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King Albert's Book 2/6 • Tribute
3 years ago
By FLORA ANNIE STEEL
Sunrise
THE shells had been shrieking and screaming all day long; but now that
the dusk had fallen they were silent.
So on this All Souls' night the moon could rise, still, silvery, serene over
the ruined village. And the cold, remote radiance softened the charred
glow of still burning rafters to cool glimmerings, and made the little trails
of smoke rising from them show like incense seeking the star-strewn sky.
Carven stones heaped high in weird shapeless piles showed where for count-
less generations the village church had stood; and high amongst these
rose the stone Crucifixion let into the wall behind the altar, which a
generation of men, long since past and gone, had hewn out of a solid block.
So it stood still erect, a sorrowful figure to which those countless generations
of patient people had brought their hopes, their fears, their sins, their
successes, and their failures.
The altar itself was shattered, but the steps remained, and on them — seeking
the shelter of a high piled heap of debris from the tower — lay three figures.
One was crumpled up face downwards almost as it had first fallen. Another
with helpless loose-hanging arm sate limply on the top step. The third
had crawled to the very foot of the Cross and lay restfully its head upon
a splintered stone.
All was still as the grave. Then suddenly, waveringly, came a man's voice:
"It's a long, long way to Tipperary."
The chant ended in a sort of sob, as the seated figure on the top step rose
to its feet unsteadily.
"I seed 'im move," murmured the Englishman, "an' I 'oped he was a deader."
So he stood, looking down on the crumpled figure. "Must be beastly oneasy,"
he continued. "Lordy! ain't 'e like the bumbadeer arter 'e got one from Charpenteer."
Then he paused ; so after a space looked back and called out:
"Hi! you there, Frenchy! Wake up, Jacko, and give a h'arm with this German bloke,
there's a decent chap."
The man who rested his head on the splintered altar-stone sate up, showing
himself a long-limbed, broad-shouldered Breton, kindly but uncompre-
hending. The gestures of the other, however, were sufficient added to the
explanation:
"'E ain't comfy, see you, Jacko! and 'e ain't got long t'er be comfortable;
so let's 'eft 'im up."
Jean the Breton nodded at John the Englishman and half crawled, half
limped, down the steps to lend an aid. Together the two wounded men
dragged the third to more fitting rest, where on his back he could breathe
easier, for he was shot through the lungs; but in the process the helmet
he had worn fell off and rolled, glinting and clanking, into the shadows.
"E mieuox comm' ça," remarked Jean the Breton approvingly in his patois.
"Beastly unbecomin' things, 'elmets," said John the Englishman in his.
But Johan the German only opened his blue eyes on his enemies and drew
in a long gasping breath. They none of them understood each other's
speech, but something older than the Tower of Babel had given them
comprehension and was to give them more.
For something else besides the helmet had fallen from its place in that
laborious journey up the altar steps. The wounded German had torn his
tunic open in his first agonised fight for breath and from it had slipped a
cheap locket attached to a cheap chain, and holding a cheap photograph
cheaply coloured — the photograph of a fair-haired baby.
"By gum! Ain't it like my kid," muttered John the Englishman, and
from his khaki tunic he drew another cheap locket.
And Jean the Breton, not to be outdone, followed suit in his blue coatee.
So there in the still, silvery, serene moonlight showed three fair-haired,
blue-eyed baby faces, framed in tawdry pinchbeck; but the faces were the
faces of immortality — the symbol of the race.
"Mon p'tit fils," murmured Jean the Breton fondly. "Mon p'tit Jean."
"Hello! Jacky my boy," chirruped John the Englishman, trying to hide
the ache in his heart under a smile.
But Johan the German only rolled his head from side to side and his lips
moved as if he would have said "Vater." Perhaps he was thinking of his
country. Perhaps his dying ear had become more acute to the sounds that
matter, and he was forestalling the little wailing cry which after a space
rose fitfully among the ruins, "Faster! Faster! Faster! Faster!"
The cry of a child!
Yes! the wail of a sturdy little Flemish fellow of two, who came totteringly
over the scattered stones with his bare feet. He wore a quaint little night
garment; so, in the hurry of flight, he must have been left behind asleep.
But now, awake, his insistent "Faster! Faster! Faster!" was like the
cry of a plover luring danger from her nest.
In the next five minutes John the Englishman's wounded arm forgot itself,
and Jean the Breton's splintered knee and wrist secured solace, but Johan
the German's wistful eyes were all he could place at the service of the little
lad, until as the pitiful wailing would not cease, a trembling hand pointed
waveringly to a haversack, and once again the unwritten unspoken word
brought comprehension. The little Flamand munching away contentedly
at a concentrated German sausage ration gave his name shyly with a smile
as "Jan—pi'ou' Jan."
"Mon p'tit gars—mon Jean," murmured the Breton ecstatically, and fell
to dreaming of a cottage among apple orchards.
"Kids is terrible similar!" pronounced the Englishman with awe in his
voice, and fell to dreaming of a tenement-flat high up among the chimneys.
But the German's dazed mind could not get beyond a vague insistent
dream, and his blood-stained lips moved as if he would have said "Vater."
He was evidently going fast, and all things worth having in this life—love
and loyalty—were bound up in that word.
Still with one final effort he pointed to the thick overcoat which they had
spread over him and motioned they should wrap the drowsy child in it.
They did not say him nay; he was too far gone for that.
"But I ain't agoin' to disturb you, sonny," said John the Englishman
cheerfully. "There's room of a little un beside you—so creep in, Jackie."
"Ses prières?" expostulated Jean the Breton; he was a devout Catholic.
"N'oublies pas tes prières, mon p'tit Jean."
And the little fellow understanding the man's clasped hands murmured
something sleepily. No one understood the words, but their spirit—the
spirit of father and son—was in the hearts of the listeners.
And one of them saw further to that spirit than the others, gave a long gasp,
and lay still.
"He's off, pore chap," said John the Englishman,
"but let be Creep in, sonny—you'll both rest the better mayhap."
Jean the Breton looked at the dead face that lay so close to the child's and
crossed himself as he murmured the dimittance prayer which sends a soul
to find freedom.
After that the moon, still, silvery, serene, shone on a silent group about the
feet of the Christ with its eternal message of forgiveness, of reconciliation,
of immortal fatherhood and sonship.
So the silent night passed, till in the east the blood-red glow of dawn
heralded another dreadful day, and incarnadined the crown of thorns upon
the Sorrowful Brow.
And almost with the glow came the shriek, the scream of the first shell
fired by the advancing Germans as a precaution lest the village should have
been reoccupied during the night.
It did not disturb the sleepers. The ears of one were deaf to strife forever,
and the child, in childhood's deep dreamless sleep, slept on. The two
others lying either side, used to long days and nights of such hellish devilish
tumult, only stirred, and, half conscious, threw each a protecting arm across
the dead man and the child.
