BELGIUM ONCE MORE
The future’s gain
Is certain as God’s truth; but, meanwhile, pain
Is bitter, and tears are salt: our voices take
A sober tone; our very household songs
Are heavy with a nation’s griefs and wrongs;
And innocent mirth is chastened for the sake
Of the brave hearts that never more shall beat,
The eyes that smile no more, the unreturning feet.
WHITTIER.
You will remember I told you that long before this great war Belgium had
already been called for hundreds of years “the Cockpit of Europe.” This
vivid phrase comes down to us from the time when cock-fighting was a
favourite sport among Englishmen.
Belgium was indeed the pit in which the gamecocks of many nations—the
Flemings, the Dutch, the Spanish, the English, and the French—battled
furiously. There is no town, and there is scarcely a village, the name
of which is not proudly borne by some regiment among its battle honours.
From the British point of view the most memorable of these are Quatre
Bras, Ramillies, and Waterloo.
The most famous, I need hardly tell you, is the Battle of Waterloo,
which was fought within a few miles of Brussels, the capital of Belgium.
That was one reason why a great many English-speaking and
English-reading people all over the world felt very sad when they heard
that the German Army was in Brussels. But there is another reason why
many men and women who have never been there feel a familiar and
affectionate interest in the town. That is because three of our greatest
writers and romancers have chosen to lay scenes of their stories in
Brussels.
The first of these was Laurence Sterne, of whose most famous character,
Uncle Toby, I have told you.
The second was William Makepeace Thackeray. He showed an intimate
knowledge of the Brussels of a hundred years ago in his account in
“Vanity Fair” of what took place there before, during, and after the
Battle of Waterloo. But those who claim to be true Thackerayans will
tell you that even finer, even more firmly fixed on their minds, is the
account of Esmond’s visit to his mother’s grave in the Brussels of the
eighteenth century.
It was, however, a lady, Miss Charlotte Brontë, who, in “Villette,”
which good judges consider the best of her stories, has made many of us
feel really intimate with the highways and byways of Brussels. In fact,
it is not too much to say that there are many people (the writer among
them) who, when before the War they heard the name of Brussels suddenly
pronounced, immediately thought of “Villette.”
In every war certain men seize on what is called the popular
imagination. Three such soon towered above all their fellows in Belgium.
The first was King Albert, who has shown himself the heroic defender of
his kingdom’s rights and liberties, and who continually shared in the
trenches the dangers and discomforts of his brave troops.
The second was General Leman, whose name will ever be linked with the
magnificent defence of Liège.
And the third was Adolphe Max, the Mayor or Burgomaster of Brussels.
This civilian hero might well take as his motto, “Peace hath her
victories as well as war,” for his extraordinary moral and physical
courage saved his beloved city from the fate which befell Louvain and
Termonde.
When the Germans were about to make their triumphal march through the
Belgian capital, the Mayor insisted that as he was the First Citizen of
Brussels he must ride at the head of the procession. In this way he
proved that he was not the captive but the host of the rough intruders.
And when the German General Staff arrived at the Town Hall, and,
declaring that they meant to make it their Headquarters, commanded M.
Max to provide them at once with three hundred beds, “I will provide
three hundred and _one_ beds,” replied the Mayor of Brussels, smiling,
“for of course _I_ shall sleep here too!”
“You will hand over to us a hundred of your notables as hostages for
your people’s good behaviour,” said the German General. “I will be your
hostage,” instantly replied M. Max, “and I will provide you with none
other.” Small wonder that this brave, good-humoured man won the love as
well as the respect of the people of whom he was the shepherd.
On one occasion the German General, trying to threaten and bully M. Max,
laid his revolver on the table with what he apparently thought was a
grand gesture. M. Max, with a smile, took up his pen and laid it beside
the revolver. And never was there a better example shown of the fact
that the pen can be mightier than the sword.
At last, as punishment for his sturdy courage and his determination to
protect his people’s legal rights, M. Max was suspended from his office,
and put in what the enemy quaintly called “honourable custody” in a
German fortress. Fierce were the grief and anger of the unfortunate
inhabitants of Brussels, and the Germans soon found that it was far more
difficult to govern the city in the absence, than with the help, of M.
Max.
The Germans had not been at Brussels very long when it became known that
British Marines had been landed at Ostend. They only stayed there a
short time, but their temporary presence was a great comfort to the poor
Belgians.
Ostend was then simply a pretty watering-place, but that was not always
so. The town whose name, as you will see later, was to become a familiar
one in this great war, was once besieged by the Spaniards for three and
a half years, and it was said that the noise of the bombardment was
heard in London! It was at Ostend that the Duke of Wellington, then
plain Arthur Wellesley, first set foot on the Continent.
Early in the War Ostend became a place of desolation and distress, for
the unfortunate Belgians, when fleeing from their burnt towns and
villages, naturally made for the sea. There was no room in the town to
lodge them all, and many of them lived for quite a long time in
bathing-machines on the beach. It was mostly from Ostend that the
Belgian refugees embarked to find kind new friends and homes in England.
Before the Germans marched on Brussels King Albert and his brave Queen
had left for Antwerp, the beautiful old city and port which was, till
this war, regarded as one of the best fortified strongholds in Europe.
The King and Queen, together with their little children, had not been
there many days when one night the enemy basely sent a huge Zeppelin
airship over the town. It tried to drop bombs over the Palace, where the
Royal family were sleeping, but, missing the mark, only destroyed a
small house, in which, however, a young mother and her tiny baby were
killed. This cruel and unwarlike act shocked and disgusted all civilised
people. But it seems to have delighted the Germans, who loudly
proclaimed that London would be the next city visited. It is, however, a
curious fact that during the first three months of the War no Zeppelin
flew over French territory, although in this way a great deal of
legitimate damage might have been done, not to women and children, but
to soldiers and stores of arms.
