff and conventional; the hands
dead and lifeless with pointed fingers--you know the sort of thing--but
the faces are wonderfully drawn. They have all got something
characteristic about them. Sometimes a slight smile, sometimes they look
as though they were a little bored with posing, and one can perhaps get
an idea of their respective natures, by the way they regard the artist.
I felt that I should like to adopt them all as grandmothers.
Of course, Count Zinzendorf got very much converted, and, possibly
knowing William Penn, he obtained permission for the Moravians to settle
here in Bethlehem. I have skipped a lot of their history. I don't know
much about their early life in America, but they chose the sweetest spot
in this valley for their home. They settled on the north side of the
Lehigh River, a pleasant stream which with several tributaries helped
them to grind their corn. They converted the Indians largely. At any
rate, if you go into the old cemetery you will see the graves of many of
the red-skins. The last of the Mohicans, Tschoop, lies in this cemetery.
I sometimes stroll through this sacred square and read the weird old
inscriptions on the tombs. One dear old lady has her grave in the middle
of the pathway so that people passing may be influenced just a little by
the remarks made by those who knew and loved her. A weird idea, isn't
it? I could write pages about the Moravians, but time and the fact that
I may bore you, and so kill your interest in my friends, prevent me from
saying very much.
Trombones mean almost everything to a Moravian. To be a member of the
trombone choir is the highest honour a young Moravian can aspire to.
Perhaps interest will die out, perhaps the influence of the huge steel
works now taking complete control of Bethlehem will prevent the boys
from regarding the thing as a terrific honour.
A member of this choir has much to attend to. When a sister or a brother
dies, the fact is announced to the brethren by the playing of a simple
tune. At the hour of burial the trombones once more play. All
announcements are made from the tower with the aid of the trombone
choir. I cannot say they always play well. I am afraid I don't mind very
much, but the thing in itself is very interesting.
I was spending a very enjoyable evening at a man's house on the last day
of the old year. At five minutes to twelve I left a cheery crowd of
revellers and rushed along to the Moravian church. A large clock was
ticking out the last minutes of the closing year. A minister was
talking, thanking God for all the good things of the past years and
asking His help in the coming year. He seemed sure that it would be all
right, but we all felt a little fearful of what the next year would
bring. I remembered my last New Year's Eve at the front--it was getting
a little depressing. Finally there were left but two seconds of the old
year. We were all trying to think. The year closed. A mighty burst of
music crashed through the air. The trombones were playing "Now Thank We
All Our God." We all jumped to our feet and commenced to join in.
Depression vanished as in stately fashion we all sang the wonderful
hymn.
I went back to the party. Most of the people were still there. They were
a handsome crowd of men and women, great friends of mine for the most
part. They seemed happy and cheerful. I wondered what the year would
bring for us all. I wondered if America would be drawn into the war, and
I wondered which crowd of people would be better able to bear the strain
of war--the folk in the Moravian church, or the people at the cheery
party. I think I can guess. The cheery folk represent the type who will
get depressed and unhappy. They will be the spreaders of rumours. They
will be the people who will learn to hope most quickly. They will regard
every small victory as a German rout, and every reverse as a hopeless
defeat. Some amongst them will, of course, find a new life opening up
for them. Still I wonder.
But the Moravians will take things as they come. They will be the folk
who will encourage and help. They will be able to stand anything--sorrow
and joy, and treat them in the same way. They will give their sons
willingly and gladly, and their men will make the very best kind of
soldiers. Perhaps it is wrong to prophesy, but I think that if the
United States should enter this war, amongst the certain quantities of
this country, the Moravians will have an important place. They are
mostly of Teutonic origin, but at the moment their sympathies are all
with us. They like England and the English, and when I say England and
the English I mean Britain and the Britons. George II was kind to them,
I believe, and they live a great deal in the past.
I have the honour of knowing several of the trombone choir. I must tell
you about Brother L----. I suspect he is the leader or the conductor of
the trombone choir. He is a dear old chap, rather small and has a black
pointed beard. He is getting on in years now, and always suggests to my
mind that picture of Handel as a boy being found playing the harpsichord
in the attic. You may find it difficult to see the connection. I am not
sure that I do myself. One always feels, however, that hidden away in
that little body of his, there is a divine spark that ought to have had
a bigger opportunity. Perhaps the connection lies in the fact that I
first met him after he had just finished giving Mrs. U----'s son a
lesson on the trombone. Mrs. U----'s husband is not a Moravian, but the
wife is equal to at least two of them, so that makes things equal.
