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King Albert's Book 3/6 • Tribute
3 years ago
By Mrs. HUMPHRY WARD
All Saints' Day, 1914
I have been wandering through the English fields, and under the English
woods in a last lingering blaze of summer, before the winter comes. All
day the sun has been clear in heaven; all last night the moon shone without
a cloud. The oaks are still—the majority of them—defiantly green as though
they challenged a tyrant; and where the woods lie close and thick in the
basins of the hills, they show sharp patterns of deep green and flaming gold,
patterns of Nature's finest weaving. Amethyst and gold, the beeches;
amethyst, blue, and gold, the distances; and here and there a yew, violently
black, or a hedgerow elm, its rounded leaf masses topped with yellow, or—
on the common—furze-bushes, alive with blossom. The children are in
the park picking up acorns and walnuts; a green woodpecker is paying his
autumn visit to the lawn before my window, pecking and stabbing for dear
life: the friendly robins sing round the house; slowly, slowly, the sun
sinks into the quiet mists that rise towards it; and the glorious day will
soon be done.
Thus goes All Saints' Day in this valley of the Chilterns. And, meanwhile,
how goes it 150 miles away, where Belgians, Frenchmen, and Englishmen
are fighting in the blood-stained trenches of West Flanders? No blood here,
no hint of it!—save where the sun strikes the deep carpet of fallen beech
leaves, and the bright colour startles our sad thoughts. But there, men are
pouring out their blood like water; and all that, in this quiet English scene,
we dare picture to ourselves of horror, of devilish pain and destruction,
comes nowhere near the truth. Frenchmen and Englishmen, closely inter-
linked, from west to east, from the sea to the Vosges, fronting the hideous
onslaught of men, in whom a world uprisen sees a branded race—traitors
to civilisation and to humanity! And far to the north-west, in land hardly
distinguishable from the sea, which has been won from the sea by infinite
labour, there are thin lines of men in the Belgian trenches,
"holding the pass" against the barbarian, as truly as any Greek did at Thermopylae.
Yet here are no blue mountains looking on. Only flat grey land, and
featureless grey sea, and that grey advancing flood, where the Belgians have
called in the sea to fight with them, and have given him in payment their
hard-won fields, their dykes, and villages, to keep in trust for a nation of
heroes, till the battle is won. "They told us to hold the trenches for 24
hours; we held them; then they said,' Hold them 48 hours more,' and
we have done it." So ran one of the most soul-stirring messages of war ever
written. They have done it \ And now the English and French have come
up, and the little army which has saved the left wing and protected Calais
may fall back a while to count its dead. One in three, they say—one in
three! Shall we not write over the fallen Belgians what was written over
the Spartan dead at Plataea:
"These men having set a crown of immortal glory on their own land, were
folded in the dark cloud of death. Yet being dead, they have not died,
seeing their fame in battle hath raised them up forever from Forgetting
and the Grave."
What can we do, we Englishwomen at home in our sheltered island, for this
heroic little nation that has held the pass? Day and night the fleeing army
of women and children, of old men and boys passes northward to Holland,
and westward over the sea to England. The other night, in a London
social settlement, which has been largely given over to the refugees, a woman
I know watched the incoming stream—peasants in their sabots, small
bourgeois, carrying with them a few last possessions, children weary to death
and wailing for food. But English hands were proud to wait on them, and
English brains to plan for them. Here were a father and mother and seven
children from Louvain—who had been tramping and hiding in the Flemish
fields for days and nights. The mother was on the point of maternity.
There was no accommodation for her in the settlement, where the large hall
and the gymnasium have been turned into wards for men and women
respectively, of the peasant class, and the separate rooms looking out on
the garden have been mostly assigned to the elderly men and women of the
educated professional type. Much perplexity, accordingly, as to the poor
expectant mother, in the mind of the kind Scotch lady who is the house-
keeper of the settlement! But, suddenly, she remembers an address in
Kensington; she flies to the telephone; she calls up a house in Queen's Gate,
and its mistress. "Did you say the other day you would take in Belgian
women for their confinement?" "Certainly! Have you got such a case?"
The note of joyful eagerness in the voice was unmistakable through the tube.
Details are given. "All right. I will bring my motor round directly."
And in an hour or so from her arrival, the dazed and wearied woman, with
another Belgian woman and her little boy of three to keep her company,
are speeding in a luxurious motor to the house in Queen's Gate. A warm
room, a comfortable bed, nurse, clothing, food — everything is ready! In
a few days the poor soul's trouble is over, and the pretty babe lies peacefully
beside its resting mother. For three days! Then the soul of the peasant
woman who waits on others, and is never waited on, rebelled. "I am always
up, madame, in three days." "This time, take five! You were so worn
out! "Most unwillingly, the tired body rests a few more days; and then
the whole family goes to a cottage ready for them, in an English village,
the children go to school, the whole village become their protectors and
friends, the Flemings learn a few words of English, the English a few words
of Flemish, kindness and gesture do the rest, till, occasionally, an interpreter
comes round and promotes a more satisfactory intercourse.
But among the incoming throng on this October night there are figures of
another type. A mother and three daughters—the widow and children of
a Belgian officer—soft-spoken, refined women, flying in terror from Antwerp,
with a few scanty parcels of luggage, plus a grey parrot!—who is no sooner
set down in the rooms allotted to them, then he vents his opinion on the
discomforts of the journey in some vigorous cursing of "Guillaume"!
The settlement shelters them all for a week or two and then they become
the honoured guests of an English country house, belonging to one of the
most distinguished of English soldiers, and his wife, one of the gentlest of
English ladies.
If tender sympathy can soothe the private and public grief of such exiles,
theirs should indeed be soothed; and mercifully, three out of this party
of four are young, and to the young it is natural to smile, when the faces
round them are all kindness, and a tragic flight has become an adventure,
which would be only delightful—but for that low coast-line, and that grey
sea, those ruined towns, those wounded men, that are in the minds of us all!
Thus all over England, and all over hospitable Holland, the fugitives spread,
hands of welcome and pity are stretched out, and the great exile goes on—
interminably. But the hours are passing, and the hours of darkness are
slowly, slowly, handing on the torch to the hours of hope and dawn. Steadily
the Huns retreat; steadily the defenders of freedom and civilisation press
their way forward over the ruined and bloodstained land. Surely, with the
spring, the Belgian life-wave will turn homeward again! It will flow back
into the waste places and the scourged heroic land will bloom again with
young life, and peaceful labour, and home joy. The dead, the dead will not
be there!—save in our hearts that mourn. But they rest in the Lord, and
their works shall follow them. A little nation has become for all time a
song and a story, to refresh and kindle the "holy spirit of man"—so that
when these evil days are over, and we count up the score, we shall not put
what has happened in Belgium, during these autumn months, among the
tragedies of history, but rather among the imperishable triumphs of the soul.