At the time that I am writing, no Zeppelin has yet flown over London,
but from the first day of the War a great many sensible people fully
expected that the enemy would send one of these enormous aircraft over
to England, if only to surprise and terrify us.
Now a Zeppelin is a most wonderful thing, and for my part I should very
much like to see one. The day may come when we shall journey by air as
easily as by road or rail, and in Germany for some time past anyone
could take a short trip in a Zeppelin by paying a comparatively small
sum.
I have already told you that it is a foolish thing to underrate an
enemy; it is also a rather mean thing to do. Let us, therefore, give all
honour to Count Zeppelin, even if he has allowed his invention to be
turned to a despicable and inhuman use.
This remarkable man, like most inventors, was regarded for a long time
as a dreamer, even as a madman. Undeterred by this mortifying fact, he
worked on and on till at last he produced the airship which was known as
Zeppelin I. It was not, however, till Zeppelin III, just seven years
ago, made a successful flight, that the German Government agreed to
purchase the ship, and further granted him a good sum of money in order
that he might carry on his experiments. In the year following, in 1908,
a much larger sum was given to Count Zeppelin, and he found himself,
from being an obscure inventor, suddenly raised to a pinnacle as the
most belauded man in his Fatherland!
When this war broke out the Germans undoubtedly counted immensely on
their fleet of Zeppelins. But, fortunately for those of us who live in
London, a Zeppelin is so huge and unwieldy that it can only be started
with considerable difficulty, and it cannot alight and fly up again as
can an aeroplane. Moreover, it requires an enormous shed for its
protection when it is not in the air, for on land it is a very helpless
machine. Once in flight, however, it is a most formidable-looking engine
of war. It has been said that if a Zeppelin were stood on end by St.
Paul’s, it would appear at least a third longer than that vast building.
To return to Antwerp. The city has long been dear to many English
people, and it is very easily reached from our shores. Perhaps that is
one reason why it has been a favourite holiday place for a great many
years. When the news came that it was to be fiercely attacked by the
enemy, a wave of sorrow swept through our country.
It is a beautiful town, and the steeple of the Cathedral is so
exquisite, so delicately lovely in design, as to have become one of the
wonders of the world. Napoleon, who was not apt to admire fine
architecture, said it was like a piece of old Mechlin lace. Antwerp is a
city of churches, and in each church there are wonderful paintings, many
of them the work of men born in the city itself.
The most delightful of Flemish painters was Quentin Matsys. He began
life as a blacksmith, and the city possesses some fine ironwork done by
him in youth. Fortunately for the world, he fell in love with an
artist’s daughter. The artist would not give his daughter to a
blacksmith, and declared that she _must_ marry a painter. So Quentin
Matsys immediately began to paint, and he very soon painted much better
than his future father-inlaw! In the Cathedral is a tablet to his memory
on which are inscribed the words:
“’Twas love connubial taught the smith to paint.”
Antwerp has always been one of the fighting fortresses of the world. We
must, however, remember that it was far easier to defend the little old
Antwerp of the Middle Ages than the big modern city.
I think the most interesting thing about the Antwerp of the past is that
Godfrey de Bouillon, of whom I am sure some of you must have heard,
started from there for the Holy Land, where he was to die bearing the
fine title of “Baron and Defender of the Holy Sepulchre.”
Antwerp went through many terrible trials before this last siege—in
fact, so cruelly was it treated about five hundred years ago that the
episode still lives in history as “the Spanish Fury.”
In the middle of the French Revolution Antwerp became French. Napoleon
delighted in its possession, and uttered the famous words, “Antwerp is a
pistol aimed at the heart of England!” He found it, however, as we
believe the Germans will find it, of as little or of as much use as an
unloaded pistol; and in due course he had to give it up, just as the
Germans will have to give it up.
It is strange now to reflect that a British Army besieged Antwerp in
1814, when it was splendidly defended by the French.
War is full of curious, funny, and terrible incidents.
Before Antwerp surrendered to the enemy, everything was destroyed that
could possibly be of any use to the German hosts. Among other things so
treated were hundreds of motor-cars. Some, of course, had seen a good
deal of service and were old, but there were some splendid new ones too.
An energetic Belgian officer had them all brought together in a square,
and then he set strong men, including as many blacksmiths as he was able
to find, to carry out the job of putting the motors out of action. They
fell to their work of destruction with a will, puncturing tires,
hammering cylinders, and wrenching gears.
Tons and tons of excellent corn were also emptied out into the river,
and the cold-storage apparatus of the town, which enabled meat and all
perishable foods to be kept for an indefinite time, was also destroyed.
All the ships in the fine harbour were made useless by their boilers
being smashed up. Thus, when the Germans walked in expecting to find
everything nice and comfortable, they discovered that the town was but
an empty husk.
The Germans began to bombard Antwerp on the second day of October, and
they took the city solely because they had better and bigger guns than
the defenders. The Belgians, headed by their splendid King, put up a
valiant fight, and England sent a party of British Naval Volunteers to
help in the defence.
Now very few people know about the British Naval Volunteers. They are a
fine force, dating from the reign of Queen Elizabeth. It is a curious
fact that Antwerp saw them for the first time under fire since the
Napoleonic scare, which frightened quiet folk in England so very much
more than the Kaiser with all his legions and terrifying threats has
been able to do! It is, therefore, the more creditable that our officers
and men acquitted themselves so excellently, showing remarkable
firmness, discipline, and courage, and that though some of these Naval
Volunteers had only been in training a very short time.
As Antwerp fell, some people regretted that this British force had been
sent there. But they were wrong in so regretting. The presence of these
volunteers heartened the defence, and in such a case as that we should
all feel:
“’Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.”