The swift crackle passed, the sharp resounding explosion was over ere it
could be realised, sending out a fierce rain of scattering shrapnel.
After that there was no sound save the soft breathing of little Jan as he lay
secure beneath dead protecting arms, his head pillowed on his dead enemy's heart.
And as the child slept the sun rose and turned the incarnadined crown of
thorns upon the bowed head of the Son of Man into a crown of gold.
By VISCOUNT BRYCE
ALL honour to the Belgian King and the Belgian People. No king and
no nation, not even the oldest and the strongest nation, has shown more
dignity and gallantry than Belgium, which is among the youngest and the
smallest in area of European States.
When Belgium was erected into a kingdom in 1832, many doubted whether
a real nation could be formed by linking together the Flemish element and
the Walloon element, races that had different characteristics and spoke
different languages. But Belgium has grown to be a truly united nation,
consolidated by a fervent patriotism. She has produced many men of
literary and artistic genius, poets and jurists and scholars and men of science,
painters who have renewed the great traditions of Rubens and Vandyck.
The principles of constitutional liberty have taken root and flourished among
her citizens, and her annals have been adorned by not a few capable and high-
minded statesmen. Her peasantry, laborious and resourceful, have brought
her soil to a wonderful pitch of productiveness, while a skill and enterprise
have made some among her manufacturing industries second to none in
Europe. Peace and prosperity have reigned such as these regions had not
seen since the days of Duke Philip the Good, nearly five centuries ago.
All this peace and prosperity have been suddenly and ruthlessly torn from
her. Her fields have been laid waste, her cities burned. Treasures of Art
have been destroyed and the people have been reduced to poverty or driven
forth as helpless refugees. All this Belgium has suffered because she refused
to forfeit her independence and betray the pledge of neutrality she had given,
a pledge which was the very foundation of her independence. Confronted
by armies ten times their strength, her King and people risked everything
for Honour, and everything save Honour they have lost. But Honour is
the greatest thing. It has won for them the admiration of the world. It
will be a glorious memory to them and their children when freedom and
independence, peace and prosperity, have been restored, as they must be,
and we trust soon will be, restored.
We in Britain salute the gallant King and the gallant Army which still fights
heroically on, reduced to less than one-third of its strength. We sorrow
at their sufferings. We will not rest till those sufferings are ended and the
invader has been expelled. And we thank them for the example they have set
to all Europe and to the generations yet to come. History records no finer
example since Thermopylae of untarnished fidelity and undaunted courage.
By PAUL HERVIEU
Once upon a time there lived a King and a Queen...
Indeed, it would be the most touching and edifying
fairy-tale imaginable, this true story of H.M.
Albert I and H.M. Queen Elisabeth!
It would tell of their quiet and noble devotion to their
daily tasks, of the purity of their happy family life...
Suddenly, the Devil would intervene, with his treats and his offers...
Then we sould hear of the soverigns and the people
of Belgium agreeing at once in their sense of honour and heroism.
Then the dastardly invasion, and the innumerable
host of infernal spirits breathing out sulphur, belching
torrents of iron, and raining fire; city dwellings
transformed into the shattered columns of cemeteries;
innocent creatures tortured and victimised; and the
King and Queen with their kingdom reduced to a
sandhill on the shore, and the remnant of their valiant
army round them.
And at last, at last! That turn of the tide which all
humanity worthy of the name desires so ardently,
and which even the baser sort now sees to be surely
approaching.
At this point in the story, at this page of the legendary
tale, how the children would clap their hands, with
all that love of justice innate in children, and how the
faces of worthy parents would beam with the approval
of satisfied consciences!
And in the future, those who contemplate the Royal
Arms with the pious admiration due to them, will see
a blooming rose side by side with the Lion of Belgium,
typifying the immortal share of H.M. Queen Elisabeth
in the glory of H.M. Albert I.
By ADMIRAL LORD FISHER OF KILVERSTONE
"THE Lord God of recompences shall surely requite."
Jeremiah, chap. 51, verse 56.
"One poor girl of nineteen was found stripped, outraged and dead."
Special Correspondent of The Times (Oct. 25, 1914)
By VISCOUNT GLADSTONE
THE best tribute to King Albert and his gallant Belgians from all to whom
opportunity falls, lies in personal effort and service to relieve multitudes of
men, women, and children who are suffering because of Belgium's heroic
sacrifice for Liberty and International Justice.
By NORMAN ANGELL
BELGIUM has done this great service for all of us: she has shown how
great a little country may be and how little a great one may become. She
has shown that the real nobility of patriotism is not a matter of wide territory
and political power and does not need to be nourished by these things;
while the action of Germany towards Belgium has shown that power and
size may well destroy all that makes patriotism worthwhile.
By ELLA WHEELER WILCOX
Belgium
Ruined? Destroyed? Ah no; though blood in rivers ran
Dozen all her ancient streets; through treasures manifold
Love-wrought, time-mellowed, and beyond the price of gold
Are lost, yet Belgium's star shines still in God's vast plan.
Rarely have kings been great, since kingdoms first began;
Rarely have great kings been great men, when all was told.
But, by the lighted torch in mailed hands, behold
Immortal Belgium's immortal king, and man.
By ARISTIDE SARTORIO
A German writer has informed us that the soldiers
of the Empire carry Faust and Zarathustra in their
knapsacks. These possessions are significant, for
Mephistopheles was the grandfather of Zarathustra,
and the latter inherited from his ancestor that philo-
sophical temper which incites to every kind of violence.
It has created a school in Germany, and as we know,
is now a factor in the discipline of the Imperial
soldiery.
It is obvious that soldiers do not come to the battle-
field to take a course of literature; they find in-
spiration in the moral axioms of their vade mecum
rather than in the aesthetic beauties that make these
masterpieces immortal. The Belgians have had dire
proof of this, and we Italian could have a like experi-
ence, if the central European Empires should issue
victorious from the ruthless conflict. Italy would
become their vassal, and in all probability our country
would be plundered, ravaged, and annihilated. De-
livered from the incubus of the alliance, we Italians
have looked on with indignation at the torture of
Belgium, a neutral country, a land of art, of culture and
of industry, with which we have had spiritual relations
since the period of the Renaissance, a land which like
our own won her independence by immense sacrifices.
But the bones of Friedrich Nietzsche, who raged at
the sight of a Germany sink in pacifist slumber,
must exult in the grave where they lie not far from
those of the Olympian Goethe; the epoch of con-
quering violence has begun; we know now that
German culture, inspired by Mephistopheles and
Zarathustra, regards no boundaries; thus, as Mephis-
topheles, at the behest of the Emperor, that Benjamin
of the Almighty, invented astounding military weapons,
so the Teutonic genius has prepared those terrible
engines of war which neither fortresses, cities, public
buildings, nor schools can withstand. And just as
Faust in the guise of a humanitarian dreamer, awaited
the possession of territories acquired by diabolical aid,
so 94 German professors proclaim to the civilised
world the equity of Imperial conquest, on the victims
of which they propose to pour out the superfluity of
their culture.