By SIR CHARLES WYNDHAM
From Shelley's "Hellas"
Let the tyrants rule the desert they have made;
Let the free possess the Paradise they claim;
Be the fortune of our fierce oppressors weighed
With our ruin, our resistance, and our name!
Our dead shall be the seed of their decay,
Our survivors be the shadow of their pride,
Our adversity a dream to pass away,
Their dishonour a remembrance to abide!
By LORD NORTHCLIFFE
THE Christmas message we all wish to send across the North Sea is this;
that we British will fight to the end and work to the end for the King of
Belgium and the Belgian people, because we believe that for all time in
the world quiet homes and noble lives and surer peace will spring from
the seed of their sacrifice.
The noble king of a true democracy has fought with his people against
military tyranny and the lust of power, as rarely king or nation has fought
before. Even in the midst of suffering and loss too great for words Belgium
may feel that the fruits will surpass the sacrifice and all the world one day
share in the Belgian victory.
By SIR EDWARD J. POYNTER, BART., P.R.A.
NOT only for myself but for the body of which I am president I have no
hesitation in affirming that all my colleagues of the Royal Academy are
with me in the horror we feel at the treatment which the unoffending popu-
lation of Belgium has received at the hands of the barbarous hordes of
Prussians who have devastated that beautiful and peaceful country—
outrages of the most savage kind inflicted under pretences invented for the
occasion by that race which has proved itself so prolific of lies and spies.
But above all this do we admire the magnificent bravery with which the
Belgians have withstood the onslaught of overwhelming numbers: for it
is to their splendid courage, under their heroic King, in bearing the first
brunt of the treacherous Prussian attack that the world owes it that the
vast German scheme of conquest has hitherto failed.
By LORD REDESDALE
To the King of the Belgians,
Sire,
Fighting on behalf of the whole world—a Hero at the head of an heroic
people—Your Majesty has made the cruellest sacrifices. The world will
not forget.
Sire, you have lost much—you have won Immortality.
I have the honour to be.
Sire,
Your Majesty's
Most obedient humble servant,
REDESDALE
By LORD BURNHAM
THE position at this moment is without precedent in our history. A noble
and gallant little nation has imperilled its very existence, and brought upon
itself immeasurable calamities, by resistance to the aggression of a powerful,
arrogant, and heartless foe. It has done this with a courage and devotion
that have won universal admiration.
The independence and integrity of Belgium are vital interests to Britain.
What she has done and suffered constitute, therefore, a claim on the British
people that is irresistible.
With no assigned pretext of justification, the hordes of Germany have
invaded and wasted her territory, and by acts of war, and by deeds that are
murder not warfare, have done to death thousands of her people and driven
hundreds of thousands into exile.
Countless homes desolated, families broken and scattered, children orphaned,
the trade and means of existence of the most thickly peopled and most
industrious country of continental Europe paralysed, chaos and ruin where
there had been peace and happiness—these are some of the elements of
the tragic fate that has overwhelmed this brave, unoffending nation. Never
in our time has a people been so cruelly treated
The splendour of the efforts and the magnitude of the self-sacrifice of this
gallant people, no less than the dauntless heroism of the King and his army
in resisting the invasion of their country, defying terrors and undergoing
outrages that are unknown in civilised warfare, appeal to us equally with
their appalling and indescribable sorrows.
The world's admiration has been moved, and the world's compassion
aroused by unsurpassed bravery and unparalleled suffering.
May this volume generate a world-wide feeling that not enough can possibly
be done to honour the courage and assuage the grief of this noble-hearted
and afflicted people.
No one can feel more poignantly than I do this pressing necessity. But we
must not be content to think only of a terrible past—irradiated though it
be with magnificent patriotism and valour. We must look to the future.
As far as human sympathy and help can do it, we must bring to Belgium,
great in virtue of her martyrdom, consolation and atonement for the
wrongs which she has endured.
By WILL CROOKS
THE Story of the Ages does not give us anything so soul-inspiring as the
fighting martyrdom of Belgium, its King and its people in 1914. Its failure
to keep its homeland from bloody hands for awhile will prove its mighty
triumph for the whole world. Its sacrifice will thrill generations yet to be,
who will call Belgium blessed both in their memory and their prayers.
By EMILE VERHAEREN
Sire,
This request to pay my respectful homage to you has
given me the first real pleasure I have been permitted
to feel since the good days of Liege. At this moment
you are the one king in the world whose subjects,
without exception, unite in loving and admiring him
with all the strength of their souls. This unique fate is yours, Sire.
No leader of men on earth has had it in the same degree as you.
In spite of the immensity of the sorrow surrounding you,
I think you have a right to rejoice, and the more
so as your consort, Her Majesty The Queen, shares this rare privilege with you.
Sire, your name will be great throughout the ages to come.
You are in such perfect sympathy with your people.
that you will always be their symbol.
Their courage, their tenacity, their stifled grief, their pride,
their future greatness, their immortality all live in you.
Our hearts are yours to their very depths.
Being yourself, you are all of us. And this you will remain.
Later on, when you return to your recaptured and glorious Belgium,
you will only have to say the word, Sire, and all disputes will lose their bitterness
and all antagonisms fade away. After being our stength and defender,
You will become our peacemaking and reconciler.
With deepest respects,
By SIR JOHN BLAND-SUTTON
"I sin in envying his nobility"
Could I be anything I wished,
"I would wish me only he."
By SIR ADOLPHUS WILLIAM WARD
Master of Peteriwuse
IT so happens that, more than three-quarters of a century ago, my father
was personally much connected with the leaders of the movement that
resulted in the recognition of Belgian independence and in the guarantee
of Belgian neutrality by the European Great Powers, He remembered
very well how, not long after the day had been won and King Albert's
illustrious grandfather, King Leopold I, had mounted the throne on which
he achieved so much for the prosperity of his own monarchy and for the
peace of Europe at large, the King dismissed him after an audience with
the words: " You know I am not without difficulties here; but I take
England as my model, and try to get on in a constitutional way." In this
spirit the Kings of the Belgians have ruled for three generations over a
people that loves liberty, without throwing to the winds respect for au-
thority in Church and State,
But between the Belgians and ourselves there is something besides inter-
national obligations and political sympathy. These are the glorious tradi-
tions of a history which in the course of many centuries has established
between England and the Belgic lands a connection closer than that between
her and any other part of continental Europe. The measure in which the
inhabitants of this island are kith and kin with the neighbours of the Saxons
and Frisians is a question that has long attracted students, but it is most
assuredly a question of measure only. What is more to the purpose, the
main industry of the great Flemish communes became in the later Middle
Ages the chief customer of English pastoral productivity, and, besides
leading to much immigration to these shores, became the basis of a cordial
political alliance. Times changed with the decline of the mercantile and
the downfall of the political greatness of the good towns; but the com-
mercial relations between Great Britain and the Spanish (Austrian) Nether-
lands remained of vital interest to both countries, and formed an essential
element in the system of alliances and conditions of treaties from the sixteenth
to the eighteenth century.
