HOW THE MESSAGE WAS DELIVERED

October, 1915.—So much has happened since I came home from Flanders in June, and I have not had one moment in which to write of it. I found my house occupied when I returned, so I went to the Petrograd Hotel and stayed there, going out of London for Sundays.

Everyone I met in England seemed absorbed in pale children with adenoids. No one cared much about the war. Children in houses nowadays require food at weird hours, not roast mutton and a good plain Christian pudding, but, "You will excuse our beginning, I know, dear, Jane has to have her massage after lunch, and Tom has to do his exercises, and baby has to learn to breathe." This one has its ears strapped, and that one is "nervous" and must be "understood," and nothing is talked of but children. My mother would never have a doctor in the house; "nervousness" was called bad temper, and was dosed, and stooping was called "a trick," and was smacked. The children I now see eat far too much, and when they finish off lunch with gravy drunk out of tumblers it makes me feel very unwell.

I went to the Breitmeyers, at Rushton Hall, Kettering; it's a fine place, but I was too tired to enjoy anything but a bed. The next Sunday I stayed at Chenies, with the Duchess of Bedford—always a favourite resort of mine—and another week I went to Welwyn.

I met a few old men at these places, but no one else. Everyone is at the front. The houses generally have wounded soldiers in them, and these play croquet with a nurse on the lawn, or smoke in the sun. None of them want to go back to fight. They seem tired, and talk of the trenches as "proper 'ell."

There is always a little too much walking about at a "week-end." One feels tired and stiff on Monday. I well remember last summer having to take people three times to a distant water garden—talking all the time, too! People are so kind in making it pleasant that they wear one out.

All the time I was in London I was preparing my campaign of lecturing. I began with Vickers-Maxim works at Erith, on Wednesday, 9th June, and on the 8th I went to stay with the Cameron Heads. There was great bustle and preparation for my lecture, Press people in the house at all hours of the day, and so on. A great bore for my poor friends; but they were so good about it, and I loved being with them.

The lecture was rather a red-letter occasion for me, everyone praising, the Press very attentive, etc., etc. The audience promised well for future things, and the emotion that was stirred nearly bowled myself over. In some of the hushes that came one could hear men crying. The Scott Gattys and a few of my own friends came to "stand by," and we all drove down to Erith in motor-cars, and returned to supper with the Vickers at 10.30.

The next day old Vickers sent for me and asked me to name my own price for my lectures, but I couldn't mix money up with the message, so I refused all pay, and feel happy that I did so. I can't, and won't, profit by this war. I'd rather lose—I am losing—but that doesn't matter. Nothing matters much now. The former things are swept away, and all the old barriers are disappearing. Our old gods of possession and wealth are crumbling, and class distinctions don't count, and even life and death are pretty much the same thing.

The Jews say the Messiah will come after the war. I think He is here already—but on a cross as of yore!

I went up to Glasgow to make arrangements there, and my task wasn't an easy one. Somehow I knew that I must speak, that I must arouse slackers, and tell rotters about what is going on. One goes forth (led in a way), and only then does one realise that one is going in unasked to ship-building yards and munition sheds and docks, and that one is quite a small woman, alone, and up against a big thing.

Always the answer I got was the same: "The men are not working; forty per cent. are slackers. The output of shells is not what it ought to be, but they won't listen!"

In the face of this I arranged seven meetings in seven days, to take place early in August, and then I went back to give my lecture in the Queen's Hall, London. I took the large Hall, because if one has a message to deliver one had better deliver it to as many people as possible. It was rather a breathless undertaking, but people turned up splendidly, and I had a full house. Sir F. Lloyd gave me the band of the Coldstream Guards, and things went with a good swing.

I am still wondering how I did it. The whole "campaign" has already got rather an unreal atmosphere about it, and often, after crowded meetings, I have come home and lain in the dark and have seen nothing but a sea of faces, and eyes all turned my way. It has been a most curious and unexpected experience, but England did not realise the war, and she did not realise the wave of heroism that is sweeping over the world, and I had to tell about it.

Well, my lectures went on—Erith, Queen's Hall, Sheffield (a splendid meeting, 3,000 people inside the hall and 300 turned away at the door!), Barrow-in-Furness. I gave two lectures at Barrow, at 3 and 7.30. They seemed very popular. In the evening quite a demonstration—pipe band playing "Auld lang syne," and much cheering. After that Newcastle, and back to the south again to speak there. Everywhere I took my magic-lantern and showed my pictures, and I told "good stories" to attract people to the meetings, although my heart was, and is, nearly breaking all the time.

Then I began the Glasgow campaign—Parkhead, Whiteinch, Rose-Bank, Dumbarton, Greenock, Beardmore's, Denny's, Armour's, etc., etc. Everywhere there were big audiences, and although I would have spoken to two listeners gladly, I was still more glad to see the halls filled. The cheers of horny-handed workmen when they are really roused just get me by the throat till I can't speak for a minute or two!

