December, 1917.
I have just returned from a tour of Pennsylvania with a senator, and have come back to Philadelphia possessing much experience, and a profound love for my senator as well. We traversed several hundred miles, stopping only to talk at important, though in some cases out-of-the-way, towns in the great commonwealth. Our object was to help the people to realise the present situation. At times it was hard going, at times our experience was altogether delightful. We visited Allentown, Sunbury, Lock Haven, Erie, Pittsburgh, Washington, Altoona, Johnstown, Huntingdon, and Harrisburg.
At Allentown we were met and greeted by a warm-hearted Committee of Public Safety, and spoke to a tired out audience of Pennsylvania Dutchmen and many yawning chairs, as well as a few officers from the Allentown Ambulance Camp. I found talking difficult and I fear my audience was bored. My senator did his best, but the Allentown people have many soldiers of their own, and besides they realise the situation. They are Pennsylvania Dutchmen, and that stands for fervent Americanism which ismore real, I think, on account of the stolidness they display.
At Sunbury the folk were awfully glad to see us. Sunbury is a charming place with a beautiful large park in the centre of the town, disturbed a little by the locomotives that seem to rush through its very streets, heedless of whether they kill a few careless Sunburyites on their journey. We spoke to a large and delightful audience of kindly people, who saw all my poor jokes, and sympathised quite a lot with my country in its struggles. I left them all warm friends of the British Empire, I hope. The whole town is sympathetic and we met the niece of the chap who discovered oxygen. I loved the old houses and the quiet restful feeling in the air. The people of Sunbury are with us in the job of finishing the Boche even unto the last man.
At Lock Haven, a fine old town with a great past as a lumbering centre, and with also a fine old inn, we met some nice folk, but things had gone wrong somewhere, and the attendance was very small. It was difficult to gather the attitude of the people.
We left Lock Haven very early in the morning, and commenced a long journey to Erie on a local train, which behaved like a trolley car, for it seemed to stop at every cross roads. Although it lasted eight hours I enjoyed the journey very much, but a journey on an American train, especially inPennsylvania, presents no horrors for me, since I always find several old friends, and make a few new ones on the way.
I had had to talk to a large crowd of travelling men one Saturday afternoon in Philadelphia. They were a fine audience, in spite of the fact that they were all in a state of "afterdinnerness," and the room was full of smoke, which was hard on my rather worn-out throat.
A "travelling man" is a commercial traveller, called by the vulgar, a "drummer"—a little unkindly I think. Until this meeting, and its consequences, I had never understood American travelling men. Now I do. I believe that these men form a kind of incubator for some of the keenness and determined-doggedness that is so marked in the American character.
And so upon the long journey I met several friends. One was travelling for corsets, I believe. The corsets did not interest me,—I'm not sure that they interested my friend very much, but they gave him scope for his profession, as well as an opportunity to bring up a family. I learnt a great deal from these two men, and the many conversations that had bored me a trifle while travelling, came back to my mind.
These fellows have to apply every device, every trick, to carry off their job. Their numbers aregreat and their customers are always on the defensive, so they've got to know more about human nature than about their wares. They have to overcome the defenses of the men they deal with. Their preliminary bombardment has to be intense. They've got to make an impression; either a very good one or an evil one,—both are effective, for an impression of their existence and what they stand for must be left upon the minds of their opponents. I heard two discussing their tactics on this long journey to Erie. One chap spoke of a merchant whose reputation as a notorious bully was well known to travelling men. He was a nasty red-headed fellow, and was overcome in the following way.
The drummer approached the desk and delivered his card. The merchant looked at it and said "What the hell do you mean by wasting my time? I don't want yer goods, what have yer come for?"
The drummer merely said, "I haven't come to sellyouanything."
"Well, what the hell do yer want?" replied the merchant.
"I've merely come to have a good look at as mean a looking red-headed son-of-a-gun as exists on the face of this earth. I collect photographs of atrocities."