The debt owing to Belgian art and Belgian letters—to the labours of Belgian
historians, I may venture to add, in particular—is one which this country
shares with the world at large. But I cannot close without recalling how
to the history of religion—an influence often united with that of trade and
with that of politics, but working in more profound and mysterious fashion
—and to the history of education, which is inseparable from it, Belgium has
contributed in many ways, but above all in that of deepening these move-
ments of soul and mind. The beginnings of Christian mystical thought
and of the fraternities from which both Renaissance and Regeneration drew
some of their truest spiritual force are in no small part traceable to the
saintly influence of Ruysbroek, whose birthplace was not far from the
modern Belgian capital. And the foremost representative of this learning
and this teaching was a professor of the earliest and most venerable of those
Belgian universities to which our hearts are going out today—the friend
of Erasmus in the chair of St. Peter. It may seem almost idle in these days
of bloodshed and destruction to look back for half a thousand years. But
with the stillness as well as with the profound earnestness of the noblest
part of Belgian spiritual life from the fourteenth to the sixteenth century
may well be compared the sustained efforts for peace between the nations
which long seemed one of the most hopeful signs in the public life of the
latter half of the nineteenth century and in the early years of our own;
and in these efforts Belgian statesmen and publicists have notably taken
what may be called a leading part.
For the sake of the long historical connection between the two peoples;
for the sake of the deep compassion and the high admiration to which the
Belgians have become entitled by what they have suffered and what they
have done in the dark days of the present, and for the sake of the peace
which they and we have at heart—we have welcomed among us the subjects
of our King's kinsman and ally, and we pray for their restoration, in God's
good time, to their own fair and gracious land.
By THE Right. Rev. BISHOP OF LONDON, D.D., LL.D.
THE real difficulty of writing about Belgium is to find language adequate
to express in the first place the scandalous injustice of her treatment.
Whatever any other State may have done, or not done, Belgium had done
absolutely nothing to deserve this treatment; she had maintained her
neutrality with perfect impartiality, and her treatment will be considered
one of the crimes of history.
But, if language is inadequate to describe the injustice of her treatment,
who can describe the pathos of that fleeing multitude, homeless, ruined,
and in terror of their lives? The heart of the world goes out to them in pity.
But, with pity is mingled the deepest admiration. Led by their splendid
King, they have given an example of sublime courage and unflinching
valour which has ennobled the world. They have shown that the soul of a
people can be unconquerable while its whole territory is ravaged and its
towns and villages are in flames. It must be the prayer of every lover of
justice in the world that the Great God in Heaven may avenge the wrongs
and reward the courage of the Belgian people.
By PROFESSOR GILBERT MURRAY
I SAW yesterday a regiment of British cavalry returning from manœuvres,
every man of them wearing the colours of a foreign nation. That is not a
common sight. Sometimes the soldiers of a conquered people have been
forced to wear foreign colours, but they would not wear them with pride
as these men did. Sometimes the soldiers of a weak and oppressed people
have been proud to wear the colours of some great and conquering Powder
which was its ally. But these men were wearing the colours of a small and
unfortunate nation, a nation in exile, whose lands are ravaged, its towns
destroyed, and its territory in the occupation of the enemy. It is not for
any material or worldly reason that British soldiers are proud to wear Belgian
colours; it is because Belgium in a time of terrific trial has done what we
all should be most proud to have done, and has become an emblem to all
the world of freedom and heroic courage.
The sufferings of Belgium would be enough in themselves, and more than
enough, to constitute a claim on all the help that we can give. Every one
admits the claim. In the town where I write it is not only well-to-do
people who are offering every kind of help and hospitality. Shops from
time to time refuse to take money when they hear that the goods they have
supplied are. for the Belgians. Artisans and tradesmen come and offer to
work in their spare hours without payment. In the last few days the town
workmen in one very poor neighbourhood have offered food and lodging
rent free for a year; the agricultural labourers in small villages have
clubbed their pennies together and rented and furnished cottages. The
same spirit is to be found all over England.
Now it is not mere sympathy, not mere pity for misfortune, that has stirred
our whole nation like this. There is that in it, of course; but still more
there is admiration and gratitude. And we are grateful not only because
Belgium stood, as a matter of fact, between us and the first fury of the
German onslaught, but because Belgium has raised our ideal of human life
and taught us to expect greater things of the world.
We did not know that our comfortable liberal-minded western civilisation
had in it this heart of heroism. We had read of the heroes and martyrs of
history, and we felt with a misgiving that they were perhaps out of date.
Life was no doubt easier now and less cruel; but it seemed looser in quality
and woven of cheaper material. We have been shaken out of that false
resignation. We have discovered that the days of cruelty are by no means
past; and, just when the shock of that discovery came, Belgium rose and
showed us that the days of heroism are not past either. She stands as an
example to all nations who doubt whether national life is a thing worth
suffering for, to all individuals who doubt their own value as free souls or
their capacity for facing danger or martyrdom. Consciously or uncon-
sciously there has come to each man's heart a secret message, raising his
confidence in himself and bracing all his faculties:
"The Belgians have done these things: why should not I?"
By SIR GILBERT PARKER
IT is given to some men and some peoples now and again in the world's
history to represent mankind at its truest, its highest and best; to offer
upon altars of liberty the blood of sacrifice for all men in all the
world; and to pledge for humanity once again devotion to eternal things.
This is what the Belgian King and the Belgian people have done. A
monstrous, destroying legion of terror and tyranny moved upon them out
of the night, offered them gain and gold if they would forswear their bond,
and give freedom to the legions of an Emperor to whom the ink of honour
and the pledged paper were no obstacles to the march of ambition. Belgium,
its King and people, preferred death to dishonour. Their way was the
ancient way—to lose the whole and gain their own souls. This they did,
and while Time tells its story the torch that Belgium lighted will burn, and
the hand of the King that held it aloft will be honoured among men.
"Oh, happy are all free peoples too strong to be dispossessed,
But blessed are they among nations that dare to be strong for the rest."
