To most in Ottawa the end had come with dramatic suddenness because his distinguished figure, striking face and debonair smile were familiar to all residents. Never for a moment did he relinquish his keen interest in life, in people, and in all the various events which make up the life of the Capital, and so he was to be seen regularly at meetings of the Canadian Club and gatherings of various associations which made Ottawa their headquarters. In public he displayed no sign that time had yet weakened his physical edifice, and public men to-day say that in private conversation up to near the end he displayed the same acumen, charm and ready wit which had always distinguished him. Very near friends, however, say that he realized the end could not be delayed many years, chiefly because of the growing weakness and lassitude which he felt on rising in the mornings. During the day it always wore off, and he fought courageously against the weakness, rising always at his regular hour, day after day getting the better of his weakness, and never under any circumstance showing anything but a cheerful countenance.
On Sunday morning when he had his first fainting attack of some minutes’ duration he himself felt it to be the realization of the premonition which he had experienced and occasionally mentioned to close friends. For the moment, entirely oblivious to all but the attack, he said quietly to Lady Laurier: “It is the end.” Later, however, when he had partially recovered and was able to talk he did not speak as though he expected the end so soon. He seemed to think that, after all, he had weathered the attack, for when the gong rang for luncheon he rose with the intention of appearing at the table. His courageous habit of always combatting weakness, in this case was his undoing, as it brought on a second stroke, or the first one, if the fainting fit in the morning is not regarded as the result of a slight stroke.
“Every farm house and every village within twenty miles is empty to-day,” said one who knows Ottawa well, on the morning of the funeral of Sir Wilfrid Laurier. Although the dead Leader was buried with all the civil pomp of a State funeral and all the high ceremonial of an ancient Church, the plain people also bore their part. If you are a day laborer, there were just such workmen as you showing their respect and mourning; if you are a farmer, there were just such farmers as you standing with uncovered heads when the hearse went by. No matter who you are or what your station in life—high or lowly, rich or poor, proud or humble—you were truly represented at the funeral of this man who, because he was so chivalrous and so human, belonged to all classes and to all the people.
Before Ottawa was stirring, the city was already being filled with the gathering crowd. To the ordinary passenger accommodation of the railways many special trains had been added to bring visitors from other cities and distant provinces. While the gathering crowd was pouring in from the stations, the streets approaching the city were filled with people coming in all manner of vehicles, and even with thousands coming afoot. By the time the Capital was awake it was already in the possession of what was perhaps the greatest crowd it has ever known. As the day was mild—a grey day, frosty but kindly, with snow under foot and the sun shining through a thick haze—the visitors were able to stand about in the streets without discomfort. The route of the funeral procession having been announced, every available point of observation was crowded long before the proceedings began. All was orderly, as was to be expected, but the prevailing air was one of cheerfulness. Their hero had lived to the fullness of time, and they had come to show their respect, rather than to mourn. Everywhere groups were engaged in low-voiced conversation, and at times even hushed laughter might be heard. This would be when someone told a treasured story about the dead Chieftain.
But as all the stories told illustrated the other world and other time courtliness of manner, which often made him appear in startling contrast with crude surroundings, there was no disrespect in telling or appreciating them at such a time. Those who told them and those who heard them only loved him the more for graces they admired but could not emulate.
Those who had been favored by the Government with invitations to the State funeral began to assemble early at the Museum, where the body lay in state in the room that is now being used by the Commons. Every walk of Canadian public activity was represented. Besides the high officials of the State, men eminent in the Church, education and social life of the country were represented. Mingling with these, who were mostly young or still in the full vigor of life, were many grey-haired veterans, colleagues of the dead statesman in early campaigns, whose faces were once familiar in the Capital. By 10 o’clock the corridors were crowded. There was much handshaking, and introductions back and forth, while they waited to take their part in the formal farewell to the dead.
Presently officials began to call out instructions, now in English, now in French, and the procession began to form. Following the hearse was a display that would have amazed anyone who thinks of Canada as a land of ice and snow. Half a score of sleighs bearing huge terraced floats that had been built for the occasion were piled high with the floral offerings that had been sent from all parts of Canada or ordered by cable and telegraph from all parts of the world. Banked against a background of flowing purple and funereal black, these many-colored flowers made summer in the midst of winter and brought the seasons in mourning behind that sable hearse. Slowly and with fitting majesty the long procession wound through the white streets with their unbroken guard of citizens. At no place between the Museum and the Basilica, where High Mass was celebrated, was there a spot where anyone could stand or crowd in that was not occupied. As the hearse passed, bearing what was mortal of him who had put on immortality, the watchers uncovered their heads, and their eyes were dimmed by a sudden gust of tears.
In the Basilica, which was draped in black, purple, and gold for this Imperial mourning, the coffin was placed in a golden catafalque crowned with lighted tapers. High overhead was suspended a huge crown with streamers of black and purple looped away into the dim distances of the pillared cathedral. High dignitaries chanted the Mass, while the choir responded to the full music of the great organ. Nothing was lacking to add state and awe to the passing of this simple citizen, who in life needed nothing beyond his native dignity to make him first among the peers.
When the funeral service was over and we passed out of the dim aisles of the Basilica I looked up and saw with sudden exaltation that the sun had broken through the mists and clouds and was shining down as if mourning had been turned to rejoicing. So it seemed, and so I shall believe it to be. I, who had come in from the fields and the open spaces, felt that a great work was ended and that a greater had begun. I felt that all that had raised this man above his fellows and apart from them was now put away. The last ceremonial was ended. Now that his body had been laid in death with the Kings and counsellors of the earth, the spirit of Sir Wilfrid Laurier, a man of the people, had passed into the wide spaces, golden sunshine and open air of the land he loved, to be an inspiration to all Canadians as long as chivalry, courtesy and high achievements are prized among men.