Brother L---- is employed at the steel works, and as I was getting into
an automobile one afternoon early, intent upon visiting a pond near by
to do some skating, I saw brother L---- waiting for a trolley car. I
offered him a lift which he accepted. Now, he had timed the trolley car
to a minute, so that by getting off at Church Street he would reach the
cemetery, his destination, at just the right moment, for an old sister
was being buried. My car went pretty fast, and I remember leaving him
standing in the snow at least eight inches thick. I fear he must have
got frozen, for he had to wait ten minutes. Strangely enough he has
never forgotten the incident, and I am sure that there is nothing in the
world he would not do for me. It is a funny and strange thing that when
one tries to do big things for people, often there is little gratitude
shown, but little things that cause one no trouble often bring a
tremendous reward far outweighing the benefit.
Now Brother L---- is an American and we who dare to criticise our
cousins never meet this type abroad. He, with many of his brother and
sister Moravians, are my friends. To me they form a tremendous argument
why I should never say an unkind word about the children of Uncle Sam. I
have no desire to become a Moravian, but I like them very much. Before I
finish wearing you out with these descriptions of my friends I must tell
you all about the "Putz."
One night I was the guest of a local club. It was early in December and
we were spending an extremely amusing evening. At about eleven o'clock,
all the women folk having departed, one fellow came up to me and said:
"Say, Captain, we have a barrel of sherry in the cellar, would you like
a glass?" A small party had collected near me at the time, so we all
descended to a sort of catacomb where a small barrel of sherry was
enthroned. I took a glass and found it very dry, and not very nice. I
was offered another but refused. It is difficult to refuse a drink
offered by a good looking American boy, so finally I held the glass,
took a tiny sip, and then decided to shut the door of the cellar, deftly
spilling the sherry as the door banged. I rather like a glass of sherry
with my soup, but to drink it steadily was an unknown experience. Glass
after glass was given to me and I managed to appear to drink all their
contents. They must have wondered at my sobriety. There were several
present who had no desire to spill theirs and among these was a tall,
good-looking youth who was fast becoming a little happy. He came towards
me with an unsteady step, and succeeded in spilling my fifth glass of
sherry, thus saving me the trouble of shutting the door, and said: "Say,
Cap., will you come and see my p--utz?" I was a little bewildered. He
repeated it again and again and then I decided upon a counter
bombardment and said: "Pre--cisely what is your p--utz." He looked
comically bewildered and then a fellow explained that a Putz was a
decoration of German origin. At Christmas time in South Germany the
people build models of the original Bethlehem, representing the birth of
our Lord. It suggests a creche in a Roman church. I said therefore: "But
yes, I shall be glad to." I gathered that a similar custom prevailed in
Bethlehem.
Most Moravians have a Putz in their houses at Christmas time. A house
containing one is quite open to all. Wine and biscuits are alleged to
be served. I did not get any wine, but saw the biscuits. So at Christmas
time small parties accumulate and go from house to house looking at the
Putzes. Sometimes they are a little crude, and where there are small
boys in the family, model electric tram cars dash past the sacred
manger. One nice boy cleverly got past this incongruity, for, after
building an ordinary model village with street lamps, and tram cars
dashing round and round, he had the stable and manger suspended above
amidst a mass of cotton wool, and he explained that the whole thing was
a vision of the past. But let me tell you about the Putz that belonged
to my friend of the club catacomb.
With Mrs. U---- I knocked at the door and entered. The house was dimly
lighted and we found ourselves in a darkened room, quite large. At first
we could hear the gentle ripple of water, and then we seemed to hear
cattle lowing very softly. Soon our eyes grew accustomed to the darkness
and we found ourselves looking across a desert with palm trees
silhouetted against the dark blue sky. Camels seemed to be walking
towards a small village on the right. The village was of the usual
Eastern kind with a synagogue in the centre. Soon we noticed that the
synagogue was being lighted up quite slowly and gradually and after an
interval gentle singing could be heard. It was all very soft but quite
distinct. The music stopped for a second and then dawn seemed to be
breaking. Finally a bright star appeared in the sky, and showed us
shepherds watching their flocks, but looking up towards the sky. More
light came and we saw angels with snowy white wings above the shepherds.