By SIR SIDNEY LEE
THE King of the Belgians and his brave army have set an example which
lends humanity a new glory. Their heroic resistance to the wholly un-
merited wrongs which brute strength has forced upon them has shed
fresh radiance on the history of the civilised world. In spite of the cruel
suffering which the ruthless enemy has sown broadcast through the land,
in spite of all the waste and desolation which German soldiers have inflicted
without pity or remorse, Belgium, its ruler and its people, may find hope
and consolation in the knowledge that the justice of their cause is
recognised wherever truth and right prevail, and that the honour of all
honourable men is pledged to secure for them due reparation of their
unconscionable wrongs.
By PROFESSOR WILLIAM FLINDERS PETRIE
F.R.S., F.B.A., D.C.L., LL.D., Ph.D.
TO the Belgian Nation and its Noble Leader, I present the most sincere
Homage to its Bravery,
Respect for its unflinching Fortitude,
Gratitude for its saving of England and France,
Wishes for its speedy resettlement,
Hopes that by its sufferings it may be perfected in true greatness.
By SIR HERBERT TREE
The Ultimatum: or, Every Man Has His Price.
Characters: The Ruler of a Great People; a Chiropodist; Princes, Grand
Dukes, Ministers of State, Priest, Professor, and Sycophants.
Scene: The Ruler's marble bathroom in the Palace.
{At the rise of curtain, the Ruler of a Great People is
discovered seated in his dressing-gown; the Chiropodist
plies his trade}
Chiropodist: What remarkable corns your Majesty has!
Ruler: Yes, they are ancestral—all my predecessors were noted for them.
Chiropodist: I have heard, your Majesty, that in the seventeenth century
many of the Court wore tight shoes in order to cultivate the Royal
infirmity—[correcting himself]—prerogative!
Ruler: I daresay. Take care—you hurt me.
[Chiropodist takes from his tray some drops from a little bottle
labelled "Poison" and applies them with a brush to the royal foot,
and resumes his pedicure.]
You may continue to address us.
Chiropodist [after a pause, choosing his topic]: The weather, your Majesty,
is very—very regrettable.
Ruler [with the divine-right manner]: Yes, we are much displeased with the weather!
Chiropodist: Yet the peasants have prayed for fine weather for the occasion
of your Majesty's name-day.
Ruler: The prayers of peasants are not always heard. Today is Friday,
is it not ? I have a superstition against signing important documents
on Friday. Tonight it is the Ultimatum. [Bored.] Oh, this war!
What is the feeling among the people? You have leave to speak the truth.
Chiropodist: Your Majesty is too gracious. The people, your Majesty,
do not wish for war.
Ruler: The Minister of War assures me they do.
Chiropodist: The people, your Majesty, will regard the decision of their
King as the will of God. [Bowing over the royal foot.]
Ruler: You are a clever fellow. You might go far.
Chiropodist [with inomentary expansion]: My hump has stood in my light,
your Majesty.
Ruler: There is a saying of my great ancestor,
"It is lucky to have a hunch-back near you."
Chiropodist: Yes, your Majesty, the common proverb says:
"A hump is a misery to him who hath it,
but it fills him of the straight back with contentment."
Ruler: We all have our compensations.
Chiropodist: Yes, your Majesty, my mother always had a premonition
that before I died a great honour would be conferred on me.
Ruler: I shouldn't wonder. By the by, I should like to keep you near
me tonight. Your hump may bring me luck. I have to make a
momentous decision. Now listen to me. I trust you—you have availed
yourself of my permission to be truthful. I do not trust all my ser-
vants. Will you look to the wine tonight? [The Chiropodist cringes assent.]
The royal Dukes and my Ministers are to dine at my table.
Be near me tonight, my little hunch-back.
[The Chiropodist kisses the royal toes in deep obeisance.
The Ruler of a Great People exits to his dressing-room.
The Chiropodist rises]
Chiropodist: It has come—the day, their day, my day! God of my fathers,
keep me from madness. Mother, hold my hand from out of your
grave! You said it should be! My hunger can be stilled—I can almost
straighten my back with pride.
[He crosses himself beneath the image of the Virgin.]
Help me in my hour. There are two roads—which
shall I take? I have learned to flatter—it is my profession—I have
walked across the plank—I am there—my ambition, my little ambition
can be requited. I have blackmailed the world—I am in its palace.
The open road is in front of me at last. I can move step by step, as
others have done, nearer the throne—and then, who knows? But
there is another road—the road where humanity toils or trudges—the
road my father and mother trod when I was a little child. It was the
revolution—my mother was torn from my father's arms—before his
eyes she was degraded by the soldiery—then they shot him for an
anarchist. This hump of mine—a soldier struck me with his gun—my
shoulder shattered. In our exile every night my mother would stroke
my back while she prayed that God would straighten me. She starved
that she might sprinkle my hump with holy water. And here I am
what I am. This is my moment—shall I fall to ease, to comfort, and
convenience? I whose father shrieked for freedom as he fell. This
war—I can prevent it. I sec it coming on—I am not blind as those that
make war—war for the vanity of a King, who made God in his own
image. War for greed of commerce. Hundreds, thousands, millions
of lives will be lost to satisfy the lust of five men! Can five hundred
years of happiness compensate for one year's spoil of a monarch's sport?
An Emperor of the Shambles declares war to make a madman's holiday.
I can hear the yells of the poor deluded men in the trenches—they
call it glory! I can see their stark bodies mangled and twisted in the
frozen mud—they call it glory! I can smell the stench of their decay
wafting disease through the land in the spring that is coming—they
call it glory! I can read the outpourings of their hireling professors.
I hear Christ's priests chanting their blessings on the holocausts—they
call it glory! The moans of millions of mothers go up to God, un-
heeded by man. My mind is a mirage of ruined cathedrals, of de-
vastated homes, of spectres of famished peoples—all these I see—they
call it glory! My little hand can stay all this.
[He takes from his box the little bottle labelled "Poison."]
Here is my ally—a few drops of this
in his liqueur tonight, and it is done. [He tastes the poison.]
Revenge is sweet! I shall be the undying benefactor of mankind. After all, he
is only one man, like myself. He who cuts the corns of a monarch
knows the equality of man. Murder—yes. To kill one man is to be a
murderer—to kill ten thousand is to be a hero! Strange is the logic of
the world! What is he then who murders one to save millions?
[He takes up his paraphernalia and exits.]
[The scene changes to the private dining-room of the great
Ruler. Seated round the table are Princes, Cabinet
Ministers, a Professor, and a Priest. It is the end of
dinner. There are signs of debauchery. The Ruler,
steeped in wine, gazes before him with pale eyes. Papers
are in front of him and an ink-stand, into which he dips his
pen irresolutely. The clock strikes twelve.]
War Minister: At twelve the decision was to be given — it has already
struck.
A Prince: Octavian, sign.