Mephistopheles, says the poem, burnt the church,
the house, and the garden of two poor old people,
which obstructed the expansion of Faust's happy
kingdom. The two old people, together with a guest,
were roasted alive (three neutrals!)
But it would be well to know the judgment of the God
of Ages upon those aviators, who, flying over cities,
murder women, old men, and children, for such a case
was not dealt with either by Mephistopheles or
Zarathustra. Faust must behold them from his place
in Paradise. The doctor repented at the approach
of death; ascending to the steps of the Virgin's
throne, he found there the noble intelligence of
Gretchen, who in the meantime had killed her mother,
strangled her child, and died repentant.
Exalted by this edifying reading, what archangels
the German soldiers must consider themselves com-
pared with those Catholic Flemings, who have
elaborated their morality, contemplating virtue in
the sacred images of Latin art! Blessed and glorified
be thy sacrifice, heroic Belgium, neither quenched
nor vanquished! Thou didst rise against Imperial
barbarism, invading thee in the name of science and
culture. Hail to thee throughout the ages, heroic
Belgium!
Brutality menaces the glory of the world. May thy
blood, like baptismal waters, revive our faith in Latin
civilisation, and spur us on against the dark and
heavy Empire, that might well have issued from the
gloom of primordial Asia or the medieval ages of
Europe.
By ALICE MEYNELL
The Heroic Language
When our now living languages are "dead,"
Which in the classes shall be treasured?
Which will the masters teach?
Kepler's, and Shakespeare's, and thy word, thy phrase.
Thy grammar, thou heroic, for all days,
O little Flemish speech!
By SIDNEY LOW
"From the Body of this Death"
She is not dead! Although the spoiler's hand.
Lies heavy as death upon her; though the smart
Of his accursed steel is at her heart,
And scarred upon her breast his shameful brand;
Though yet the torches of the Vandal band,
Smoke on her ruined fields , her trampled lanes.
Her ravaged homes and desolated fanes,
She is not dead but sleeping, that wronged land.
O little nation, valorous and free.
Thou shalt o'erlive the terror and the pain;
Call back thy scattered children unto thee.
Strong with the memory of their brothers slain,
And rise from out thy charnel-house, to be
Thine own immortal, radiant Self again.
By SIR ARTHUR PINERO
To Albert the Brave
ENGLAND honours and salutes you, Sir. Inspired by your true patriot-
ism, your splendid courage, your heroic soul, Little Belgium has become
for all time Great Belgium. Betrayed, outraged, exiled, you and your
people prove yourselves to be unconquerable. Such a spirit cannot be
quenched. Beside it, the flames lighted by your barbarous enemy show pale
and impotent.
Sir, the pangs of Belgium's rebirth are terrible; but the shrieks of travail
reach the ears of a just Heaven. The hour is at hand when the cries of
agony shall die down; when the rich meadows of your new-born kingdom
shall respond to the caress of the sun with a smile like the smile of an infant;
when you shall lead the remnant of your indomitable army back in triumph
to witness the glory of your country's re-creation. Till that moment,
whatever her fortunes in other fields, England will know no rest, no con-
tentment, not one particle of gladness.
By SIR WILLIAM CROOKES
ONE'S sympathy with and admiration of the gallant Belgian nation and
their valiant King are only to be paralleled by the horror and detestation
one feels for their universal enemy — the modern Huns.
To express my feelings I would go to the Bible or to Shakespeare for an
apt quotation, and I do not think the following words from Isaiah (ch. 14),
can be improved on as a prophetic statement of the depth of the modern
catastrophe and of prospective comfort to the afflicted ruler:
In the day that the Lord shall give thee rest from thy sorrow, and from
thy trouble, and from the hard bondage wherein thou wast made to serve,
thou shalt take up this parable against the King of Babylon, and say.
How hath the oppressor ceased! the golden exactress ceased! The Lord
hath broken the staff of the wicked, and the sceptre of the rulers. He who
smote the peoples in wrath with a continual stroke, he that ruled the nations
in anger, is persecuted and none hindereth.
By SIR CHARLES LUCAS
THE cause of Belgium is the cause of all who hold that nations have a right
to live. Terrible are the sufferings of this present time, but coming genera-
tions will stand up and call the land and the people blessed.
By G. W. PROTHERO
"MY tongue hath sworn; unsworn remains my mind."
This is the motto Germany has chosen for herself; it is not the motto of
Belgium—or of England.
By H.H. THE RANEE OF SARAWAK
WORDS cannot express the immense feeling of admiration and sympathy
I feel for the King and his people in this frightful calamity which has over-
taken them—a feeling that, outside Germany, must be paramount in the
hearts of men and women all over the world.
By SIR WILFRID LAURIER
YOUR own Introduction to King Albert's Book is a most eloquent
tribute to the heroism of the King and people of Belgium. No other words
are needed from me. My share will be to assist as far as in my power may
lie the diffusion of the book among the Canadian people.
By JOHN GALSWORTHY
Reveille
IN my dream I saw a fertile plain, rich with the hues of autumn. Tranquil
it was, and warm. Men and women, children, and the beasts worked and
played and wandered there in peace. Under the blue sky and the white
clouds low-hanging, great trees shaded the fields; and from all the land there
rose a murmur as from bees clustering on the rose-coloured blossoms of
tall clover. And, in my dream, I roamed, looking into every face, the
faces of prosperity, broad and well-favoured—of people living in a land of
plenty, of people drinking of the joy of life, caring nothing for the morrow.
But I could not see their eyes, that seemed ever cast down, gazing at the
ground, watching the progress of their feet over the rich grass and the golden
leaves already fallen from the trees. The longer I walked among them
the more I wondered that never was I suffered to see the eyes of any, not
even of the little children, not even of the beasts. It was as if ordinance
had gone forth that their eyes should be banded with invisibility.
While I mused on this, the sky began to darken. A muttering of distant
winds and waters came travelling. The children stopped their play, the
beasts raised their heads; men and women halted and cried to each other:
"The River—the River is rising! If it floods, we are lost! Our beasts
will drown; we, even we, shall drown! The River!" And women stood
like things of stone, listening; and men shook their fists at the black sky,
and at that travelling mutter of the winds and waters; and the beasts sniffed
at the darkening air.
Then, clear, I heard a Voice call: "Brothers! The dyke is breaking! The
River come! Link arms, brothers; with the dyke of out bodies we will
save our home! Sisters, behind us, link arm! Close in the crevices,
children! The River!" And all that multitude, whom I had seen treading
quietly the grass and fallen leaves with prosperous feet, came hurrying,
their eyes no longer fixed on the rich plain, but lifted in trouble and defiance,
staring at that rushing blackness. And the Voice called: "Hasten, brothers!