At one place I spoke from a lorry in the dinner-hour. All the men, with blackened faces, crowded round the car, and others swung from the iron girders, while some perched, like queer bronze images, on pieces of machinery. They were all very intent, and very polite and courteous, no interruptions at any of the meetings. A keen interest was shown in the war pictures, and the cheers were deafening sometimes.

After Glasgow I went to dear Clemmie Waring's, at Lennel, and found her house full of convalescent officers, and she herself very happy with them and her new baby. I really wanted to rest, and meant to enjoy five days of repose; but I gave a lecture the first night, and then had a sort of breakdown and took to my bed. However, that had to be got over, and I went down to Wales at the end of the week. The Butes gave me their own rooms at Cardiff Castle, and a nice housekeeper looked after me.

There followed a strange fortnight in that ugly old fortress, with its fine stone-work and the execrable decorations covering every inch of it. The days passed oddly. I did a little writing, and I saw my committee, whom I like. Colonel Dennis is an excellent fellow, and so are Mr. Needle, Mr. Vivian Reece, and Mr. Harrison. A Mr. Howse acted as secretary.

The first day I gave a dock-gate meeting, and spoke from a lorry, and that night I had my great meeting at Cardiff. Sir Frank Younghusband came down for it, and the Mayor took the chair. The audience was enthusiastic, and every place was filled. At one moment they all rose to their feet, and holding up their hands swore to fight for the right till right was won. It was one of the scenes I shall always remember.

Every day after that I used to have tea and an egg at 5 o'clock, and a motor would come with one of my committee to take me to different places of meeting. It was generally up the Rhondda Valley that we went, and I came to know well that westward drive, with the sun setting behind the hills and turning the Taff river to gold. Every night we went a little further and a little higher—Aberdare, Aberystwyth, Toney Pandy, Tonepentre, etc., etc. I gave fourteen lectures in thirteen days. Generally, I spoke in chapels, and from the pulpit, and this seemed to give me the chance I wanted to speak all my mind to these people, and to ask them and teach them what Power, and Possession, and Freedom really meant. Oh, it was wonderful! The rapt faces of the miners, the hush of the big buildings, and then the sudden burst of cheering! At one meeting there was a bumptious-looking man, with a bald head, whom I remember. He took up his position just over the clock in the gallery. He listened critically, talked a good deal, and made remarks. I began to speak straight at him, without looking at him, and quite suddenly I saw him, as I spoke of our men at the war, cover his face and burst into tears.

The children were the only drawback. They were attracted by the idea of the magic-lantern, and used to come to the meetings and keep older people out. My lectures were not meant for children, and I had to adopt the plan of showing the pictures first and then telling the youngsters to go, and settling down to a talk with the older ones, who always remained behind voluntarily.

We had some times which I can never forget; nor can I forget those dark drives from far up in the hills, and the mists in the valley, and my own aching fatigue as I got back about midnight. From 5 till 12.30 every night I was on the stretch.

In the day-time I used to wander round the garden. One always meets someone whom one knows. I had lunch with the Tylers one day, and tea with the Plymouths. It was still, bright autumn weather, and the trees were gold in the ugly garden with the black river running through it. I got a few lessons in motor driving, and I spoke at the hospital one afternoon. I took the opportunity of getting a dress made at rather a good tailor's, and time passed in a manner quite solitary till the evenings.

Never before have I spent a year of so much solitude, and yet I have been with people during my work. I think I know now what thousands of men and women living alone and working are feeling. I wish I could help them. There won't be many young marriages now. What are we to do for girls all alone?

To Mrs. Keays-Young.

Cardiff Castle, Cardiff,

31 August, 1915.

Dearest Baby,

Many thanks for your letter, which I got on my way through London. I spent one night there to see about some work I am having done in the house.

I have a drawer quite full of press-cuttings, and I do not know what is in any of them. It is difficult to choose anything of interest, as they are all a good deal alike, and all sound my trumpet very loudly; but I enclose one specimen.

We had meetings every night in Glasgow. They were mostly badly organised and well attended. Here I have an agent arranging everything, and two of my meetings have been enormous. The first was at the dock-gates in the open air, and the second in the Town Hall. The band of the Welch Regiment played, and Mr. Glover conducted, but nothing is the same, of course. Alan is at Porthcawl, and came to see me this morning.

The war news could hardly be worse, and yet I am told by men who get sealed information from the Foreign Office that worse is coming.

Poor Russia! She wants help more than anyone. Her wounded are quite untended. I go there next month.

The King of the Belgians has made me Chevalier de l'Ordre de LÉopold.

Love to all.

Yours ever,

S.

Press-cutting enclosed in Miss Macnaughtan's letter: