“All the same,” said Lord Roberts, “I talk of what I know. Germany is preparing for war—and we have no army such as we shall need when it happens.”
It was to my brother, Cosmo Hamilton, then editor of The World in London, that Lord Roberts detailed his scheme of military service. A series of articles, published anonymously in that paper, attracted considerable interest among the small crowd who believed in a big army of defense, but no one knew that every word of them was dictated by Lord Roberts to my brother, as his last message to the nation—before the storm broke.
It was fitting that the little old soldier whose life covered a great span of our imperial history in so many wars, which now some of us look back to without much pride except in the ceaseless courage and the gay adventurous spirit of our officers and men, should die, if not on the field of battle, then at least at General Headquarters within sound of the guns. He had been a prophet of this war. Perhaps if we had believed him more, and if our statesmen and people had realized the frightful menace ahead, it might never have happened. But those “ifs” belong to the irrevocable tragedy of history.
I was a war correspondent in France when he died, but I came back to England to attend his funeral and write my tribute to this great and gallant old man who, in spite of a life of war, or because of it, had a great tenderness in his heart for humanity, a love of peace, and the chivalry which belonged, at least in ideal, to the old code of knighthood.
Going back to the subject of the Shakespeare Memorial Theater, it is amusing to me to remember an interview I had which, at the time, was rather painful. We were anxious to obtain the support of Alverstone, the Lord Chief Justice, on the General Committee, and I drove up in a hansom to his house in Kensington, to put the request before him.
I wore that day a “topper” and a tail coat, and looked so extremely respectable that I impressed the critical eyes of his lordship’s footman. He explained that Lord Alverstone had been away on circuit but was due back very shortly that afternoon. Perhaps I might like to wait for him. I agreed, and was shown into the Lord Chief’s study, where I waited for something like an hour.
During that time I became aware that if I were of a curious and dishonorable mind, I might learn many strange secrets in this room. Bundles of letters and documents were lying on the Lord Chief’s desk. The drawers were unlocked, as I could see by papers revealed in them. A “crook” in this room might get hold of the seals, the writing paper, the signature, and the private correspondence of the Lord Chief Justice of England, and play a great game with them. It seemed to me extraordinary that a footman should put an unknown visitor, on unknown business, into this private room, and leave him there for nearly an hour.
The Lord Chief thought so, too. Just as I was becoming uneasy at my position to the point of ringing the bell and going away, there was a bang at the front door, followed by heavy footsteps in the hall. Then I heard a deep and angry voice say, “Who is he?” A moment later the door of the study was flung open and the great and rather terrifying figure of Lord Alverstone strode in. He stared at me as though about to sentence me to death, and I blenched under his gaze.
“Who the devil are you?” he asked, with a growl of rage and suspicion. “What the devil do you mean by taking possession of my study?”
“Why did your footman show me in, and what do you mean by speaking to me like that?” I answered, suddenly angered by his extraordinary discourtesy.