The dyke is broken. The River floods!"
And they answered: "Brother, we come!"
Thousands and thousands they pressed, shoulder to shoulder—men, women,
and children, and the beasts lying down behind, till the living dyke was
formed. And that blackness came on, nearer, nearer, till, like the whites
of glaring eyes, the wave crests glinted in the dark rushing flood. And the
sound of the raging waters was as a roar from a million harsh mouths.
But the Voice called: "Hold, brothers! Hold!"
And from the living dyke came answer: "Brother! We hold!"
Then the sky blackened to night. And the terrible dark water broke on
that dyke of life; and from all the thin living wall rose such cry of struggle
as never was heard.
But above it ever the Voice called: "Hold! My brave ones, hold!"
And ever the answer came from those drowning mouths, of men and
women, of little children and the very beasts: "Brother! We hold!"
But the black flood rolled over and on. There, down in its dark tumult,
beneath its cruel tumult, I saw men still with arms linked; women on their
knees, clinging to earth; little children drifting—dead, all dead; and the
beasts dead. And their eyes were still open facing that death. And above
them the savage water roared. But clear and high I heard the Voice call:
"Brothers! Hold! Death is not! We live!" And, fronting the edge
of the flooding waters, I saw the shades of those dead, with arms yet linked,
and heard them crying: "Brother! We hold! "...
Then came oblivion.
When once more I dreamed, it was light. The plain was free of darkness,
free of waters. The River, shrunk and muddied, flowed again within its
banks. And Dawn was breaking; but the stars were still alight.
At first it seemed to me that only trees stood on that plain; but then, in the
ground mist fast clearing, I saw the forms of men and women, children,
beasts; and I moved among them, looking at their faces—not those broad
and prosperous faces whose eyes were banded with invisibility, but grave
with suffering, carved and strong. And all their eyes, lifted to the sky,
were shining.
While I stood thus watching, the sun rose, and heaven brightened to full
morning. And, amazed, I saw that the stars had not gone in, but shone
there in the blue, crystals of immortality.
And above the plain, clad in the hues of spring, I heard the Voice call:
"Brothers! Behold! The Stars are lit for ever!"
By MILLICENT GARRETT FAWCETT
THE Belgian people have given the world an example of heroic courage
and self-devotion which will rank in history with the great deeds of all time.
Let no one say that Belgium, devastated and martyred as she is, has ceased
to exist. Her nationality is stronger, her vitality is more intense than it has
ever been. Every Belgian, man, woman, and child, bears himself proudly
today because of his nationality.
Unto each man his handiwork, unto each his crown
The just Fate gives:
Whoso takes the world's life on him, and his own lays down
He, dying so, lives.
It should be the very first concern of the Allies at the end of the war to see
that Belgium remains a free and independent nation.
By THE Rt. Hon. EARL ROBERTS OF KANDAHAR
MY admiration for the part Belgium has played in the war now being waged
against aggression, dishonourable contempt of Treaty obligations, falsehood,
and injustice, knows no bounds. I feel most strongly that Great Britain
owes Belgium a deep debt of gratitude which it will be difficult to repay.
Inspired by the noble example of their King, the Belgians arrested the first
onslaught of the Germans, and thus gave us time to ward off the punishment
we so richly deserve for our neglect to prepare to defend our own interests.
Little Belgium has shown to the great nations of the earth that a brave and
united people, daring everything and prepared to suffer anything in the
sacred cause of liberty, can resist successfully overwhelming numbers for
a long time, and materially help towards victory in the end. In the terrible
struggle still raging, to the Belgians must be awarded the palm for freely
and fearlessly offering themselves as the first bulwark against the invading
hordes of Germany. Glorious has been their stand, and priceless the time
and the advantage gained thereby. No acknowledgment of their splendid
example can be too liberal. No admiration too lavish, no compensation for
the loss and misery they have endured, too generous.
They have fought heroically for a sacred principle against frightful odds.
They have suffered up to the limit of human endurance. God grant that
there may be yet in store for them a bright and prosperous future, and a
permanent place in the van of Civilisation and Freedom.
By MAURICE HEWLETT
From England
O MEN of mickle heart and little speech.
Slow, stubborn countrymen of heath and plain,
Now have ye shown these insolent again
That which to Caesar's legions ye could teach,
That slow-provok'd is long-provok'd. May each
Crass Ceasar learn this of the Keltic grain,
Until at last they reckon it in vain
To browbeat us who hold the Western reach.
For even as you are, we are, ill to rouse.
Rooted in Custom, Order, Church, King;
And as you fight for their sake, so shall we.
Doggedly inch by inch, and house by house;
Seeing for us too there's a dearer thing
Than land or blood — and that thing LIBERTY.
By SIR OLIVER LODGE
THE world is the richer for the experience of the past few months, and
Belgium has inscribed its name on an eternal roll of honour—the roll of
those who have died in holding a pass against overwhelming odds.
Humanity blesses the heroic struggle for freedom of the Belgian nation;
for without their aid the face of Europe would have been changed past
redemption, and the Earth might have been subject to a brutal and intolerable
dominance. We have witnessed in our own generation one of the classical
contests of the world; and the tale will go down to remote posterity—a
tale of deep infamy and lofty honour—relating how at this time the powers
of evil were frustrated, and how the holiest cause emerged, stricken but
victorious,—triumphing as always through grievous pain.
By CLAUDE MONET
I feel myself greatly honoured by the opportunity
given me to express all my admiration of heroic
Belgium, and to offer a like admiration to the noble
and valiant King of the Belgians.
Long live Belgium! Long live the Allies! Long live France!
By SIR JAMES CRICHTON-BROWNE
Belgium
BELGIUM, a stripling Knight in the shining armour of Truth and with
the flashing blade of Right, withstood the first fierce onslaught of the mon-
strous and fire-belching Dragon that has grown up in Central Europe and
uncoiled itself to devour the world. Scorched, wounded, trodden on, the
stripling has never blanched nor quailed but has given pause to the Dragon
and time to the strong men to awake from slumber in which, but for him,
they might have been smitten down. When, amidst the execrations of
mankind, the Dragon is driven back to his lair and chained there for a
thousand years, then, for all that time, will women, with tears in their eyes,
tell their children of the stripling's agony and men with stiffened sinews
recall his valiant deeds.
Laud and homage to Belgium! bravest of the brave, lealest of the leal, and
loving care and succour too, that healing and solace may come to him.
By EDMUND GOSSE
The Belgian Poets
ONE by one, like the apparitions that rose and pointed at Macbeth, the
arts and sciences, the amenities and the pieties of Belgium defile in a blood-
boltered line, and accuse their murderer of foul and treacherous offences.