The merchant looked furious and then angrily said, "Come in!" So the drummer entered withcertain fears. The red-head seated himself at his desk, and commenced his work, keeping the drummer standing. The drummer, fearing defeat and ignoring the notice "No Smoking," lit a foul cigar, walked over to the desk and commenced blowing clouds of smoke all over the merchant. The "red-headed son-of-a-gun" looked up and grinned. It was not difficult after that.
Finally, at about three-thirty, we reached Erie. We addressed a rather small audience in the court house, and afterwards spent a diverting hour in a local club.
At three-thirtyA.M.we left for Pittsburgh and spent the rest of the early morning in a Pullman sleeper, getting duly asphyxiated. At Pittsburgh we addressed a large crowd of business men called "The Pittsburgh Association of Credit Men." They formed a delightful audience and listened with apparent interest to our story. The trouble is, that men these days, want to hear about atrocities. They like one to tell them about Belgium women getting cut up into impossible pieces and all that sort of thing. I don't see the use of it at all. Besides my job is not to amuse, nor to appeal to the side of a man's character which appreciates newspaper stories of tragedies, but rather to place before him actual conditions as I saw them. It always seems to me that the greatest atrocity of the war was the initial use ofpoisonous gas by the Germans, and the tragedy lay in the fact that human nature became so unsporting as to resort to such methods.
Certain people, talking at dinners and meetings these days, definitely take up a line of speech which chiefly concerns itself in detailing German atrocities. They find it perfectly easy to gain round after round of applause by saying something like the following: "That fiend of hell, the Kaiser, spent years and years plotting against the peace of the world. He massacred little Belgian children, and raped systematically Belgian women. 'One week to Paris, one month to London and three months to New York,' he shrieked. But the American eagle prepared to fight, the British lion roared, and France, fair France, clasped her children to her breast and called for aid across the ocean to the sons of Uncle Sam to whom she had given succor in the dark days of '76."
Now I will admit that talk like that is quite effective and stirs a fellow up quite a lot, but I rather think that ten years hence it will be described as "bull." What American men and American women want is cold facts that can be backed up with proof, convincing proof. Of course there is not a shadow of doubt that the Germans had designs upon the rest of the world, but I have one object in my talks—to endeavor to foster a firm and cordial understanding between my country and America. My objectscannot be attained by detailing horrors, so I allow the newspapers to thrill and amuse them, and I try to tell them things as I myself saw them. Strangely enough I find cold facts "get across" much better than all the British bull dog screaming and eagle barking in the world, which reminds me of the man who said that he only knew two tunes and that he got these mixed up. When asked what the two tunes were he replied, "God save the weasel" and "Pop goes the Queen."
And then we arrived at Washington, Pa. Washington, Pa., will never be forgotten by this British soldier. We found ourselves on a platform looking at as cheerful and delightful a crowd of people as I ever hope to talk to. They were all smiling and gave us a wonderful welcome. I told the children present, that the boys and girls in my country were all taught about George Washington in their schools and sometimes even in the Sunday-schools. I told them that sometimes they mixed him up a little with Moses and the prophets, but, in any case, it was not until they became highly educated that they realized that he was an American. They were a delightful audience, and after I had spoken for about an hour they gave me an encore, so I sang them a comic song. I hated leaving Washington.
Then we arrived at Johnstown and heard about the flood, and the story of the man who was drownedthere and who bored all the saints in Paradise with a reiteration of his experiences in that memorable tragedy, although he was interrupted frequently by a very old man sitting in a corner. The Johnstown saint was annoyed until it was explained to him that the old man was Noah who, it may be remembered, had some flood of his own.
It snowed when we arrived at Huntingdon and consequently the audience in the "movie" theatre was small.
We had a wonderful meeting at Altoona. The people were very enthusiastic and I met some fine warm-hearted Americans afterwards. Sometimes a chap would say, "I've got a Dutch name, Lieutenant, but I'm an American and I'm with you."
Our train caused us to be too late for the meeting at Harrisburg, so we returned to Philadelphia. I hated parting with my senator. The thing I loved best about our tour was the cordial feeling displayed towards me by the hundreds of men I met after the close of the meetings.
I was a little tired, but nevertheless quite sorry when our journey ended.
I have grown to hate the very idea of war and I hope that this will be the last. Still I wonder. What a futile occupation war is when one comes to think of it, but, of course, we could not allow Germany to give a solo performance. Yet there must be an antidote.
Some years ago, on a very warm Sunday afternoon in New Zealand, a number of men from a small college decided to bathe in a rather treacherous looking lake near by. They had all been to chapel that morning, not only because chapel was compulsory, but because the service was usually cheery and attractive and some of them were theological students. Unfortunately one man, little more than a boy, was drowned. The circumstances were distressing because he had just got his degree and was showing promise of a useful life.
I can see it all now; his great friend—for men become great friends in a college—working his arms endeavouring to bring back life long after he was dead; the solemn prayer of the master; the tolling of the chapel bell as the sad procession moved up to the college; and then the friend solemnly deciding to devote his life to the dead boy's work. It was all very sad, but something had been introduced to the whole thing which made the more frivolous amongst us think. We felt different men that night, when one of our number lay dead in the college building. Some of us who knew, felt a great comfort when we saw the friend decide to take up the dead boy's work. We felt that friendship had won a great fight.
The papers were full of it. The aftermath of a tragedy followed. All of us who had been swimmingreceived anonymous P. C's. from religious persons. Mine, I remember, commenced in large letters: "UNLESS YE REPENT YE SHALL LIKEWISE PERISH." Then followed stories of Sabbath breakers upon whom the wrath of God had fallen. It depressed us slightly, but we recovered. The friend, a fine chap, took up the boy's work; and we have since learned that his death has proved more glorious than his life could have been.
When the war broke out in Europe, there were not wanting in England persons who sought to find a cause for the expression of God's wrath as they deemed the war to be. England had sinned and God was about to punish her. God was angry and the beautiful youth of England had to be sacrificed to His wrath. One by one, and in thousands, God would kill them, until we should repent, and then all would be well, until we should once more be steeped in worldliness. Isn't the idea terrible; the yearning of the mother for her boys whom she only thinks of now as children when they played around her and confided their every trouble, the loneliness of the friend who has lost a wonderful thing, friendship—all part of God's punishment! And the people who go to church place above the chimney piece in the servant's hall, "God is Love"—and sometimes even in the day nursery.
I once saw five soldiers killed by one unlucky shotfrom a whizz-bang. The place was unhealthy, so I did not wait long, but I had just time to think of the feelings of mothers and sweethearts when the official notification should arrive. They lay there as though sleeping, for men newly killed don't always look terrible. I can't blame God for it. You can't.
Now that we know what war is we are all seeking for an antidote—trying to find something that will prevent its recurrence, and we haven't found it yet. Leagues of nations are suggested, which is quite an old idea and one practised by the Highland clans. General disarmament comes to the fore again. Who is going to disarm first? Can the nations trust one another? Of course they can't. Peace of long duration will, of course, follow this war. The disease will have run its course and the patient exhausted will have a long convalescence and then—God! what will the next war be like?
History seems to teach us that war is a kind of disease that breaks out at regular intervals and spreads like an epidemic. Hence we must find some serum that will inoculate us against it.
Like all obvious things the antidote is around us, staring us in the face. We feel it when we look upon the mountains clothed in green with their black rocks pointing to the God who made them. We see it in the pansy turning its wee face up to the sun until its stalk nearly breaks, so great is its devotion.We can see it when by accident we tread upon the foot of a favourite dog, when, with many tail waggings, in spite of groans difficult to hold back, he approaches with beseeching eyes, begging that the cause of all the trouble will not take it too hardly. We see it on the face of a mother; it is the thing longed for on the face of a friend; it was on the face of Jesus when he said to the prostitute, "Neither do I condemn thee." It is the greatest thing in the world, for it is love.
