Bethlehem, December 20, 1917.
A Country Club seems to be an American institution. We don't seem to have them. They are primarily for the folk who live in towns. American folk like to get together as much as possible and to be sociable. Please remember that all my friends here are steel people and generally rich. Some belong to quite old families, but whatever they are they have all got something attractive about them.
It would be quite possible for most of them to build huge castles in the country, and to live there during the summer, away out from the noise and dirt; but they don't. They like to be all together, so they build beautiful houses quite close up to the street, with no fences around them. Pleasant and well kept lawns go right down to the road, and anyone can walk on the grass. A single street possibly contains the houses of several wealthy families. They all rush about together and give wonderful dinners. As their number is not great, the diners ought to get a little tired of one another, but they don't seem to. I have had the honour of attending many of these dinners. They are fine. The women dress beautifully, and oftentastefully and the dinner goes merrily on, everyone talking at once. We are all fearfully happy and young. No one grows up here in America. It's fine to feel young. We start off in quite a dignified fashion, but before the chicken or goose arrives we are all happy and cheerful.
It is impossible to be bored in Bethlehem at a good dinner. I suppose the object of a hostess is to make her guests happy. Most men here in Jericho work fearfully hard. Men in England often go to Paris or London to have a really hilarious time. In Bethlehem a man can be amused at home with his own wife and friends, and he certainly is. He may be fifty and a king of industry, but that does not prevent him from being the jolliest fellow in the world and brimming over with fun.
Perhaps Bethlehem is a little different from most towns in this country. A man here becomes rich; he has attained riches generally because he is a thundering good fellow—a leader of men. That is the point. One used to think of a wealthy American man as a rather vulgar person with coarse manners. American men have good manners, as a rule. They have better manners than we have, especially towards women.
Now the folk like to be in the country at times, but they don't care to be alone in enjoying it. Also, they like golf and tennis, so a club isestablished about six miles out from a town. The actual building is large and tastefully decorated. It displays American architecture at its very best. There are generally three large rooms with folding doors or portiéres, and beautifully carpeted. The whole floor can be turned into a dancing room with tables all around, so that one may both dance and eat. Dinner starts off mildly; one gets through the soup, looks at one's partner and mentally decides how many dances one will have with her. She may be fat, slender, skinny, beautiful; she may be old, middle aged, or a flapper, but whatever she is she can dance. It is all interesting. If one's partner is nineteen or twenty she can dance well, and it behooves a new man to be careful.
I can dance the English waltz, I believe, but I can't at present dance anything else but the one-step. I find this exhilarating, but I have to confine myself to ladies of thirty-five and upwards, who realize the situation, and we dash around in a cheerful manner, much to the annoyance of the débutante. I have not danced with any very young people yet. I would not dare.
If you are a particularly bad dancer, after the first halt, caused by the orchestra stopping, a young male friend of hers will "cut in" on you, and you are left, and your opportunity of dancing with mademoiselle for more than one length of the room is gone.American young men will never allow a débutante to suffer. In any case she arranges with a batch of young friends to "cut in" if you are seen dancing with her. It is all done very gracefully. To dance with an American débutante requires skill. She dances beautifully. Her body swings gracefully with the music, her feet seem to be elastic. At all costs you must not be at all rough. You must let your feet become as elastic as hers and delicately and gently swing with the music.
Although the fox-trot and the one-step are now in vogue, there is nothing that is not nice about these dances when danced by two young people. If your partner is a good dancer it is impossible to dance for very long with her. A sturdy swain approaches with a smile and says to you, "May I cut in?" She bows gracefully and you are lost. At all costs this must be taken cheerfully. The first time it occurred to me I replied, "Certainly not." I now know that I was guilty of a breach of etiquette.
If you are dancing with an indifferent dancer, there is no danger of being "cut in" on. If your object in dancing with a lady is purely a matter of duty, you shamelessly arrange with several friends to "cut in" on you, meanwhile promising to do likewise for them. Ungallant this, but it ensures the lady having a dance with several people which perhaps she would not otherwise get, and she understands.Generally speaking there are no "wall flowers." They retire upstairs to powder their noses.