To a single phantom I would speak today. While others call for vengeance
on Germany for other wickedness, I would speak in anger and pity of a
murdered literature. Incredible as it sounds, a literature, the articulate
imagination of a people, may be destroyed. After the battle of the White
Mountain, the flourishing and genial literature of Bohemia was annihilated
by the Austrians, and it lay in ashes for one hundred and fifty years. Such,
if Germany had her brutal will, would be the fate of poetry and prose in
the Low Countries today, and although the inevitable hour of reckoning
and restitution cannot forever be delayed, at the present moment her
enemies have succeeded in silencing the written voice of Belgium, If they
have not silenced it, at least they have dispersed it on the wings of the wind.
It has no longer an abiding-place within its own borders; it sounds, so far
as it still sounds at all, in the piteous murmurs of an exile.
Modern literature in Belgium is a creation of our own times. It dates from
1880, when a generation of young men started it under the leadership of a
youth who lived but nine years more to witness the progress of his work,
Max Waller, whose name will always demand the honour due to precursors.
Waller founded a review. La Jeune Belgique, in which his most brilliant
contemporaries, tired of the nullity of the intellectual life of their forbears,
developed ideas and forms of expression which translated for the first time
the peculiar emotions and graces of the Flemish temperament. They
chose the French language for their expression, and they all were in sym-
pathy with the Latin genius, although they were careful never to denationa-
lise themselves, and never to abandon the vehement or mystical attributes
proper to the country of their birth. In less than thirty-five years, Belgium
has placed herself in the forefront of the creative literary nations of Europe.
This is not the place, nor mine the hand, to analyse or describe the achieve-
ments of Belgian literature. But it is manifest to everyone that it is in
poetry that its success has been most eminent. In the few words which I am
privileged to say here, I will attempt no more than to bend in aftection
and homage towards our admirable and stricken brethren, the poets of
Belgium. Two of them, through a merciful Providence, have been spared
by an early death from drinking the bitter cup. We name in honour the
harbinger of the brilliant company, the ecstatic Charles van Leerberghe,
whose pen was dipped in moonlit dew, whose ethereal genius translated
into verse all that was most delicately in harmony with the spirit
of the old Flemish illuminators, whose pictures of Paradise seem painted
by an inspired monk on the vellum fly-leaves of a missal. We name
Georges Rodenbach, in whom the melancholy of Flanders, above all the
grey beauty of Bruges, found so tender an interpreter.
But chiefly to the living we proffer our reverent and indignant sympathy.
Driven from their homes, their books scattered, their manuscripts burned,
they are but as beautiful autumn leaves in the blast of the Teuton war-gods.
We greet the noble Emile Verhaeren, the first of the living poets of Europe.
In him the religious intensity of Belgium has taken a different expression
from that of the mystics. He has not shrunk, in his abundant and various
yet eminently consistent productive work, from celebrating many sides of
the national character. He blows through bronze and he breathes through
silver, and if we would understand the life and soil of Belgium, toute la
Flandre, we must go to this inspired and multiform mind for our instruction.
Thirty-five years ago, three young men who were students at the Collège
Sainte-Barbe at Ghent, determined to devote their lives to the creation of
a poetical drama in Belgium; they were Van Leerberghe, Le Roy, and
Maeterlinck. The whole world has submitted to the fascination of Maurice
Maeterlinck. A Parisian admirer unwisely introduced him as
"the Belgian Shakespeare."
He is, on the contrary, the one and only Belgian Maeterlinck.
We greet with emotion other names, less universally recognised.
Brussels is the mother of André Fontainas, whose enchanted
gardens are like the backgrounds of Rubens' pictures. From Antwerp
Max Elskamp has brought his idylls of a peaceful Flanders. Let me not
forget that Liege has sent us the tender and tremulous Albert Mockel,
nor that Louvain, till the hour of her desecration, was proud of the ac-
complished talent of Albert Giraud.
If I name no more, it is due to ignorance or lack of space. Our protest
is not in favour of these great names alone, but of the whole intellectual
civilisation of Belgium, so flourishing and so vivid in the peace of a month
or two ago, now humiliated and trampled like an autumn rose under the
hoof of a bull.
By ANDREW CARNEGIE
ASSUREDLY the people of Belgium have shown themselves worthy
descendants of their ancestors whom Julius Caesar honoured thus: Omnium
fortissimi sunt Belgae. King Albert has proven himself possessed of courage,
which is one of the essentials of high character, which Farquhar thus describes:
Courage the highest gift, which scorns to bend
To mean devices for a sordid end.
Courage — an independent spark from Heaven's bright throne,
By which the soul stands raised, triumphant, high, alone.
By HENRI BERGSON
The Daily Telegraph has been pleased to ask of me
to say what I feel about Belgium and King Albert. I
have searched in vain to find words adequate for express-
ing my admiration: I can only bow my head, a prey
to profound emotion, and offer a respectful homage.
A small nation found herself suddenly confronted by
one of the most formidable armies in the world. They
asked of her merely permission to pass through; they
would restore to her, so they said, her territory
untouched; they would respect her independence.
Would they have done so? I know not, but the small
nation was free to believe them. And if she had
declared that she yielded to force and accepted the
inevitable, we might have pitied but we should not
have dared to blame. Far otherwise! She has
resisted what seemed irresistible; she has sacrificed
at once all that she had, all that she was: her towns
and her villages, her wealth and her life, she has
given all for an idea, for the heroic belief that it was
done for honour.
Glory to her! Glory to her King!
I have said and I have taught for long that history
was a school of immorality. I shall say so no more,
after the example that Belgium has just given to the
world. A deed like this redeems the worse meannesses
of mankind. It makes one feel more proud of being a man.
May it be permitted to a professor of philosophy to
add that it makes one feel more proud henceforth of
being a philosopher? King Albert has followed
philosophical studies. It is to them that he owes
something of his strength of soul and his noble idealism?
I could wish so, for philosophy would then share in
his glory. Twice in the course of history has philo-
sophy shone from a throne, and on both occasions it
will have been associated with the highest virtue.
In ancient times philosophy inspired the stoicism of
Marcus Aurelius. It smiles lovingly today on the
simple and sublime heroism of King Albert.
By EDEN PHILLPOTTS
To Belgium
Champion of human honour, let us lave
Your jeet and bind your wounds on bended knee.
Though coward hands have nailed you to the tree
And shed your innocent blood and dug your grave.
Rejoice and live! Your oriflamme shall wave
While man has power to perish and be free—
A golden flame of holiest Liberty,
Proud as the dawn and as the sunset brave.
Belgium, where dwelleth reverence for right
Enthroned above all ideals; where your fate
And your supernal patience and your might
Most sacred grow in human estimate,
You shine a star above this stormy night,
Little no more, but infinitely great.
By MARY CHOLMONDELEY
POLYDORE IN ENGLAND
WHEN Polydore came to stay with us he did not come alone. He was
accompanied by Nestor Maria and René and Achille and poor Jan, who was
not a soldier at all, but had been wounded while lending a hand in the
trenches.