The very remark "God is Love" at once suggests church. We see at once the elderly father, all his wild oats sown, walking home from church with stately tread, followed by the wife who is not deceived if she stops to think. The old tiresome remark, "He goes to church on Sunday, but during the week—Mon Dieu," at once springs to our minds. Why is it that quite a number of healthy young men dislike church so much? Watch these same young men playing with a little sister or a favourite dog. See the cowboy, not on the movie screen where a poor old bony hack gets his mouth pulled to bits by certain screen favourites, but the real thing. See the good wheel driver in the artillery, especially if he is a wheel driver, sitting back when no one is looking and preventing his gees from doing too much work, or the centre driver giving the lead driver hell when the traces in front are hanging in festoons,at once showing that the leaders are not doing their work. It is all love. But in its home, the church, of a truth, it is stiffly clothed, if it is not taught by a person whose vocation is really a candy store. Yet if we are to prevent war from recurring we have got to introduce love into the world. It is truly our only chance.
Do you see, this world is the product of love. There seem to have been applied but few rules and regulations. The mountains are not squares, the hills are not cubes, the rivers don't run straight. They are all irregular and they are all lovely. So man, the product of love, is hopelessly irregular at times. He just cannot live according to rules or regulations, but he can love if he is allowed to.
Of course, no one will believe this. It is just a wallow in sentiment I suppose, but I learnt about it on the battlefields of France and Flanders—a strange place to learn a strange lesson.
Some dear old lady will say, "How beautiful"; and some old fellow with many a cheery party to his credit, not always nice, will say as he sits back, "Very true, but how hopelessly impracticable."
And so this thing that I am daring to talk about is the life-buoy thrown out to us, and it seems so ridiculous, even to write about it. Just imagine a statesman searching for an antidote for war and after careful consideration deciding to apply theantidote I have suggested. In three days he would be placed in a lunatic asylum. And yet it could be done. Perhaps it could be applied in America.
"There are many things in the commonwealth of Nowhere which I rather wish, then hope, to see adopted in our own," wrote Thomas More after finishing Utopia. Yet America has approached very close to Utopia, according to reports. America will learn a great lesson from our struggles and suffering. War is a rotten sort of occupation. Just imagine all the men who have been killed in this war marching down Piccadilly. Even if they marched in close formation it would take an awfully long time. Yet the whole thing is Love's inferno, but of course we are not going to change, but rather we will continue to build huge battleships, equip huge armies, fight, die, live unnaturally and take our just deserts, and we will get them.
Philadelphia, January, 1918.
I am now definitely employed by Uncle Sam to go about the country giving talks about the war. He must have been pleased with the result of our first effort in Pennsylvania. At any rate it has become my job to go from county capital to county capital, in every state, giving addresses in the Court Houses.
We started off on Wednesday the 15th at 9.15A.M.in the Lehigh Valley Railroad's charming traincalled the "Black Diamond." Our party consisted of my senator, an ex-congressman of Irish extraction, a British Tommy camouflaged as a sergeant, and myself. The British Tommy's job was to bag any Britishers who desired to enlist. Strangely enough everybody wanted him to talk, but he was toldnotto do any talking. I should have had no objection to his obliging our American friends if he had had anything to say, but he had never been to the front, much to his own disappointment, and I disliked the responsibility.
We arrived at a little city called Towanda sometime after lunch and dined in state with the members of the local committee. They all seemed to be judges, so far as I can remember. This may have been owing to the beauty of architecture displayed in the local Court House. We spoke to a fairly large audience. The proceedings were opened by a young lady who advanced with tightly clenched lips, and an air of determination, to a large black and handsomely decorated piano. She struck a chord or two and then a choir of maidens, assisted by some young men, commenced to sing some patriotic airs. They sang very well and then my senator, having been fittingly introduced by one of the leading citizens, addressed the people. I came next, and enjoyed myself thoroughly, for none of my jokes missed fire. Then the congressman spoke and none of his jokes missed fire.At the end of this meeting a suspicion commenced to possess my mind. I began to wonder whether it were not true that the folks living in the country towns were more awake to the situation than their brethren in the cities.
I loved the congressman's effort. The lovely part about his remarks lay in the fact that all the time he felt that he ought to be careful not to introduce too much about Ireland's wrongs.
After the meeting we retired to the hotel and in the night a party of young people returned from a sleighing expedition and commenced to whisper in the room next to mine, which was a sitting-room. They succeeded in waking us up but, by merely whispering, refused to satisfy any curiosity that we possessed. It is a curious thing that ill-bred curiosity seems the predominant quality in a man when he is awakened at night and cannot go to sleep.
The next day we arrived at Tunkhannock, a charming little town, and we addressed a meeting in the Court House. It was freezing, and the ground was covered with snow, but that did not prevent the place of meeting from being crammed with eager, earnest people. I suggested to the congressman that we should talk from the bench, as it gave one more control over the people who were crowded close up to where we were sitting. He looked at me with a twinkle in his Irish eyes and said, "Yes, quiteso—the old British spirit coming out again. If you get up there on the bench, in ten seconds you'll have me in the dock." Of course, amidst laughter, he confided the whole thing to the audience. The people were fine, as keen as mustard. They were all possessed with a firm desire to get along with the job.
That same evening we arrived at Wilkes-Barre and addressed a fairly large meeting in the Y. M. C. A. auditorium. I must honestly admit that I missed the wonderful spirit displayed at Towanda and Tunkhannock. This may be owing to the fact that the city is a large one, and visited a good deal by war lecturers. However, the men we met impressed us greatly, as we all chatted after the meeting in the local club.
The next morning we took a trolley car for Scranton. Scranton! If every town in France, England, Italy, and the United States possessed the spirit displayed by the citizens of Scranton, the war would go with a rush. I had friends in Scranton,—a boy and a girl married to one another, and now possessing a wee friendly baby, and they insisted upon my staying with them. At 7.45 we motored down to the Town Hall, towards which a great stream of people was advancing.
I mounted the platform and found my senator and the congressman safely seated amidst a number of officials and ladies. At eight o'clock some membersof the Grand Army of the Republic took their seats well up to the front, amidst cheers. They were fine looking men, hale and hearty. I wish public speakers would not address these soldiers by telling them that their numbers are dwindling, and so on. They always do it, and the veterans are patient; but when I am eighty I shall object very strongly to anyone suggesting to me that soon I shall descend into the grave. The mere fact that their numbers are dwindling is true, alas, but they have faced death before, and even now they must feel the same irritation with public speakers that Tommy feels when, just before a charge, a chaplain preaches to him about the life to come. However, the ladies feel sobs in their throats and I daresay the soldiers don't mind very much. They have got hardened to it.
At this meeting there were three choirs numbering in all about six hundred voices. An energetic gentleman stood on the stage and commanded the singing, which all the people liked; and smilingly obeyed him when he urged different sections of the audience to sing alone.
Of course we sang the "Star Spangled Banner," and at the chorus one of the men of the Grand Army of the Republic stepped forward, like the soldier he was, and waved a beautiful heavy silk flag gracefully and slowly. The effect was fine.
After some remarks on the part of the chairman,in which he said that the "peaks in the distance shone with a rosy light," my senator spoke. He introduced a remark which I liked very much but had not heard before. It was something about his great-grandfather dying in New York on a British pest ship. His idea was of course to bring out a contrast in regard to the present friendship for Great Britain. I spoke for over an hour, and when I had finished the whole vast audience of nearly four thousand men and women rose to their feet and sang "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow." I felt a little miserable but very proud. It was all very easy, really. The war is a serious business to the Scranton folk and they wanted to hear about things: they have all got a sense of humour, and I have lived with the British Tommy.