There is the mature lady, fair, fat and forty, who dances about with a cheery fellow her own age. Enjoyment shines from their faces as they one-step, suggesting a quick stately march let loose. The lady wears a broad hat suitably decorated and a "shirtwaist" of fitting dimensions. A string of pearls encircles her neck. One sees charming stockings, and beautiful shoes covering quite small feet. This must be a great compensation to a woman at her prime—her feet. They can be made charming when nicely decorated. The face is generally good looking and sometimes looks suitably wicked. It is well powdered, and perhaps just a little rouged. One sees some wonderful diamonds, too.
Perhaps I have seen things just a little vaguely owing to American cocktails. We can't make cocktails in England as they do in America, and that is a fact. The very names given to them here are attractive: Jack Rose, Clover Club, Manhattan, Bronx, and numerous others. They are well decorated, too.
The really exciting time at a country club is on Saturday night. In Bethlehem where there are no theatres, all the fashionable folk motor out to the country club for dinner. Generally the dancing space is fairly crowded and a little irritating for the débutantes. Still they are quite good-natured about itand only smile when a large freight locomotive in the form of mama and papa collides with them.
After about fifteen minutes, while one is eating an entrée, the music starts, and if your partner consents, you get up and dance for about ten minutes and then return to the entrée, now cold. This goes on during the whole dinner. I wonder if it aids digestion.
After dinner we all leave the tables and spread ourselves about the large rooms. The ladies generally sit about, and the men go downstairs. This presents possibilities. However, most of one's time is spent upstairs with the women folk. Dancing generally goes on until about midnight, and then the more fashionable among us go into the house of a couple of bachelors. Here we sit about and have quite diverting times. Finally at about two o'clock we adjourn to our respective homes and awake in the morning a little tired. However, this is compensated for by the cocktail party the next day.
What pitfalls there are for the unwary!
One night, during a party at the club, a very great friend of mine asked me to come over to her house at noon the next day. I took this, in my ignorance, to be an invitation to lunch, and the next morning I called her up and said that I had forgotten at what time she expected meto lunch. "Come along at twelve o'clock, Mac," she replied. I found crowds of people there and wondered how they were all goingto be seated at the table, and then I understood. I tried to leave with the others at about twelve forty-five, but my hostess told me that she expected me to stay for lunch. Of course, she had to do this, owing to my mentioning lunch when I called up. Still it was a little awkward.
About cocktail parties—well, I don't quite know. I rather suspect that they are bad things. They always seem to remind me of the remark in the Bible about the disciples when they spake with tongues and some one said: "These men are wine bibbers." I rather think that cocktail parties are a form of wine bibbing. Still they play an important part in the life of some people, and I had better tell you about them. As a matter of fact, quite a large number of people at a cocktail party don't drink cocktails at all, and in any case, they are taken in a very small shallow glass. The sort one usually gets at a cocktail party is the Bronx or Martini variety. The former consists, I believe, largely of gin and orange juice and has a very cheering effect. People mostly walk about and chat about nothing in particular. They are generally on their way home from church and nicely dressed.
It is unpleasant to see girls drinking cocktails. Our breeding gives us all a certain reserve of strength to stick to our ideals. A few cocktails, sometimes even one, helps to knock this down and the resultsare often regrettable. People talk about things sometimes that are usually regarded as sacred and there are children about, for the next in power after madame in an American household is the offspring of the house. Still quite nice American girls drink cocktails, although nearly always their men folk dislike it. In Bethlehem, however, I have never seen a girl friend drink anything stronger than orangeade. That is what I love about my friends in Bethlehem. Some of them have had a fairly hard struggle to get on. They don't whine about it or even boast, but they are firmly decided in their effort to give their daughters every opportunity to be even more perfect gentlewomen than they are naturally. Still some quite young American girls drink cocktails and then become quite amusing and very witty, and one decides that they are priceless companions, but out of the question as wives.
