It needs, indeed, an effort of the imagination at the moment of writing
to think of Belgium as in any sense a component part of "Beautiful
Europe." The unhappy "cockpit" of the Continent at the actual hour is
again in process of accomplishing its frightful destiny--no treaty, or
"scrap of paper," is potent to preserve this last, and weakest, of all
the nations of Western Europe from drinking to the dregs the cup of
ruin and desolation. Tragic indeed in the profoundest sense--in the
sense of Aristotle--more tragic than the long ruin of the predestined
house of Oedipus--is this accumulated tragedy of a small and helpless
people, whose sole apparent crime is their stern determination to cling
at any cost to their plighted word of honour. I have been lately
glancing into a little book published about five years ago, in which a
view is taken of the Belgian character that no one could term
indulgent. "It is curious," says the writer in one place, "how few
Belgians, old or young, rich or poor, consider the feelings or
convenience of others. They are intensely selfish, and this is
doubtless caused by the way in which they are brought up." And, again,
in another chapter, he insinuates a doubt as to whether the Belgians,
if ever called on, would even prove good soldiers. "But whether the
people of a neutral State are ever likely to be brave and
self-sacrificing is another thing." Such a writer certainly does not
shrink--as Burke, we know, once shrank--from framing an indictment
against an entire people. Whether Belgium, as a nation, is
self-sacrificing and brave may safely be left to the judgment of
posterity. There is a passage in one of Mr. Lecky's books--I cannot put
my finger on the exact reference--in which he pronounces that the sins
of France, which are many, are forgiven her, because, like the woman in
the Gospels, she has loved much. It is not our business now, if indeed
at any time, to appraise the sins of Belgium; but surely her love, in
anguish, is manifest and supreme. When we contemplate these firstfruits
of German "kultur"--this deluge of innocent blood, and this wreckage of
ancient monuments--who can hesitate for a moment to belaud this little
people, which has flung itself thus gallantly, in the spirit of purest
sacrifice, in front of the onward progress of this new and frightful
Juggernaut? Rather one recalls that old persistent creed, exemplified
perhaps in the mysteries, now of the Greek Adonis, now of Persian
Mithras, and now of the Roman priest of the Nennian lake, that it is
only through the gates of sacrifice and death that the world moves on
triumphant to rejuvenation and life. Is it, in truth, through the blood
of a bruised and prostrate Belgium that the purple hyacinth of a
rescued European civilization will spring presently from the soaked and
untilled soil?
Yet even if German "kultur" in the end sweep wholly into ruin the long
accumulated treasures of Belgian architecture, sculpture, and
painting--if Bruges, which to-day stands still intact, shall to-morrow
be reckoned with Dinant and Louvain--yet it would still be worth while
to set before a few more people this record of vanished splendour, that
they may better appreciate what the world has lost through lust of
brutal ambition, and better be on guard in the future to protect what
wreckage is left. All these treasures were bequeathed to us--not to
Belgium alone, but to the whole world--by the diligence and zeal of
antiquity; and we have seen this goodly heritage ground in a moment
into dust beneath the heel of an insolent and degraded militancy.
Belgium, in very truth, in guarding the civilization and inheritance of
other nations, has lavishly wrecked her own. "They made me keeper of
the vineyards; but my own vineyard have I not kept."
Luckily, however, it is not yet quite clear that the "work of waste and
ruin" is wholly irreparable. One sees in the illustrated English papers
pictures of the great thirteenth-century churches at Dixmude, Dinant,
and Louvain, made evidently from photographs, that suggest at least
that it is not impossible still to rebuild the walls of Jerusalem.
Dixmude, indeed--I judge from an interior view--is possibly shattered
past hope; but Dinant and St. Pierre, at Louvain, so far at least as
their fabrics are concerned, seem to lack little but the woodwork of
their roofs. It is only a few years ago since the writer stood in the
burnt-out shell of Selby Abbey; yet the Selby Abbey of to-day, though
some ancient fittings of inestimable value have irreparably perished,
is in some ways not less magnificent, and is certainly more complete,
than its imperfect predecessor. One takes comfort, again, in the
thought of York Minster in the conflagration caused by the single
madman Martin in 1829, and of the collapse of the blazing ceilings in
nave and chancel, whilst the great gallery of painted glass, by some
odd miracle, escaped. Is it too much to hope that this devil's work of
a million madmen at Dixmude or Nieuport may prove equally incomplete?
In the imperfect sketch that follows I write of the aspect of
Belgium--of its cities, that were formerly the most picturesque in
Europe; of its landscapes, that range from the level fens of Flanders
to the wooded limestone wolds of the Ardennes--as I knew these, and
loved them, in former years, before hell was let loose in Europe. And
perhaps, the picture here presented will in time be not altogether
misrepresentative of the regenerated Belgium that will certainly some
day arise.