[The Ruler hesitates and takes a liqueur from the hands of
the now resplendent Chiropodist.]
Prime Minister: It is time to sign, your Majesty.
Ruler: I am thinking.
Prime Minister: A King should never think, your Majesty, when he knows
his power. It is two minutes past the hour—history is rushing by.
You are two minutes less powerful than you were at midnight.
War Minister: Might is right.
Ruler: Is Might always right? [Turning to elderly Priest.]
Father, you have often told me that the true divine right of kings is peace.
What did you say in your sermon during the Peace Conference? If the sacred
head of the State were to pronounce himself to the world as the leader
of Peace—if he will declare himself—if he will proclaim that the highest
prerogative of kings—that their true Divine right is universal peace—
if in his greatness he will carry this ideal into effect, then he will go
down the centuries not only as King of his land, not only as Emperor
of the globe, but as the temporal saviour of mankind. Those were
your words, father Surely God is good.
Priest: Yes, your Majesty, very good. But now we are talking war. The
needs of your people sanctify the sacrifice of your ideals.
Ruler: I am wondering, at what point a King is justified for the sake of
his country in sacrificing his ideals.
[He takes another liqueur]
Priest: His conscience must decide.
Professor: Ideals are only official ideals when they have concrete foun-
dations. Ideals must be backed by cannon, or left alone. With all
submission to your Majesty, man is but a brute—we all devour each
other if we can. Our rivals are sunk in the sloth of what is called
humanitarianism. The new religion of so-called thinkers and feelers
threatens to become a force which may so miseducate the masses, that
the workmen of the world may sweep away our own Culture of in-
tellectual materialism by a universal strike for peace. This new move-
ment, whose praise is being sung by poets and seers, must be throttled
before its growth shall have become a menace to our fatherland. Al-
ready the people are singing the hymns of the new religion of humanity
in secret places. Socialism is rife in our land. Now is the moment
to crush it for a hundred years and so preserve the ancient dynasty of
which your Majesty is God's chosen head, and secure the supremacy
of our race.
[Great cheers ring out from the Square from many thousand voices.
Here and there angry imprecations too are heard.
The cheers come nearer and nearer
and the jingle-jingle of approaching cavalry is heard below]
Ruler: Are they cheering me?
Chorus of Ministers and Princes [surrounding the Ruler]:
They are cheering the war.
They are cheering the Prince—he waves his hand to them.
Ruler: Ingrates—is my popularity then waning?
Prime Minister [his watch in hand]: You are twelve minutes and fifteen
seconds less popular than you were at midnight, your Majesty.
Ruler [twisting the quill pen in his hand]: That is the voice of the people!
Priest: Vox populi. Vox Dei!
War Minister: It is the voice of the Army!
[The royal Dukes and Ministers, Priest, and Professor
surround the Ruler, cajoling, flattering, and brow-beating
him in turn. A military band blares out the National Hymn
in which a hundred thousand voices join. Ruler takes the
pen once more; nerving himself to the great effort, he
beckons to the Chiropodist, who makes to serve the liqueur]
Chiropodist: Now is my moment!
[Taking from his pocket the little bottle labelled "Poison,"
he is about to pour it into the glass when a royal Duke
approaches him with something glittering in his hand]
Royal Duke [to Chiropodist): In recognition of your valuable services
His Majesty desires me to confer upon you the order of the Golden
Lamb, of the second class.
[Pins decoration on his breast]
Chiropodist [overcome, mechanically as in a dream, he clasps the bauble
in his hand, then hesitates, gasping]: O Mother, Mother!
Ruler: It is war!
Chiropodist: Let it rip! [He spills the poison on the floor]
[The Ruler of a Great People signs the Ultimatum.
The Chiropodist shrugs his hump.]
The Curtain falls.
By GENERAL BOOTH
Sire,
Have this consolation in the supreme agony of your dynasty and of your
people, that you have enthused with new life and force the great principle
that men ought not only to love their country, but their kind.
We of the Salvation Army pray God that His great Salvation may strengthen
you ever to honour Him in Mercy and Righteousness.
By PREBENDARY WILSON CARLILE
DAVID has fought Goliath. The victory is not yet, but it is coming. The
God of Battles will avenge His shattered houses, the burned and ruined
homes, the trampled harvest fields, the slaughtered, outraged, tormented,
exiled people, for their cry has reached Him in His Holy Place. Though
the time be long, we shall most surely see a new Belgium arise from the
ashes of war, purified, made more noble and strong, uplifted by the fiery
trial. And although so many of her soldiers, and others of her bravest and
best, must sleep until the Archangel shall sound réveillé, yet their blood
has not been shed in vain, for their spirit lives for evermore. God give
strength to Belgium's King, people, and Allies to fight on in this righteous
cause until complete victory crowns the struggle, made holy by the blood
and tears of so great a multitude.
By ALMA E. BELMONT
IN expressing my sympathy with the Belgian nation, I am compelled to
say there can be no being from any realm calling itself human but feels its
very life-blood pulsate with grief and its heart overflow with love for the
great manhood of this stricken nation. Words seem poor and lame. This
display of courage, this will to carry Right against Might, this defence of
country and home, calls for action, imitation.
What is any nation, what are any people doing, who stand idly aside, and
by their inertia and fear of injury to themselves, permit murder, pillage,
and wilful destruction of a land of peace, of honest industry, of a God-
fearing race? What are we doing in Washington? Where is our boasted
civilisation? Where is Christianity? Is not our brother being annihi-
lated? Why is not our hand stretched out to shield him? How much
longer will the strong and mighty stand aside and see the brave and free
trampled under foot by a monster power intoxicated with arrogance? If
the United States believes in democracy; if she stands for States' rights;
if she believes in the defence of national honour and political liberty, the
crime committed against Belgium demands such action from our great
Republic that this murderous carnage shall stop.
By FLORENCE L. BARCLAY
In Hoc Vince
To His Majesty the King of the Belgians
Sire,
AS my contribution to the tribute of universal sympathy and admiration
now presented to Your Majesty, I have been asked to write a short story,
bearing upon the great events of the past months.
In humbly accepting this privilege, I cannot but be conscious that this is
not a time for fiction ; therefore the story which I now have the honour of
offering to Your Majesty is fact — true in its main details — given as it reached
me, in the sublime simplicity of a soldier's letter from the front.
During the masterly retreat of the allied forces after the battle of Mons, a
young British officer was ordered to round up stragglers in a small town,
which had just been evacuated by our troops.
There was no time to lose. The enemy, in overwhelming force, was sweep-
ing down upon the defenceless place. Shells were falling on all sides.
The distant rumble of a relentless approach drew, every moment nearer.