When a Britisher marries a French or a Spanish girl, there are often difficulties before she becomes accustomed to her new environment. Neither American people nor English people expect any difficulties at all when their children intermarry. And yet they do occur, and are either humourous or tragic, quite often the latter. So I would say to the Britisher, if you ever marry an American girl, look out. She will either be the very best sort of wife a man could possibly have, or she will be the other thing.It will be necessary for you to humour her as much as possible. Like a horse with a delicate mouth, she requires good hands. Don't marry her unless you love her. Don't marry her for her money, or you will regret it. She is no fool and she will expect full value for all she gives. The terrible thing is that she may believe you to be a member of the aristocracy, and she will expect to go about in the very best society in London. If you are not a member of the smart set and take her to live in the country she may like it all right, but the chances are that she will cry a good deal, get a bad cold, which will develop into consumption, and possibly die if you don't take her back to New York. She will never understand the vicar's wife and the lesser country gentry, and she will loathe the snobbishness of some of the county people. In the process, she will find you out, and may heaven help you for, as Solomon said: "It is better to live on the housetop than inside with a brawling woman," and she will brawl all right. I have heard of some bitter experiences undergone by young American women.
There is, of course, no reason in the world why an English fellow should not marry an American girl if he is fond of her and she will have him. But it is a little difficult. Sometimes a Britisher arrives here with a title and is purchased by a young maiden with much money, possibly several millions, and he takes her back to Blighty. Some American girls arefoolish. The people perhaps dislike her accent and her attitude towards things in general. He does not know it, of course, but she has not been received by the very nicest people in her own city, not because they despise her, but merely because they find the people they have known all their lives sufficient. You see it is a little difficult for the child. In America she has been, with the help of her mother perhaps, a social mountaineer. Social mountaineering is not a pleasing experience for anyone, especially in America, but we all do it a little, I suppose. It is a poor sort of business and hardly worth while. When this child arrives in England she may be definitely found wanting in the same way that she may have been found wanting in American society, and she is naturally disappointed and annoyed. When annoyed she will take certain steps that will shock the vicar's wife, and possibly she will elope with the chauffeur, all of which will be extremely distressing, though it will be the fellow's own fault. Of course, she may love him quite a lot, but she will probably never understand him. I am not sure that she will always be willing to suffer. Why should she?
Bethlehem, December 20, 1917.
I am steadily becoming a movie "fan," which means that when Douglas Fairbanks, or Charlie Chaplin, or other cheerful people appear on the screen at the Lorenz theatre at Bethlehem I appear sitting quite close up and enjoying myself. It is all very interesting. One sort of gets to know the people, and indeed to like them. The movies have taken up quite a large part of our lives in this burgh. One has got to do something, and if one is a lone bachelor, sitting at home presents but few attractions. The people in film land are all interesting.
There is the social leader. I always love her. Her magnificent and haughty mien thrills me always, as with snowy hair, decent jewels and what not, she proceeds to impress the others in film land. I am not going to talk about the vampire.
Film stories can be divided into three classes—the wild and woolly, the crazy ones, as we call them here, and the society dramas with a human interest; and, I forgot, the crook stories.
The wild and woolly ones are delightful. John Devereaux, bored with his New York home, and hisgentle and elegant mother, decides to visit a friend out west. He arrives in a strange cart which looks like a spider on wheels driven by a white haired person wearing a broad brimmed hat and decorated with several pistols or even only one. He seems to find himself almost at once in a dancing hall, where wicked-looking though charming young ladies are dancing with fine handsome young fellows, all armed to the teeth, and with their hair nicely parted. In the corner of the room is the boss, sinister and evil looking, talking to as nice looking a young person as one could possibly meet. The dancing seems to stop, and then follows a "close up" of the nice looking young person. (A little disappointing this "close up." A little too much paint mademoiselle,n'est ce pas, on the lips and under the eyes?) Then a "close up" of the boss. This is very thrilling and the widest possibilities of terrible things shortly to happen are presented to us fans, as we see him chew his cigar and move it from one side of his mouth to the other. They both discuss John Devereaux and then follows a "close up" of our hero. He is certainly good looking, and his fine well-made sporting suit fits him well and shows off his strong figure.
But wait till you see him on a horse which has not a good figure, but an extremely useful mouth that can be tugged to pieces by John Devereaux as he wheels him around. I am going to start a missionto movie actors in horse management, and I am going to dare to tell them that to make a horse come round quickly and still be able to use him for many years, it is not necessary to jag his dear old mouth to bits. I am also going to teach them how to feed a horse so that his bones don't stick out in parts even if he is a wicked looking pie-bald. I am also going to teach them that if you have twelve miles to ride it is an awful thing to jag your spurs into his flanks and make him go like hell. I suppose they will enjoy my mission, and it will have the same success that all missions have—but this by the way.
John Devereaux is a very handsome chap, and I like him from the start, and I am greatly comforted when I know that the charming young person will throw her fan in the face of the boss, pinch all his money and live for a few sad days in extremely old-fashioned but becoming clothes (generally a striped waist) with another worthy but poor friend, and then marry our hero. I come away greatly comforted and retire, feeling that the world without romance would be a dull place.
I love the crazy ones, I love to see fat old ladies taking headers into deep ponds. I love to see innocent fruit sellers getting run into by Henry Ford motors. I love to see dozens of policemen massing and then suddenly leaving their office and rushing like fury along the road after—Charlie Chaplin. Give me crazy movies. They are all brimming over withthe most innocent fun and merriment. It is a pity that they are generally so short, but I suppose the actors get tired after a time.
The society pictures must impress greatly the tired working woman; a little pathetic this, really. Perhaps I am ignorant of the doings of the four hundred, but if they live as the movie people live it must be strangely diverting to be a noble American. The decorations in their houses must supply endless hours of exploration, and the wonderful statuary must help one to attain Nirvana. I've heard of ne'er-do-well sons, but I did not know they had such amusing times.
In the society drama, the son leaves his beautiful southern home with white pillars and his innocent playmate, very pretty and hopeful and nicely gowned, and finds himself at Yale or Harvard. I wish Cambridge and Oxford presented the same number of possibilities. Here he meets the vampire, horrid and beastly, and falls for her and never thinks of his innocent father and mother solemnly opening the family Bible and saying a few choice prayers, while the playmate worries in the background, praying fervently. It is all very sad and becomes heart-rending when the pretty playmate retires to her room, puts on the most lovely sort of garment all lace and things, and after praying and looking earnestly at a crucifix, hops into bed, never forgetting to remove her slippers. Then the scene stops and she probablycurses the fellow working the lights if he has not got a good shine on her gorgeous hair while she prays. But don't worry, she marries the son all right. The vamp dies, probably punctured by a bullet from an old "rough neck" accomplice, or a married man.
The court scenes present wonderful possibilities for the services of some dear old chap as judge. He is an awful nice old fellow.
They are all the same and bore me stiff unless a rather decent sort of chap called Ray appears in them and he has a cleansing influence. There is also a lady called Marsh whom I rather like. Besides being good looking she can act wonderfully and is always natural. I can stand any sort of society drama with her in it. Sometimes the heroes are peculiarly horrible with nasty sloppy long hair, and not nearly as good looking as the leading man in the best male chorus in New York.
The crook stories are fine. They take place mostly in underground cellars. I love the wicked looking old women and fat gentlemen who drink a great deal. However, there are hair-breadth escapes which thrill one, and plenty of policemen and clever looking inspectors and so on.
Seriously, the movies have revolutionized society in many ways. People like Douglas Fairbanks are a great joy to us all. The people who write his plays have learnt that it is the touch of nature that counts most in all things with every one. And so he laughshis way along the screen journey, and we all enter into movie land, where the sun is shining very brightly and the trees are very green, and we all live in nice houses, and meet only nice people with just a few villains thrown in, whom we can turn into nice people by smiling at them. He changes things for us sometimes. Rhoda sitting next to Trevor sees him through different eyes and she gives his hand a good hard squeeze. He is a sort of Peter Pan, really.
