“It so happens that I was a member of this House at the time,” said Sir Wilfrid, rising. “I was, of course, a very young member then, but I have a recollection of the debate that took place.” The veteran Liberal leader then recited in some detail the debate of forty-three years ago, differentiating between the land act then under discussion and the money bill now before the House. Meantime the Speaker had sent for the ancient Hansard, and subsequently placed the record before the House. It was in exact accordance with Sir Wilfrid’s memories, and both sides of the House paid its senior member the tribute of hearty applause.
Many stories are told which illustrate the wide range of his information and his remarkable memory. On one occasion Sir Adolphe Chapleau, who was a member for many years of successive Conservative Cabinets, was relating his experience as a captain in the Union Army at the Battle of Antietam. A Union battery had taken a position in a corn field which masked its presence from the Confederates.
“When the proper moment came,” said Sir Adolphe, “the order to fire was given by General ——.”
“You are, I think, mistaken,” said Sir Wilfrid, apologizing for the interruption. “It was General ——, who gave the order.”
Sir Adolphe paused in amazement; then he said:—
“You are right. I was there, yet I had forgotten. You were not there, yet you remember. I will tell no more experiences.”
At another time, in Paris, in 1897, Sir Wilfrid and other Canadians, who had visited England for the Jubilee of Queen Victoria, were being conducted about the city. At the Arc de Triomphe, inscribed with the names of the great victories of the Napoleonic wars, an army officer undertook to give the dates of the different battles.
“Marengo,” he said, “was fought in July 14th., 1801.”
“It was,” replied the officer, abashed. “Evidently we must go to Canada to learn French history.”
Sir Wilfrid Laurier in a very real sense was passionately fond of children. He relaxed to them, he loved them, and they loved him. Children seemed to get closer to “the Chief” than anyone else. There were times, in the stress of big events, when matters of policy were to be determined, when situations had to be gauged and met, when Sir Wilfrid seemed to shut himself behind an expressionless face to do his thinking. His friends and lieutenants sought counsel from him then without success. No premature intimations were forthcoming. He became to all associated with him a seeker—not a giver—of information. One left his presence, having gone for guidance, with the conviction that he had laid bare his whole mind and thought at the delicate prompting of the Chief’s skilful interrogations, but realizing that the latter had communicated nothing.