The next day we arrived at Mauch Chunk and addressed a wonderful audience of people, some of whom I believe were Pennsylvania Dutchmen and consequently my friends. I wish I could pronounce the name of their town. The local clergyman showed me an application form he had filled in for admittance to the U. S. A. in which he remarked that he was a citizen of the United States by birth, talent and inclination. He is about sixty years old, but he will be a soldier of some sort before this war is over, I am quite sure.
That evening we addressed the citizens of Easton.Apparently the audience consisted of mostly workmen. After the meeting I went to a reception at the house of some people of consequence. The very rich folk of Easton were all here and beautifully dressed. They were awfully nice folk, but I suspect that they ought to have been at the meeting, for, of course, it was arranged by the men keenly interested in the war. I daresay that they felt that they knew all that was to be known about the war, but it seemed to me that they ought to have seized this opportunity to let the folk with fewer opportunities see that they were keenly interested. As a matter of fact, they all knit a great deal and do what they can. Actually, the outstanding fact is this: There were two meetings in Easton. One took place in a school auditorium and was filled with men and women keen as far as one could judge to "carry this thing through." The other took place in a very charming house which was filled with men and women in full evening dress, also keen to "carry this thing through." It is a pity that they could not have met.
We returned to Philadelphia, very tired, but buoyed up with enthusiasm which had been given to us by the people who live in the Susquehanna and Wyoming Valleys. There are other beauty spots in this world, but the man who follows the trail of the Black Diamond up the Wyoming and Susquehanna Valleys sees much that he can never forget.
People in Philadelphia sometimes say that the country is still asleep to the situation. They speak vaguely of the outlying counties. The folk there may be asleep, but to my mind they are giving a very effective sleep-walking performance and I should shrink from waking them up.
After a day's rest in Philadelphia we once more started off and addressed audiences in court houses all crammed to overflowing at York, Gettysburg, Chambersburg, Carlisle, Lewistown, and Middleburg. It would be difficult to say which of these towns displayed the most enthusiasm.
York is a fine town with some beautiful buildings, and an excellent hotel. I lunched with a friend who lives in a country house, a little way out. The landscape was covered with snow but it had rained during the morning, and the thaw had been followed by a sudden frost. The water therefrom running along the branches of the trees became glistening ice. The effect in the sunlight was beautiful as we motored along the chief residential street,—an avenue called after one of the kings of England.
The next day we boarded a local train that carried us to Gettysburg. It was drawn along by one of those beautiful old locomotives that must have dazzled the eyes of children forty years ago. It reached Gettysburg five minutes before its time. I had hoped to spend some time viewing the battlefield, but therewere several feet of snow, so it was difficult. However, we drove to the cemetery and saw the many thousands of graves occupied by the young men who fought and died in a great battle. The weather was bad but the Court House was crammed with people, including some soldiers of the Grand Army of the Republic.
The next day I met the Roman Catholic priest, who had been present, and he told me how he had liked my remark about the Tommies thinking it "rather cute" of the little French children to be able to speak French.
Chambersburg was our next stopping place and here my senator rejoined us, for business had compelled him to go to New York during the first days of the week. The congressman had found it impossible to come with us and we missed him a great deal. Chambersburg seems a bustling community and the Committee of Public Safety had aroused much enthusiasm: the large Court House could not hold all the people who desired to enter.
The next day we arrived in Carlisle. Carlisle is precisely like an English country town. It possesses a Presbyterian church which was built before the Revolution. We were entertained by some friends of the senator. During the day we motored out to the Carlisle School for the American Indians. This was interesting to me since I have read so many stories around the Red Indians. The school forms a pleasant group of buildings.