Mothers in movie land are always jolly and nice. Fathers are often a little hard, but they come round all right or get killed in an exciting accident. Generally they come round. The parsons worry me a little. Being a zealous member of the Church of England, I object strongly to the sanctimonious air and beautiful silvery hair displayed by ministers in movie land. They marry people off in no time, too, and a little promiscuously, I think.
Except at the Scala, where the pictures used to be good and dull, most of the movie theatres are a little impossible in Blighty. I wonder why. In New Zealand there are fine picture theatres and in Australia they are even better, but if you venture into one in London you want to get out quick. Here in America they are ventilated, and there is generally a pipe organ to help one to wallow in sentiment. Often it seems well played, too, and, at any rate, the darkness and the music blend well together and one can get into "Never Never Land" quite easily and comfortably.
Bethlehem, U.S.A., January 25, 1917.
On the twenty-second day of last month, I was preparing to spend a comparatively happy Christmas at the house of some friends who possessed many children. Unfortunately, I met the Assistant Superintendent of Shop No. 2, who, after greeting me in an encouraging manner, said, "Lootenant, I am very glad to see you, I want your help. We are held up by the failure of the people in Detroit to deliver trunnion bearings. Would it be possible for you to run out there and see how they are getting on, and perhaps you could get them to send a few sets on by express?"
That Assistant Superintendent never did like me.
Now Detroit is a long way from Bethlehem, and at least twenty-four hours by train, so it looked as though my merry Christmas would be spent in a Pullman. I'd rather spend Christmas Day in a workhouse, for even there "the cold bare walls" are alleged to be "bright with garlands of green and holly," and even bitterly acknowledged by many small artists reciting that "piece" to help to form a "pleasant sight." But Christmas Day in a Pullman! Andworse still, Christmas night in a sleeper, with the snorers. Mon Dieu!
If a person snores within the uttermost limit of my hearing, I must say good-bye to sleep, no matter how tired I may be. It is a strange thing how many otherwise nice people snore. Travelling in America has for me one disadvantage—the fact that one has to sleep, like a dish on a Welsh dresser, in the same compartment with about forty people, six of whom surely snore. There is the loud sonorous snore of the merchant prince, the angry, pugnacious bark of the "drummer," the mature grunt of the stout lady, and the gentle lisp-like snore of the débutante. You can't stop them. One would expect "Yankee ingenuity" to find a way out.
I think that there ought to be a special padded Pullman for the snoring persons. It ought to be labelled in some way. Perhaps a graceful way would be to have the car called "Sonora." Then all people should carry with them a small card labelled, "The bearer of this pass does not snore," and then the name of a trusted witness or the stamp of a gramaphone company without the advertisement "His Master's Voice." You see a person could be placed in a room, and at the moment of sinking into somnolence, a blank record could start revolving, and be tried out in the morning.
Or perhaps the label would read, "The bearerof this card snores." Then the gramaphone company might advertise a little with the familiar "His Master's Voice." It would be awful to lose your label if you were a non-snorer, and then to be placed in the special sleeper. Perhaps there might be a "neutral" car for the partial snorers.
I slept in a stateroom on a liner once next to a large man and his large wife, and they were both determined snorers. They used to run up and down the scale and never started at the bottom together. It was a nice mathematical problem to work out when they met in the centre of the scale.
As a matter of fact, I don't mind the snoring on a Pullman when the train gets going, because you cannot hear it then, but sometimes in an optimistic frame of mind you decide to board the sleeper two hours before the train starts. Your optimism is never justified, for sure enough, several people start off. It is useless to hold your hands to your ears; you imagine you hear it, even if you don't. So possessing yourself with patience, you read a book, until the train starts. Asphyxiation sets in very soon, but, alas, the train develops a hot box, and you awake once more to the same old dreary noises. I hope that soon they will have that special car. If they don't, the porter ought to be supplied with a long hooked rake, and as he makes his rounds of inspection, he should push the noisy people into other positions. This would look very interesting.