At this moment men's voices could be heard singing in harmony "Hark, the
Herald Angels Sing," and the music was certainly coming from the wee
synagogue. The star seemed to move a little, at any rate, it ceased
shining on the shepherds and we became unconscious of the angels, but
soon it shone upon a stable in which were Mary and the babe lying in the
manger. There were the wise men of the East also. Some more light shone
upon the village and the little brook made more noise. Someone in the
darkness near me repeated: "And suddenly there was with the angel a
multitude of the heavenly host, praising God, and saying, 'Glory to God
in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.'
"And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into
heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto
Bethlehem and see this thing which is come to pass which the Lord made
known unto us! And they came with haste, and found Mary and Joseph, and
the babe lying in a manger. And when they had seen it, they made known
abroad the saying which was told them concerning this child. And all
they that heard it wondered at those things which were told them by the
shepherds. But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her
heart."
It was a woman's voice speaking, softly and sweetly. To me it seemed the
outcry of womenkind all over the world.
I wanted to be home for Christmas very badly, but I must admit that of
all places in the world apart from home I think Bethlehem presents most
possibilities for a really enjoyable time. We had plenty of snow and
consequently plenty of opportunities for tobogganing. People also gave
many charming parties. I went to a _bal masque_ after returning from
Detroit, dressed as a Maori warrior. I had much clothing on, but one arm
and shoulder was exposed. Several women friends who usually wore quite
abbreviated frocks, suggested that I was naked. I merely observed "et tu
Brute!" but they did not understand. Women are inconsistent.
VI
GERMAN FRIGHTFUL FOOLISHNESS! A NEW ALLY! THE HATCHET SHOWS SIGNS OF
BECOMING BURIED
BETHLEHEM, U. S. A., February 28, 1917.
So William of Hohenzollern the war lord, the high priest of God, has
decided that this extremely unpleasant war shall cease. Over here we all
agree that nothing would suit us better; only we are quite certain that
we do not want the war to end in the particular way desired by His
Imperial Highness. We admit, of course, that his methods display a high
state of efficiency in every direction, and that his organization of men
and things is perfectly wonderful, but, fools that we are, we have
become attached to our own muddling ways and we don't want to change. In
other words, we rather enjoy our freedom. We admit that we ought to like
His Imperial Highness since he is so very much the intimate friend of
God, but possibly our souls have fallen so far from grace that when we
examine our minds we find there nothing but contempt and dislike mixed
with just a little pity. We cannot be altogether arch sinners because we
are unable to muster up a decent hatred, no matter how hard we try,
because William seems to us a poor sort of creature.
I cannot understand the Prussian point of view. It was quite unnecessary
to drag Uncle Sam into the war. His nature is so kindly that he is
always willing to give the other man the benefit of the doubt, but there
are limits to his good nature. The threat to sink the merchant ships of
America without warning is well beyond the limit of his patience. The
Germans must have forgotten the travail that accompanied the birth of
this great nation. To them, Uncle Sam would seem to be merely a very
wealthy merchant prince, with but one object--to get rich as quickly as
possible; a merchant prince without honour where his pockets are
concerned. If they had decided that he was merely enjoying a rather nice
after luncheon sleep they would have been a little nearer the truth.
They would then have avoided waking him up. As it is, he is now very
wide awake, and he is also examining his soul very carefully and
wondering just a little. His eyes too are very wide open and he can see
very plainly, and one of the things he can see is a very unpleasant
little emperor over in Germany daring to issue orders to his children.
He also realizes that since God has given him the wonderful gift of
freedom, it is his duty to see that other people are allowed to enjoy
the same privileges. As a child, it was necessary for him to avoid
"entangling alliances," but he is now a man with a man's privileges and
a man's duties.
So he has called across the water to France: "I'm coming to help you,
Lafayette," and he has shouted across the water to Great Britain: "John,
I have never been quite sure of you, but I guess you're on the right
track, and if you can wait a little I expect to be able to help you
quite a lot."