[Illustration: THE GRAVES OF ALL HIS HOPES]
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"MY SIXTH SON IS NOW LYING HERE--WHERE ARE YOURS?"
There is a picture in Brussels that the Kaiser ought to study on one of
his visits to the Belgian capital. It is Wertz's picture of Napoleon in
Hades.
Wertz was a madman, he knew something of the horrors of war, but he
knew, also, something of the grandeur and nobility of Napoleon.
Napoleon is surrounded by women holding up the mutilated remains of
sons, lovers, and fathers, and still he remains Napoleon, the child of
Destiny, the Inscrutable, the Calm, and, if one may say so, the
Gentleman.
Women knew, at least, that their dead had fallen before the armies or at
the will of a great man in those Napoleonic days; there was something of
Fate in the business.
But to-day the widow or the mourning mother, whilst knowing that her son
or her husband has fallen in defending Humanity from the Beast can find
no quarter in their hearts for the form or the shape of manhood that
stands, in the words of Swinburne:
"Curse consecrated, crowned with crime and flame!"
No taunt could be too bitter for their lips and none more bitter than
the words of Raemaekers:
"My sons are lying here--where are yours?"