But somehow the others only formed a background to Polydore. Polydore
invariably met the eye first, from the moment when a jaded Red Cross
official handed him and his companions over to us at a roadside station.
It was Polydore who advanced to meet us, the others making a little bunch
behind him. Polydore, with his dusky complexion and round, grey, im-
passive, unwinking eyes, amazed at nothing, at once constituted himself as
spokesman of the party, interpreter and expert on matters of etiquette.
Possibly he may have felt that this position was his due as he was the only
one of the contingent in full Belgian uniform. Dark blue coat, wide light
blue trousers, and peaked cap. Nestor Maria and Achille wore English
sweaters with their blue trousers. Jan, of course, had no uniform, only a
weird English cheap suit rather too tight in the waist. None of them except
Polydore had a peaked cap. But all five were wound up in enormous
woollen comforters.
All five had been seriously wounded, and had come to us to recruit after
being discharged from the hospital at E-. But though René and Achille
were lame they were in the best of spirits, as were Nestor Maria and Polydore
himself, though still somewhat pallid and worn-looking. Only Jan never
smiled and hardly spoke a word. He had no news of his old mother, last
heard of at Ostend.
Our guests had brought no luggage with them, except a packet of English
picture post cards presented to Polydore in hospital, and one pipe among
the five.
They obeyed Polydore's directions implicitly, why, I know not. When
they retired to their carefully tucked-up beds, he made them all creep into
them from the top, without opening them at the side. This cannot have
been quite easy for René and Achille with their "bad" legs, but they
accomplished it nevertheless. After two days, Polydore courteously in-
quired how much longer they would have to drink our terrible English
medicine with their breakfasts. This was the strong tea we had given them.
Coffee was substituted for it, and smiles wreathed every face. Even Jan
said a word or two in Flemish which sounded like approval.
The only thing in our establishment which surprised even Polydore was
the mowing machine on the lawn. That amazed them all, and they were
never tired of watching it. They walked round the garden with us, at least
Polydore did, while the others followed at his heels, while Polydore admired
the roses d'Egypte and the gueules de lion still flowering in the autumn beds.
They were all politeness itself, but I think they might have become rather
bored with English country life if it had not been for Private Dawkins of
the West Lowshires. Dawkins was also just out of hospital and was re-
cruiting at his mother's cottage in the village, and he walked up, erect and
soldier-like in his khaki, to call on his allies. A difference of language
presented no difficulties. Immediate and agreeable intercourse was estab-
lished and presently Dawkins and Polydore set out together, of course
followed by the others; the English soldier looking very slim in his khaki
puttees compared with the low, broad, sturdy, blue-trousered figures of his
companions in arms.
Dawkins took his comrades to call on every cottage in the village, and
introduced them to the entire circle of his acquaintance, including his
mother. Mrs. Dawkins, I found afterwards, was much impressed by
Polydore's ignorance.
"The pore critter," she told me, "actually thought the clothes-line was a
telephone. But lor, mum, I soon made him understand. I brought out a
kitchen rubber and a peg, and made him fasten it on the wire, just to teach
him. He's sharp enough, is Polly Dor, and such a silly name for a man."
As he grew to know us better, Polydore told us many tales of the fighting
in Belgium, the others sitting round, and joining in like a chorus. With a
perfectly impassive face he recounted how on one occasion when the dykes
were opened, the Germans, after losing all their guns, had been forced to
seek refuge in the trees, where he and René had assisted in capturing whole
batches of them, sitting in strings in the branches like enormous barn-door
fowls.
But he and his comrades recounted other incidents too ghastly to be written
here. He had seen—Nestor Maria had seen—Achille had seen—the dusky,
impassive faces darkened suddenly. Hands were clenched, grey eyes
blazed. We had to draw them back to less grievous topics and make
Polydore describe to us once more the contemptible fire of the German
infantry. We were shown exactly how the Germans fired from the hip,
with no effect at all. And then Polydore waved René forward and made
him stand in front of us, expanding his chest, while he laid his hand on the
second button of Rene's tattered blue coat, and explained to us that when
a Belgian soldier fires at the enemy he always hits him exactly there, on the
chest—always.
Our Belgian soldiers did not stay many weeks with us. They thrived
exceedingly, and presently their country called them. Dawkins was sent
for the same day. And the last I saw of Polydore was leaning out of a
third-class railway carriage window with Dawkins, waving his peaked cap
to us, with the others in a little bunch behind him. We had made search-
ing inquiries before they left, and found that Jan's mother was safe at
Alexandra Palace, where she had arrived clutching five coffee-pots as her
entire luggage.
So good-bye Polydore and Nestor Maria and Achille and René and Jan.
And may the world go well with you!
By SIR VALENTINE CHIROL
IT is a privilege to join in any tribute to King Albert and his people. King
Albert is the only sovereign whose royal title is not a territorial one. He
is styled King, not of Belgium but of the Belgians; as if it had been pre-
ordained that though a ruthless conqueror might rob him for a time of his
kingdom, none should ever rob him of his kingship. Never perhaps more
proudly than today, when his Government has been compelled to seek
refuge on the hospitable soil of France and he himself, at the head of his
indomitable army, is fighting close to the French frontier for the last inch
of Belgian territory, has King Albert vindicated his right to a splendid
title: King of the Belgians, heroic head of an heroic people.
By PROFESSOR PAUL VINOGRADOFF
The Record of Belgium
IN addressing the King of an heroic nation it is natural to recall to mind
some striking memories of its past in which its temper and character have
been revealed in former ages. It seems clear to us, outsiders, that the life
of the Belgian people has been in many respects an exceptional manifestation
of energy and courage. As far as we can look back into dim antiquity, we
find the country occupied by Celtic tribes which, in the opinion of a great
expert, Cassar, were conspicuous for their political aptitude and prowess in
war. The Roman Conquest of this region proved to be more than a military
accident—it impressed a great part of the population with the indelible
stamp of Romance culture and contributed powerfully to form the Walloon
racial group.
The Franks brought in a fresh Teutonic element: it survives in the
Flemings and, as in the case of the Saxons and Danes of England, it widened
the outlook and the range of action of the nation without forcing the country
into the narrow groove of purely Germanic development.
In the economic Renaissance of Europe during the later Middle Ages Flanders
took the lead with the astonishing outburst of industry in Ghent, Ypres,
and other cities—and the progressive movement was reflected not only in
the output of their wares but also in the sturdy spirit of the redoutable
burgher arrays. In the Renaissance of learning and arts Belgium has taken
its place with the Van Eycks and Memling far ahead of many populous
kingdoms: Bruges shares with Florence and Nuremberg the glory of
emulating Athens in the wealth of its civic culture.