We approached a large drill hall or gymnasium and at the moment of our entrance a band broke into "God Save the King." In the hall the braves were drawn up on one side and the squaws on the other. I had the honour of inspecting them and later I spoke a few words to them, but my effort seemed stilted and weak compared with the things that filled my mind.
The meeting in Carlisle showed the same enthusiasm that had marked all the meetings throughout the week. I felt at home a little, for the inhabitants are all alleged to be Scotch Irish. The town is sweet and pretty and we regretted that more time could not be spent walking about its streets and examining the quaint old houses, but we had to get on to Middleburg.
The suspicion that had possessed my mind at the beginning of this my last tour of Pennsylvania that the people in the small country towns are very wide-awake to the situation became more insistent after my visit to Middleburg. The temperature was several degrees below zero, and the ground had at least a foot of snow on its surface. The meeting was held at 12.30 but by the time we were ready to start there was not a vacant seat in the whole building and people were standing at the back of the hall. They "wanted to know." It was quite unnecessary to catch their interest by telling them amusing stories. They desired strong meat. To me there seemed inthis charming little community the spirit of the men of Valley Forge who drilled with blood-stained feet in order that the British Empire might gain its freedom. They didn't know that they were fighting for us. They might even have spurned the idea. It is true, nevertheless, and I told the folk at Middleburg this, and they believed me. They believed me, too, when I told them that once more the British people and the American people were allied with the same purpose in view—the downfall of futile autocracy.
The old determined spirit of '76 still exists in America. It lives in the cities where it is difficult for the traveller to see, but in little towns like Middleburg even a Britisher can see it and a feeling of pride creeps over him when he makes the discovery.
How clever our cousins are when it comes to the actual pinch. They were in a criminal state of unpreparedness, just like ourselves; but when they established their Committees of Public Safety throughout the length and breadth of this huge country they showed us something that we might do well to copy. The heart of the organization exists at the capital. Arteries run to the big cities, smaller blood-vessels tap the towns, and little capillaries go out even to the small villages where local orators address the people in the tiny schoolhouses. Hence the people will know about everything; their loyalty and keenness will be kept at the right pitch and theGovernment will then have a certain quantity to base their plans upon.
At the moment the men at the head of affairs are getting the criticism that is so good for them, but no one seems to realise as yet that all mistakes at the moment are not really new mistakes but part of the great big composite mistake of unpreparedness.
I am able to observe the feelings of the people as I go from town to town and I am possessed not merely with a knowledge that we are going to win in our fight against Germany (that is a foregone conclusion), but that the friendship that can be seen arising between my country and this is going to be a wonderful help to us.
I can see this country travelling over some very difficult ground during the next few months, but as the gentleman said at Scranton, the "peaks in the distance shine with a very rosy light."
And so to my own countrymen I can say, "Criticise the American statesman if you desire, since you are well practised in the art; laugh at Uncle Sam's mistakes if you dare, but trust the American boy!" Your trust will not be in vain, for with your own British Tommy, the French Poilu, and the Italian soldier (I don't know what they call him), he will be there, smiling and good-looking, and glad to see the gratitude and love for him too which you will not be able to prevent from appearing on your face when the people of the world can cry at last, "Victory!!!"
Transcriber's NoteSome inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document has been preserved.Typographical errors corrected in the text:Page 9 Day's changed to Days'Page 16 traveling changed to travellingPage 85 damndest changed to damnedestPage 115 Chilians changed to ChileansPage 116 Chilian changed to ChileanPage 118 fall changed to failPage 119 Chilian changed to ChileanPage 128 possesser changed to possessorPage 197 woud changed to wouldPage 201 German's changed to GermansPage 214 eulogise changed to eulogizePage 215 eulogising changed to eulogizingPage 231 stronge changed to strangePage 242 traveler changed to traveller
Transcriber's Note