The young officer, marching his little company rapidly along the deserted
streets, crossed a cobbled square, and came upon a municipal building,
temporarily converted into a hospital.
He stepped within.
"Any men here, able to march?" he began—then paused abruptly and
looked around him.
There was no question of stragglers, here.
Scores of wounded and of dying lay helpless upon the floor, each where
he had been hurriedly placed.
A little party of British Red Cross nurses moved among them, doing their
utmost to tend, relieve, and comfort.
While the tall youth in khaki stood silent in the doorway, a shell shrilled over
the building, crashed into a house close by, and burst with a deafening noise.
A moment of tense silence. Then a Tommy laughed.
"It'll save the doctors trouble, if a few of them things come in here," he
said. "Do our amputating for nothing, they will! "
The Sister in charge of the little band of English nurses chanced to be
kneeling near the door, supporting the head of a dying lad. He pushed
away the cup she was holding to his lips and gazed into her face, sudden
terror in his eyes.
"They won't shoot on the Red Cross, will they, nurse?" he whispered.
"Ain't we safe under the flag?"
Her quiet smile was reassuring. "Perfectly safe, my lad. Don't you worry.
Drink this, and lie still."
Then, looking up, she saw the young officer standing in the doorway.
He raised his hand in salute.
"I suppose there is nothing I can do," he said. "I am rounding up stragglers.
and marching them out. But nobody here could do any marching. Shall
I take a message through for you? I'll send back help, if possible."
Kneeling there, with the dying boy's head upon her arm, she looked steadily
at him, and it struck him that he had never before met eyes so full of a calm
and steadfast courage.
"We are all right," she said, slipping a folded jacket beneath the head she
was supporting; "quite all right—doing famously!"
But the next moment she was beside him in the doorway, and had caught
him by the arm.
"Don't go! "she whispered." For God's sake, don't go! I need help;
and you must help me."
"Do you want to get out of this?" asked the young officer, speaking
hurriedly, and very low.
The Englishwoman looked at him.
"Oh, I say, I beg your pardon! Of course I know you wouldn't leave them.
Tell me how I can help. What can I do?"
"Listen," she said." There is not a moment to lose. Did you notice
the roof of this building, as you crossed the square? There's a flagstaff
and cord, all complete; but no flag. Do you understand? No Red Cross
flag. And the Germans are beginning to shell the town. You must find
me a Red Cross flag, and hoist it, before you go."
The young officer stood beside her, uncertain, perplexed; dismay in his
honest eyes.
"I'm awfully sorry," he said. "But I have no Red Cross flag; and, for
the life of me, I don't know where to get one."
"Then you must make one," she urged. "We have over a hundred wounded
men under this roof." She shook him by the sleeve. "Can't you contrive
something? Can't you think of something? Can't you make me a Red
Cross flag?"
The boy stood for a moment in stern thought. All the man in him awoke,
eager to meet this woman's desperate need.
His eye travelled slowly round the bare, unfurnished hall. At length it
rested on the floor.
Suddenly he started. She saw him hesitate. Then his face grew firm and
purposeful.
"Give me half a sheet," he said, "and some bandages."
He helped her to tear the sheet in two.
At sound of the sharp rending, many eyes turned their way.
He spread the sheet upon the floor, and held out his hand for the bandages.
"Give me some pins," he said, huskily; "plenty of them. Then leave
the rest to me. This is my job."
All at once she knew what he was going to do; and she, who had times
without number faced unspeakable sights without flinching, turned away
while, stooping, he dipped the bandages in the blood which lay in pools
upon the floor.
When she looked again, he was on his knees, carefully pinning the crimson
strips across the white sheet.
Her hand flew to her throat, striving to control an irrepressible sob.
He had not recognised her, in her nurse's uniform, but at first sight she
had known him, and now vividly recalled the scene of their former meeting
— a sunny cricket-field in England; he, in spotless flannels, the hero of
the hour, winning a match for his school eleven. She had sat beside his
mother and watched her pride in the gay, handsome boy. All eyes had
been bent upon him, as he hit out straight and true, made the winning
stroke, and carried his bat for top score in the match.
And now... As he knelt in his stained khaki, dying eyes watched, in
the quiet calm of a strange detachment, the making of that Red Cross flag.
Wounded men rolled over, raised themselves on their elbows, and smiled
in grim approval.
After that one choking sob she also smiled bravely back at them.
Her flag was ready.
He rose to his feet. "Now then! Show me the way to the roof, please.
No—I can carry it. No need for you to touch it. Sister. This is my show."
She stood beside him on the roof.
As he drew the cord taut and fastened it, the breeze caught and unfurled
the heavy folds of the sheet, and, slowly opening out, the Red Cross flew,
clear and unmistakable, in the sunshine.
She laid her hand once more upon the khaki sleeve.
"God bless you," she said, a tremor of emotion in her quiet voice." And,
when you write home, don't forget to tell your mother of this thing which
you have done."
Half an hour later, as he marched his men, under cover of a wood, over
the crest of the hill, the young officer stepped out for a moment into a
clearing and looked back upon the little town.
German shells were falling to right and left; but above the hospital flew
the Red Cross flag, brave in the breeze, bright in the gold of the sunset;
and the wounded lay beneath, sheltered by the crimson of their own life-
blood.
By THE Rt. Hon. THOMAS BURT
HEARTILY do I associate myself with you in expressions of appreciation
of the Belgian people and their heroic King.
By J. C. CHRISTENSSEN
The fate of Belgium awakes in our nation the greatest sympathy.
If the Belgian King and his people do not get
redress for all they are now suffering, then it
seems to us that justice is trampled down and that
talk about the European Kultur must become mute,
Our feelings are roused so much the more as we our-
selves are also a small nation, who must always appeal
to the righteousness and highmindedness of others.
By THE Rt. Hon. SYED AMEER ALI
I DESIRE to express my deepest sympathy for the undeserved sufferings
of the Belgian nation. I cannot help feeling that Belgium, which had
wronged no one and simply stood on her own rights, has been cruelly
treated by a powerful nation to whom she might naturally have looked for
protection and help. One searches in vain for any justification for the
ruthlessness with which the armies of Germany, who claimed to stand in
the forefront of the civilised world, have conducted themselves in unhappy
Belgium. The country devastated, ancient seats of learning rendered
desolate, the people driven from their homes for refuge in distant lands
make the heart throb with infinite sorrow and pain.
The sorrow I feel for her is shared by the whole world—no less by Moslems
than by Christians.