In the centuries of statecraft and absolutism the valleys of the Scheldt and
of the Meuse became the battle-ground of European sovereigns, but the
transition to a better age is marked again by a momentous act of the Belgian
people—by the rising against the benevolent despotism of Austria.
The settlement of 1830 was more than a casual fabrication of cunning
diplomats: it has brought together elements diverse in race but united by
creed, by cultural aspirations and by a spirit of stubborn independence.
King Albert is fortunate to stand at the head of such a people and the
Belgians can well be proud of a King who embodies in a full measure the
best virtues of the nation.
In ages to come travellers will look with pious emotion on the sites of Liege,
Louvain, Antwerp, the shores of the Yser, and if at the close of this terrible
war a prize were to be adjudicated to the most valiant nation, as the Greeks
did in their war of independence against the Persian King, the prize would
surely fall by unanimous consent to Belgium. If there is justice in the
world and a meaning in history, Belgium will arise out of the ashes, like
Phoenix, in renewed vigour and splendour.
By SIDNEY WEBB
HUMANITY has found, after many a wound and countless ineffectual
struggles, that Law is the Mother of Liberty. Now Belgium has been
tortured by ruthless power. May it be so far not in vain that all the peoples
of the earth may learn that only in the building up of a really effective
International Law can national liberty be secured.
By BENJAMIN KIDD
NO tribute which civilisation is able to make can meet the debt which the
human spirit owes to the Belgian people and to King Albert for ever.
When the tempter asked the Belgian people to be his accomplice against
France and offered Belgium a price for her soul. King Albert, backed by
his unanimous people, instantly took the terrible decision and gave firmly
the answer by which our common humanity has been ennobled.
It is an immortal story of Right rendered invincible through the crucifixion
of a People.
By SIR THOMAS BARCLAY
THE violation of Belgium's neutrality is a collective crime, including every
crime that dishonours the individual: murder, robbery, arson, perjury,
false pretences, broken faith, etc.
It is murder, not war, to wage bloodshed on those against whom there is
no grievance. It is robbery to take from the innocent as from the guilty,
and arson to burn down their homes. It is worse than perjury without
provocation to break a solemn promise and violate the trust of others.
The magnitude of Germany's crime has not yet been realised by the German
national conscience, but, sooner or later, it will be realised and then all
honest and truth-loving Germans, at present victims of deliberate mis-
representation, will feel the humiliation of having forfeited the respect and
confidence of mankind. They will see in all its blackness a crime which
will go down to posterity as one of the foulest deeds of all time—a treacherous
breach of faith coupled with a ruthless cruelty unsurpassed in history. No
casuistry will redeem the German people from the consciousness of having
provoked and deserved the curse of an unoffending people and the unqualified
reprobation of the whole civilised world.
Ethel Smytli
TO the King of the Belgians and his heroic people who, believing in right rather
than in might, fought against overwhelming odds in defence of their honour and
freedom—even as women in England are fighting to win theirs—undying
gratitude, and everlasting glory!
By EMMELINE PANKHURST
THE women of Great Britain will never forget what Belgium has done for
all that women hold most dear.
In the days to come mothers will tell their children how a small but great-
souled nation fought to the death against overwhelming odds and sacrificed
all things to save the world from an intolerable tyranny.
The story of the Belgian people's defence of Freedom will inspire countless
generations yet unborn.
By CARDINAL GIBBONS
I GLADLY subscribe my name to King Albert's Book.
By WILLIAM J. LOCKE
To His Heroic Majesty the King oj the Belgians,
Sire,
One Fifth of November more worthy to live in the shuddering memory of
man than the anniversary which we English celebrate—one Fifth of Novem-
ber, three hundred and thirty-eight years ago, the wintry dawn broke upon
Antwerp burned and butchered by a soldiery "who," as the great American
historian says, "seemed to have cast off even the vizard of humanity. Hell,"
he adds, "seemed emptied of its fiends." Today a soldiery as ruthless
and as bestial has entered the gates of Antwerp after spreading a desolation
through your fair land such as Alva and his followers, supreme products
of a race then braggart too of its "culture," had neither the wit to devise
nor the ferocity to execute. More than three hundred years ago your country
fought for everything that man holds dear, everything that man holds sacred.
Against fearful odds she fought the greatest fight for Liberty that the world till
then had seen. In that stupendous struggle, "women, old men, and children
had all been combatants, and all therefore incurred the vengeance of
the conquerors." Today, Sire, your foes, molested by naught but the
chivalrous resistance of your armies, have wreaked a vengeance thrice more
damnable. Three hundred years ago your country, with unparalleled heroism,
triumphed over the powers of darkness and established herself in Europe as
one of the centres of inspiration in all that matters to the soul of mankind.
She now, once more, has fought even a more glorious battle for Liberty than in
those far-off days. She has struck an immortal chord that vibrates and
shall vibrate through the united heart of the Anglo-Saxon, Latin, and Slav
races—races who, in that sublimated expression of Life to which we give
the name of Art, a term embracing all manifestations of spiritual discovery
from a song to a cathedral, have abhorred Teutonic ideals. And as in those
far-off days, your noble country, secure in her own integrity, and, now,
inspired by the wondering admiration of the civilised world, once more
shall triumph and once more shall play a prouder part than ever among the
nations of the earth.
For yourself, Sire, what more fitting tribute can a humble writer lay at your
feet than the words of the Anglo-Saxon historian regarding your predecessor
and exemplar, the great saviour of your country three hundred years ago:
"He went through life bearing the load of a people's sorrows upon his
shoulders, with a smiling face. He was the guiding star of a great nation."
By MARIE GORELLI
For Belgium! An Invocation
"What shall we do for our Sister in the day when she shall be spoken of?
If she be a wall, we will build upon her a palace of silver."
Song of Solomon
Maker of Heaven and Earth,
Thou, who hast given birth
To moving millions of pre-destined spheres.
Thou, whose resistless might
Resolves the Wrong to Right
Missing no moment of the measured years,—
Behold, we come to Thee!
We lift our swords, unsheath'd, towards Thy throne—
Look down on us, and see
Our Sister-Nation, ruined and undone!
Martyred for nobleness, for truth and trust;
Help us, O God, to raise her from the dust!
Be Thou our witness. Lord I
We swear with one accord
Swift retribution on her treacherous foe!
Her bitter wrong is ours.
And heaven's full-armed powers
Shall hurl her murderer to his overthrow!
Upon her broken wall
A silver palace of sweet peace shall rise
At that high Festival
When Victory's signal flashes through the skies—
But—until then!—welcome the fiercest fray!
We fight for Freedom! God, give us "The Day"!
By THE ARCHBISHOP OF YORK
THE King and people of Belgium were the first to meet the shock of this
terrible war into which Europe has been plunged. They were the first to
give proof of the spirit of heroic self-sacrifice by which alone it can be carried
through. It was their honour to lay down their national life for their
friends. It must be our honour to restore that national life to them, secured
from menace, enriched and ennobled by the splendid sacrifice which it
has made.