However, on this journey to Detroit I boarded the train at Bethlehem on its way to Buffalo and no hot boxes were developed, so I enjoyed a very peaceful night, although I was slightly disturbed when a dear old lady mistook my berth for hers, and placed her knee on my chest, and got an awful fright. That is one of the advantages of taking an "upper" over here. You have time to head off night walkers because they have got to get the step-ladder, the Pullman porter is not always asleep, and you hear them as they puff up the stairs. Although I prefer the little stateroom cars we have in England, I must admit that the beds in a Pullman are very large and well supplied with blankets and other comforts.
I arrived at Detroit, and after a long chat about the war with the man who counted most, I suggested that he would be doing us all a great favour if he sent a few trunnion bearings on by express at once. He said, "Sure!" I love that American word "Sure." There is something so intimate, so encouraging about it, even if nothing happens. Detroit is a wonderful city and the people whom I met there awfully decent.
I went through several factories, and I must admit that I have seen nothing in this country to compare with them. There are vaster plants in the East, but for the display of really efficient organization, give me Detroit. I liked the careful keenness displayed. There is something solid, something lastingabout Detroit, that struck me at once in spite of its newness. It is always alleged in the East that the Middle West is notoriously asleep in regard to national duty, but I rather suspect that if the time arrives for this country to fight, it will be towns like Detroit, towards the Middle West, that will be the rapid producers.
Of course, Henry Ford has his wonderful motor car factory here where he lets loose upon an astonished world and grateful English vicars of little wealth, his gasping, highly efficient, but unornamental, metal arm breakers called by the vulgar "flivvers," and by the more humorous "tin Lizzies." Having heard so much about this plant, I denied myself the pleasure of going through it. I hear that it is very wonderful.
All these remarks are merely offensive impressions and carry but little weight even in my own mind. Still I definitely refuse to regard the Middle West as asleep to national duty.
I left Detroit or rather tried hard and finally succeeded in leaving that fair city; and still dreading to spend Christmas day in a Pullman I made up my mind to spend the holidays at Niagara in Ontario. Incidentally, at Niagara I received a wire from Detroit in the following words: "Have sent by express four sets of trunnion bearings. A merry Xmas to you."
While I am glad to praise Detroit, and especiallyits best hotel, I cannot for a single moment admire, or even respect, the time-table kept by the trains that ran through its beautiful station last month around Christmas.
I decided to leave by a train which was alleged to depart at twelve o'clock. I jumped into a taxi at eleven-fifty. "You're cutting things pretty fine," said the chauffeur, "but I guess we will make it all right." Hence we dashed along the road at a pretty rapid rate and I thought the driver deserved the extra quarter that I gladly gave to him. I placed my things in the hands of a dark porter and gasped: "Has the train gone?" My worry was quite unnecessary. In the great hall of the station there were about three hundred of Henry Ford's satellites going off on their Christmas vacation, as well as many others. The train that should have gone six hours before had not arrived. There were no signs of mine. It seemed to have got lost, for nothing could be told about it. Other trains were marked up as being anything from three to six hours overdue.
After waiting in a queue near the enquiry office for about an hour, I at last got within speaking distance of the man behind the desk marked "Information." He could tell me nothing, poor chap. His chin was twitching just like a fellow after shell shock. Noting my sympathetic glance, he told me that an enquiry clerk only lasted one-half hour if he were notassassinated by angry citizens who seemed to blame him for the trains being late. He denied all responsibility, while admitting the honour. He said that he was the sixth to be on duty. The rest had been sent off to the nearest lunatic asylum. At that moment he collapsed and was carried away on a stretcher, muttering, "They ain't my trains, feller." Never was such a night. I made several life long friends. All the food in the buffet got eaten up and the attendant women had quite lost their tempers and quarreled with anyone who looked at all annoyed.