By ARTHUR C. BENSON
ABOVE all we must keep in the forefront of our minds the immense debt
we owe to Belgium for her staunch fidelity and for the supreme heroism
of her army. Never has a small and peaceable nation risen more nobly to
a great occasion. We must ease the strain upon Belgium by every means
in our power, welcome and comfort her refugees, house them, feed them,
take them to our hearts; and we must also resolve that when the time comes
we must undergo any sacrifice to repay them for their splendid public spirit
and their generous sacrifices. We cannot heal their griefs or remove their
sufferings; but we can do all that human kindness and liberality can do
to atone for the sickening wrongs which have been done them, and show our
gratitude for the loyalty which has indeed been faithful unto death.
God bless and reward Belgium!
By ANNIE VIVANTI CHARTRES
The Broken Rose
To King Albert
Shy, youthful, silent — and misunderstood
In the white glare of Kinghood thou didst stand.
The sceptre in thy hand
Seemed but a flower the Fates had tossed to thee,
And thou wert called, perchance half-scornfully,
Albert the Good.
Today thou standest on a blackened grave,
Thy broken sword still lifted to the skies.
Thy pure and fearless eyes
Gaze into Death's grim visage unappalled
And by the storm-swept nations thou art called
Albert the Brave.
Tossed Oil a blood-red sea of rage and hate
The frenzied world rolls forward to its doom.
But high above the gloom
Flashes the fulgent beacon of thy fame.
The nations thou hast saved exalt thy name
Albert the Great!
Albert the good, the brave, the great, thy land
Lies at thy feet, a crushed and morient rose
Trampled and desecrated by thy foes.
One day a greater Belgium will be born.
But what of this dead Belgium wracked and torn?
What of this rose flung out upon the sand?...
Behold! Afar where sky and waters meet
A white-robed Figure walketh on the sea.
(Peace goes before Him and her face is sweet.)
As once He trod the waves of Galilee
He comes again—the tumult sinks to rest,
The stormy waters shine beneath His feet.
He sees the dead rose lying in the sand,
He lifts the dead rose in His holy hand
And lays it at His breast.
O broken rose of Belgium, thou art blest!
By GERTRUDE ATHERTON
WE have experienced so many emotions in America in the course of this
terrible war that it would be difficult, had not Germany violated the neu-
trality of Belgium, to assert definitely what has been our dominant sensation.
But, as it is, I think I can safely speak for my countrymen, and state that
nothing has so horrified us and aroused our indignation and sympathies
as the cruel fate of this valiant little country.
Above all, no chapter of the war, as yet presented to us, has so excited our
admiration as well as our profound respect. We are the only country,
owing to our geographical position as well as to our facilities, that has been
able to look at all sides of the European imbroglio from the beginning; and
propaganda has made no impression whatever upon us. We have had the
opportunity to make up our own minds, and, wholly out of order. as this
would appear in certain quarters, we believe ourselves to be quite equal to
this feat without exterior assistance. We know, among many other things,
that the magnificent resistance at Liege upset all the long-matured plans of
the German War Office, and that had Belgium proved either weak or
ignoble, the history of the war would be very different reading today.
I venture to say that every town in the United States, big and little, has its
Belgian relief society, even if it does not spread beyond the dimensions of
the weekly sewing circle; and that the most consistent democrat in the
country takes off his hat to King Albert of Belgium. The Americans are
always alert to recognise a MAN, and are capable of being quite indifferent
to the niche presented to him by destiny. What he does in that niche is
the point. If the result of this upheaval is a great European Republic (I
refer of course to the Continent) I feel positive that if the people of the
United States of America were allowed to vote, the popular candidate would
be King Albert of Belgium.
By ROBERT HICHENS
The End of Little Belgium
WHEN war began and the German army appeared before the forts of Liege,
the world said, "This will be the end of little Belgium." There was deep
pity in all hearts, but with it was mingled a certain sense of the impotence
of the tiny nation confronted by the brutal might of Germany.
I heard two men in a London street discussing the question of the opening
war and the tragic situation of the Belgians. One of them, with a twist of
his shoulders, said, "What on earth can they do?" The other man replied,
"The right thing, and that's what they're going to do."
The little nation had decided. The guns of Liege opened fire.
"The martyrdom of Belgium,"
As it has been called, began. Men, women, and even children were slain.
Villages and cities were burned. Thousands were wounded;
tens of thousands were rendered homeless.
And people said, "Unhappy Belgium!"
Where has that exclamation not been uttered ? Even in Germany it has
come from the lips of Germans, and from time to time the ruler of Germany
sent to the ruler of Belgium suggestions of peace.
"Haven't you had enough of doing the right thing?"
The answer was "No." And more human beings were slain,
and more villages were burned, and more families were driven out
homeless and starving to live how and where they could.
But people said no more, "Unhappy Belgium!"
Strangely, as the tragedy deepened and darkened, the world almost ceased
from pitying. "Wonderful Belgium!" we said. And the days and the
nights went by, and the roar of battle drew nearer to our coasts. And
still the Belgians went on obstinately doing the right thing. Antwerp fell.
The Belgian army avoided capture and retreated. All that "was left of it"
was said to have passed into France, and the English papers announced
that it would "rest" for awhile to recover spirit and strength after its
terrible trials and exertions.
Not many hours later the world knew that it was still in Belgium, attacking
the German army with fierce tenacity, and giving splendid help to the Allies.
Its King was with it, and its Queen was not far off.
Since then people speak of "Glorious Belgium!"
The pilgrimage has been accomplished and the peaks have been gained.
How then can we pity Belgium?
I went among the crowds of refugees at Folkestone, and sat in the midst
of sick Belgian soldiers. I talked to old and young, to non-combatants and
fighting men, and I gathered from my experiences a dominant impression,
which was not an impression of despair. Misery of the body there was.
But the far deeper, the far more terrible misery of the soul was so seldom
apparent that it could not be said with truth,
"This is a nation in despair. This is a ruined nation."
The simple fact is that through all this tragedy Belgium has been upheld by
the splendid knowledge that "little Belgium" is no more. When the first
shot was fired from the forts of Liege a little nation died,
but a nation that is great was born.
By JEAN RICHEPIN
To the Belgian People and to their King,
In place of that false great nation, which aspired to
subjugate all others and mould them in the image
of its own ideal — a combination of pedant and in-
quisitor — it is thine image, O valiant, loyal, generous,
and sublime little land, which should be set up as an
example to all other countries.
People whose history
is a perpetual lesson of labour, independence, and
heroism; people whose country is the most densely
populated in the world; people among whom every kind
of culture, material and moral, flourishes: industry,
commerce, art, and letters; people of beautiful
cathedrals,nof splendid town-halls, of incomparable
museums; people counting among your sons the
poet and philosopher Maeterlinck, who has condemned
the German spirit to extermination; the noble Burgo-
masley Max, who held out against Von der Goltz;
and lastly,
The magnanimous King Albert, who sleeps
in the trenches after fighting in them with his soldiers,
King Albert, the perfect incarnation of the Belgian
soul. O people of good workers, of great artists, of
brave warriors, people of true men, it is you who at
this hour of history bear the palladium of Humanity
in your martyred and heroic hands.