By THE Rev. Dr. JOHN CLIFFORD
The Belgian People and their King
AGAIN and again as I have read the story of the unparalleled exploits of
the Belgians and their King, the words of the prophet Isaiah have come to me:
"A man shall be as a hiding-place from the wind and a covert from
the tempest; as rivers of water in a dry place and as the shadow of a great
rock in a weary land." The outstanding hero of this stupendous war is King Albert.
He has been a refuge for his people in this day of trouble
and tragedy. Never has he hesitated from first to last. There has been
no vacillation. His complete self-abnegation has been matched by the
magnificence of his valour. He has stood his ground all the way through,
and is still the strong, steadfast soul in whom his suffering people trust.
He has led with courage and wisdom and self-sacrifice. He is the great
hero of a nation of heroes, the brave leader of a brave and gallant people.
By the clearest right, he goes to his place by the side of Leonidas and William
the Silent, King Alfred and Oliver Cromwell, and all the other real kings
of men. His noble and beautiful character, chivalrous spirit and whole-
souled work will enrich the human race forever. To him, and his people,
we offer the most glowing admiration and the sincerest gratitude, for un-
forgettable service rendered to all the generations of men, by undaunted
resistance given to an unscrupulous and barbaric invader.
By THE CHIEF RABBI
ONLY that nation can be called cultured which adds to the spiritual assets
of humanity; which by its living and, if need be, by its dying, vindicates
the eternal values of life—conscience, honour, liberty. Judged by this test,
two of the littlest of peoples, Judaea in ancient times and Belgium today,
and not their mighty and ruthless oppressors, are among the chief defenders
of culture, champions of the sacred heritage of man.
Israel, that has endured all things, suffered all things, and survived all things,
believes with a perfect faith that Belgium, fighting for the Spirit, is as
indestructible as the Spirit.
By THE CARDINAL ARCHBISHOP OF REIMS
I associate myself whole-heartedly with the happily
conceived tribute of admiration and respectful sym-
pathy vou propose to offer to King Albert, his army,
and his people.
Yes, all honour to the King of the Belgians! All
our hearts go out to this noble prince, who now per-
sonifies to the whole world oppressed Right, who,
undaunted by the rage of a mighty adversary, and
uncrushed by reverses, stands like a rock to defend
the independence of his country.
All honour to the Belgian army! There was a
universal cry of astonishment and admiration when
it was known that, confronted suddenly with the most
formidable army in Europe, it was holding the
legions of its mighty foe in check at Liege and at
Namur, breaking his onslaught, frustrating his plan
of attack, and preventing him from taking the initiative
on which he had reckoned. Forced at last to give
way before numbers, it fell back upon Antwerp, and
when it had to evacuate this last bulwark, it was not
to lay down its arms; it came to take its place between
the armies of France and England, and share with
them the perils of war, while awaiting the hour when
it should share with them the honours of the final
victory...
All honour to the Belgian people! They have show
themselves worthy of the King's confidence in their
patriotism. They nobly ratified their prince's attitude
by a generous acceptance of the sacrifices of war.
The call to arms of every able-bodied man, the siege
and bombardment of their fortresses, the devastation
of their towns and lands, the destruction of their
monuments and works of art, the severities of an
enemy infuriated by their resistance, reverses not less
painful because they had been foreseen, they bore all
with noble courage and resignation. Liege, Namur,
Tournai, Ghent, Bruges, Antwerp, all their peaceful
and prosperous cities, and Brussels, their capital,
have fallen one after the other under the attacks of
an enemy that outnumbered them tenfold, and still
their unconquerable spirit is unshaken.
They now offer the poignant spectacle, unknown since
the days of barbarian invasion, of a people driven
from their homes, and obliged to emigrate to escape a
domination they refuse to accept.
Confident in their God and their cause, they await
the return of victory to their standards, the banners
of justice and of liberty. This war has shown Europe
that little Belgium is the land of a great people.
To the King of the Belgians, to his army, and to his
people, we respectfully offer our tribute of admiration
and gratitude.
By W. L. COURTNEY
By the North Sea
Death and Sorrow and Sleep:
Here where the slow waves creep,
This is the chant I hear,
The chant of the measureless deep.
What was Sorrow to me
Then, when the young life free
Thirsted for joys of earth.
Far from the desolate sea?
What was Sleep but a rest,
Giving to youth the best
Dreams from the ivory gate.
Visions of God manifest?
What was Death but a tale
Told to faces grown pale.
Worn and wasted with years-
A meaningless thing to the hale?
Death and Sorrow and Sleep:
Now their sad message I keep.
Tossed on the wet wind's breath.
The chant of the measureless deep.
By SIR THOMAS BROCK
Aid for the Fallen
I OFFER my picture as a small tribute to the splendid courage and fortitude
shown by the Belgian people in upholding the honour and integrity of their
country, offering as they do an example to the whole world.
It is our first duty to relieve their sufferings as far as possible, and when their
territory is once more free from the invaders to help them to restore their
devastated cities.
By J. L. GARVIN
WE in England would rather be blotted out of the book of nations than
that Belgium should not be lifted up from ruin and gloriously restored.
To that cause we have pledged our all, and until our pledge is redeemed in
such sort that the justice of an overruling God shall be made manifest
through us, never can we know soul's comfort in our own land spared by
war nor cease our efforts to succour the bitter need of a desolate people
and to hearten that little indomitable army of freedom and honour under
its noble and beloved young King. No words of ours can be worthy of
them and we can never do enough. The resistance of Belgium will live as
one of the great legends of the world, and I firmly believe that its spiritual
significance can only deepen with centuries. Nothing that we think of as
heroic, tragic, inspiring in the past, or as confirming our faith that the best
shall conquer the worst, exceeds what Flemings and Walloons over there
have dared, suffered, and done in the twentieth century. They have made
the name of their country an immortal word like Marathon—
"the trumpet of a prophecy"
That the reign of public law and peace shall yet be stablished
upon the inviolable faith of treaties and that the sanctity of a scrap of paper
shall be mightier than Krupp guns.
By A. G. GARDINER
WHATEVER the course of the war, whatever the fate of Europe, it is in
King Albert that the future will see the most human, the most knightly
figure of this Titanic struggle.
Belgium has died for freedom, for our freedom, for the freedom of the
world. Let us see that she rises again triumphant from her tears and ashes.
And if righteousness endures beneath the sun she will rise.
By J. A. SPENDER
SYMPATHY with Belgium must be mingled with envy—envy of the noble
courage and matchless national spirit which, in the hour of her affliction,
make her great among the peoples of the world. She has fought the
Thermopylae of the allied cause and it remains for her brothers-in-arms
to see that her sacrifice is rewarded and her country restored. Our homage
to the brave King who has dared all for the honour and liberty of the people
committed to his charge.
Part 3