I went to a "coming-out party" yesterday and ate some interesting food, chatted with some amusing girls, and then rushed into John Wanamaker's to help to sell Liberty Bonds. I stood at the base of a bronze eagle and harangued a large audience, but not a soul bought a bond. However, a lady whose father was English was partially overcome and fell on my chest in tears. She was about fifty. I should liked to have hugged her, but I did not know her very well, although the introduction was vivid.
I manage generally to hold the interest of my audience, but I wish I were Irish. I always love to talk to American men. They make a fine audience. Having found it difficult in England to grow up, my growth towards a reverend and sober mien has been definitely stunted during my year in America. Americans don't "grow up." An American possesses the mind of a man, but always retains the heart of a child, so if you've got to speak, it is quite easy to appeal to that great, wonderful Yankee heart. Of course, my greatest opportunity came on the Fourth of July, 1917. I realise more and more every day what a tremendous honour was paid to me by my friends of Bethlehem.
Towards the middle of June, the town council of Bethlehem met to discuss the annual municipal celebration of America's Independence. They discussed the choice of an orator and unanimously decided that it would be a graceful act of courtesy to ask a British officer to do the job. The lot evidently fell upon me, and the local Episcopal parson waited upon me, and put the request, admitting that only judges, ex-governors, colonels, and big people like that had been asked in previous years. I said "Right, O!" And then began to reflect upon the great honour shown to my country and me. As I have told you before, the population of Bethlehem is largely of Teutonic descent and there are quite a large number of Irishmen here. Never in the history of the United States had an Englishman in full uniform delivered the Independence Day oration. I was a little frightened. You see the folk thought it would be a nice thing to do; a sort of burying the hatchet.
Many days before, I wrote out a series of speeches, and wondered if I should get stage fright. I felt that the job might prove too difficult for me.
The Glorious Fourth arrived, ushered in by the banging of many fireworks, making it difficult, and a little dangerous for law abiding and humble citizens. I cleaned and polished up my uniform, slung a gas mask and wallet round my shoulders, and awaited the automobile that should take me to the campus. It came at last, and I found myself standing surrounded by two bands and about three thousand people.
The children were firing all kinds of infernal pistols and crackers, and I wondered how I should be able to make myself heard by the large throng of people. The National Guard lined up, and the band commenced to play various tunes. After a time silence was called, and the band broke into "The Star Spangled Banner" while the National Guard and I saluted. The people then solemnly repeated the oath of allegiance to the Republic, while the flag was solemnly unfurled on a huge flagstaff. It was all very solemn and inspiring, and became more so when a clergyman read a Psalm. Then the bands played "America" which seems to have the same time as "God Save the King" while we endeavoured to sing the words. The Chief Burgess then addressed the throng, but being an elderly man, his inspiring address was heard by only a very few.
Soon it was my turn to speak, and in fear and trembling I mounted a little stand improvised for the occasion. I looked at the old building beside me in which our wounded of the Revolution had been cared for by the gentle Moravians. I looked at the people around me, thousands of happy faces all looking with kindliness and friendship towards me. I don't know exactly what I said, but perhaps the spirits of the poor British Tommies who had died fighting for their king in the old building behind helped a little, for I know that during the half hour I spoke every face was fixed intently upon me, and when I finally got down, there was a mighty cheer that went straight to my heart. At any rate I had that thing which is greater than the speech of men and of angels, and without which the greatest orator's speech is like sounding brass and tinkling cymbals—Love. I had a very great love for my friends of Bethlehem, a love that refused to differentiate between Anglo-Saxons and Teutons, and they knew it, consequently they listened with a great patience.
After the band had once more played, and a clergyman had said a prayer, hundreds and hundreds came forward and shook hands. There were veterans of the Civil War who threw their chests out and offered to go back to France and fight with me. One old gentleman with snowy hair said "Lad, it was an inspiration." Then exiles, mostly women from England, Ireland, and Scotland, came up, some weeping a little, and said "God Bless you." One darling old Irish lady said "Sure Oirland would get Home Rule if you had any power in England."
Sometimes I think that we humans are a little too fond of talking. Perhaps it might be a good idea to remember at this time the words of the great chancellor: "Great questions are not to be solved by speeches and the resolutions of majorities but by blood and iron." I suppose for the Allies it gets down to that finally, but they all do an awful lot of talking.