By ROMAIN ROLLAND
Belgium has just written an Epic, the echoes of which
will resound throughout the ages. Like the three
hundred Spartans, the little Belgian army holding at
bay for three months the gigantic hosts of Germany;
Leman—Leonidas; the Thermopylœ of Liège;
Louvain, burnt like Troy; the deeds of King Albert
surrounded by his valiant men; what legendary
grandeur already encircles these figures, whose
tale history has not yet completed! The heroism
of this people who, without a murmur, sacrificed
everything for honour, burst like a thunderclap upon
us at a time when the spirit of victorious Germany was
offering to the world a conception of political realism,
resting stolidly on force and self-interest. It was
the liberation of the oppressed idealism of the West.
And it seemed a miracle that the signal should have
been given by this little nation.
Men call the sudden appearance of a hidden reality
a miracle. The shock of danger brings out the true
character of individuals and nations. What reve-
lations this war has made in those around us,
aye, even among those nearest and dearest to us!
What heroic hearts and what savage beasts! The
inner soul reveals itself. It is no new soul.
In this crucial hour Belgium has seen the hidden
genius of her race suddenly emerge. The courage
that she has shown during the last three months evokes
admiration; it should not surprise anyone who, in
the pages of history, has felt the vigorous sap of her
people flowing through the ages. Small in space end
numbers, she is one of the greatest nations in Europe
in her abounding vitality. The heroism of the
Belgians of today is the same as that of the Flemings
of Courtrai. The men of that province never feared
to oppose their powerful neighbours, the Kings of
France or Spain—now heroes and now victims,
Arteveldes or Egmonts. Their soil, watered by the
blood of millions of warriors, is the most fertile in
Europe in the harvests of the soul. From it sprang
the art of modern painting, which the school of the
Van Eycks spread throughout the world at the time
of the Renaissance, and the art of modern music, of
that polyphony which thrilled through France,
Germany, and Italy for nearly two centuries. It has
give?! us the great poetic efflorescence of our times;
and the two writers who most brilliantly represent
French literature in the world, Maeterlinck and
Verhaeren, are sons of Belgium. They are the
people who have suffered most and have borne their
sufferings most bravely and cheerfully; the Martyr-
Nation of Philip II and of Kaiser Wilhelm; and
they are the people of Rubens, the people of Kermesses
and of Till Ulenspiegel.
He who knows that amazing epic re-told and sung by
Charles de Coster: The heroic, joyous, and glorious
adventures of Ulenspiegel and Lammé Goedjak,
those two Flemish worthies who might take their
places side by side with the immortal Don Quixote
and his Sancho Panza—he who has seen that
dauntless spirit at work, rough and facetious, rebel-
lious in grain, always in opposition to established
powers, accepting all hardships and emerging from
them gay and smiling—believes in the future destinies
of the nation that gave birth to Ulenspiegel, and even
in the darkest hours will fearlessly await the approach-
ing dawn of great and happy days.
Belgium may be invaded.
The Belgian people will never be conquered nor crushed.
The Belgian people cannot die.
At the end of the story of Till Ulenspiegel, when they
think he is dead, and are going to bury him, he wakes up:
"Are they going to bury Ulenspiegel the soul,
Nele, the heart of Mother Flanders? Sleep,
perhaps; but die, no! Come, Nele," said he.
And he departed with her, singing his sixth song.
But no one knows where he sang his last.
By AUSTIN DOBSON
To Belgium
For Right not Might you fought. The foe,
Checked in his wild World-overthrow,
Ravaged, with his remorseless hand.
Your ancient fanes and peaceful land,
Thinking to crush you at a blow!
You are not crushed—as well we know.
If you are trodden, 'tis to grow;
Nor shall they jail at last who stand
For Right, not Might!
God speed you, Belgium! Time will show
How large a debt to You we owe;
To You, through all reverses grand—
Men stretch to-day a grateful hand:
God speed you still—in weal and woe—
For Right, not Might!
By EDWARD CARPENTER
To the Land and People of Belgium
AFTER all, dear Land and People of Belgium, do not be dismayed by all
this that has come upon you, but have good courage and hope for the future.
Mad violence and monstrous warfare may truly have damaged and crippled
your body; but they have not destroyed, and I do not think that they will
destroy, your soul. Perhaps indeed your Spirit will rise all the clearer and
more commanding out of this great fire of suffering.
If being small and without material power you have by your devoted
solidarity and democratic courage drawn the admiration and respect of all
the peoples of the earth, you have already in so doing inspired us with an
idea which perhaps neither the science of Germany nor the wealth of
England nor the genius of France nor the vast resources of Russia could
alone have won for us—the belief that the power which ultimately rules the
world proceeds from the generosity of a nation's heart rather than from
the force of its armament.
It may be that this belief, born of your act of devotion and heroism, will
one day become the salvation of Europe, and bring to its distracted peoples
—instead of endless violence and jealousies—the gift of true culture and fraternity.
By MISS BRADDON
WHAT can I say of Albert, the King? What can I think of him, except
what we are all saying in these dreadful hours, except what we are all think-
ing, with thoughts too deep for tears? To whom can we compare him?
He has no parallel in the story of the nations, no parallel in Romance or
Legend, He stands alone on a hideous page of the world's history, and
will so stand till the last hour of recorded time, sublime and adorable, with
the halo of saints and martyrs round his head.
By WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS
THE proposed tribute is part of the debt of honour and reverence which is
due from the whole world to that most nobly heroic people and the Prince
who has shown himself worthy of them. The tragedy of their great little
land is of a pathos matchless in the history of the past; and in the future
when, as we all hope, the military spirit of Germany shall be brought low,
I believe the Germans themselves will share our horror of the ruin they
have wrought among its homes and shrines.
By SIR H. RIDER HAGGARD
THE desolation of Belgium is perhaps the most appalling world-crime
since the wrecking of the Netherlands by Alva. That iniquity was followed
by the decay of Spain while, in the end, Holland recovered and grew great
in freedom. It may well be that the eternal laws of Justice shall work in
such fashion that a like judgment will fall upon the proud head of Germany
and that a like triumph awaits her victim.
By WILLIAM ARCHER
The Big and the Great
When they to History's judgment-seat shall come.
Which will shine glorious in the eyes of men,
Huge Germany or heroic BELGIUM?
Which will be hailed Great, Wilhelm or ALBERT, then?
Part 4