After waiting about five hours, I became a little tired. I was past being annoyed, and expected to spend my life in that station hall, so I sought food in the buffet. As I approached the two swinging doors, they opened as if by magic and two good looking, cheery faced boys stood on each side like footmen and said: "Good evening, Cap."
"Ha!" thought I to myself, "what discernment! They can tell at once that I am a military man," so I smile pleasantly upon them and asked them how they knew that I was an officer in spite of my mufti. They looked astonished, but quickly regaining their composure, asked what regiment I belonged to. I told them, and soon we got very friendly and chatty. They introduced me to several friends who gathered round, and fired many questions at me in regard to the war. Amongst their number was a huge person of kindlyaspect. One of my early friends whispered that he was the captain of their football team and a very great person. He said but little. They explained that they were members of a dramatic club, and that they had given a performance in Detroit. We chatted a great deal, and then a fellow of unattractive appearance, and insignificant aspect remarked: "You British will fight until the last Frenchman dies." He laughed as he said it. He used the laugh which people who wish to prevent bodily injury to themselves always use when they insult a person. It is the laugh of a servant, a laugh which prevents a man from getting really annoyed. I am glad to say that the rest turned upon him and I merely said lightly: "There are many fools going about but it is difficult to catalogue their variety until they make similar remarks to yours."
The large football player was particularly annoyed with that chap and the others remarked that he was a "bloody German." We were much too tired and weary to talk seriously, but I gathered from these youths that they were very keen to get across to the other side, to fight the Boche.
We discussed Canada. It almost seemed that they wanted to sell Canada so great was the admiration they expressed. They envied the Canadians their opportunity to fight the Germans. They praised the country, its natural resources and beauty. They admired the Englishness of their neighbors. This isan interesting fact: all Americans that I have met cannot speak too highly of the Canadians. I have heard American women talking with the greatest of respect about our nation as represented by our people in Canada and Bermuda.
After a couple of hours these fellows went off, expressing a desire to take me with them. In fact, two of them tried hard to persuade me to go to Chicago in their special. Evidently they had had a good supper. I hope that I shall meet the large football chap again.
At about seven in the morning my train at last appeared, and as the sun was rising, I climbed into my upper berth while the fellow on the lower groaned, stating that he had the influenza, called "the grip" over here. This sounded encouraging, for I expected to breathe much of his air.
I at last arrived at Niagara in Ontario and sought the Inn called Clifton. It is run very much on English lines and suggests a very large country cottage in Blighty, with its chintz hangings. All around was a wide expanse of snow and the falls could be heard roaring in the distance. I had seen them before, so I promptly had a very hot bath and lay down and went to sleep in my charming little bedroom with its uneven roof.
I am not going to describe the Falls. They are too wonderful and too mighty for description, butthey are not too lovely and not too wonderful as a great beauty gift from God to prevent us humans from building great power houses on the cliffs around, and so marring their beauty.
I spent a happy Christmas at this house and met several Canadian men with their women folk who had come down to spend a quiet Christmas. They were very kind to me and I liked them all immensely. One lady remarked that it was a very good idea to want to spend Christmas with my own people. This was astonishing and pleasing, for most of my friends who had gone over to Canada to do harvesting during the long vacations from Oxford and Cambridge had hated it. It told me one great thing, however, that the Canadian people had grown to know us better, and had evidently decided that every stray home-made Briton was not a remittance man, but might possibly, in spite of his extraordinary way of speaking English, be a comparatively normal person possessing no greater number of faults than other mortals. I found these people very interesting, and one very charming lady introduced me to the poetry of Rupert Brooke. She had one of his volumes of poetry containing an introduction detailing his life.
I read this introduction with much interest. It spoke about the river at Cambridge, just above "Byron's Pool"—a very familiar spot. I had often plunged off the dam into the cool depths above andhad 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 Istrafedhim 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, butevidently 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 Istrafedhim, 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 myaccent 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 ofEngland. 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 hadnot 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 muchconverted, 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 andwomen, 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 tenminutes. 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 drinkoffered 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 crêche 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 opento 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 itwondered 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 abal masquéafter 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.