of the Provincial Council of Brabant, to their bereaved king and queen,
appears to me so touchingly worded, that I give it in the original,
fearful of spoiling by translating it:—
‘SIRE, MADAME,—Il a plu à la Providence de nous envoyer au
milieu de nos prospérités, une bien douloureuse épreuve.
Le Prince Royal est mort! ... mort avant d’avoir accompli
sa dixième année!... Ce coup cruel, que nos vœux n’ont pu
conjurer, nous frappe tous au cœur. Il ravit un fils à votre
amour, à nous le jeune Prince promis à de hautes et si
précieuses destinées. Dans une adversité si grande, nous le
savons, toutes les paroles sont vaines. Il y a des afflictiones
que rien ne console. Nous pouvons, du moins, mêler la tristesse
de nos regrets à l’amertume des vôtres, et, associés à votre
légitime douleur, souffrir et pleurer avec vous.
‘Oui, pleurons! Mais gardons une entière confiance dans
l’avenir! Dieu n’a pas cessé de protéger la Belgique et la
dynastie qui lui est inséparablement unie.
‘La députation permanente du Conseil Provincial du Brabant.’
After which followed the signatures of the president and those members of
the council who signed the address in the name of the entire body.
But the loyal sympathy of the Belgians did not vent itself in words only.
As soon as the death of their young prince was officially announced,
black flags on the Belgian colours, smothered in crape, were displayed
from the balconies of the principal houses, whilst the fronts of many
of them were completely hung with funereal drapery, and most of the
shops and all places of amusement were closed. The ships lying in the
Belgian ports lowered their flags half-mast high, in sign of the general
mourning; and all the principal families in Brussels, and most of the
English residents appeared in black.
The bells of the cathedral and other churches kept tolling at intervals
during the first and succeeding days, to announce the melancholy news;
all fêtes and public rejoicing were suspended, as well as private balls
and concerts; and the ministerial conferences were adjourned.
Meanwhile the body of the young prince, which had been watched ever
since his death by the officers of the household, was placed in a triple
coffin, lined with white silk, in the presence of the king and queen,
the Archbishop of Malines, and several members of the royal household.
This melancholy ceremony of bidding the last earthly adieu, is said to
have been, as is natural, the occasion of a most heartrending scene. The
young prince had received the insignia of the Chevalier de la Toison d’Or
d’Espagne, shortly after the ascension of his father Leopold II. to the
throne; and this insignia was placed on his coffin during the funeral
obsequies—which were fixed to take place at eleven o’clock on Monday, the
twenty-fifth; at which time also was to be performed (according to the
rites of the Roman Catholic religion), in the church of Notre-Dame at
Laeken, the first funeral mass for the repose of his innocent soul.
Accordingly, before eight o’clock on the morning of the day appointed,
a procession of people eager to witness the ceremony lined the road to
the church and palace of Laeken. At the palace, the guests were received
in the rotunda, where they had to await the arrival of the body, to
form themselves in _cortége_. Monsieur le Baron Prisse, adjutant of the
Palace, and Monsieur de Wyckersloth were appointed to receive them.
Only a very few were admitted into the temporary chapel, where rested
the mortal remains of the little prince; and which was most tastefully
decorated. The walls and ceiling were draped with black; an altar had
been erected between the two windows, before which stood the coffin,
supported on a small black bier. It was covered with a white pall,
embroidered with a large golden cross, upon which lay a wreath of white
roses. This erection, lighted by four gold candelabra on black pedestals,
and a chandelier from the ceiling, under which the coffin rested, had a
very solemn and imposing effect. On the black drapery with which the room
was hung, were shields emblazoned with the royal arms. At a quarter to
eleven the clergy arrived. They consisted of the Archbishop of Malines,
the Bishops of Belgium, accompanied by their canons and secretaries;
the rectors of the parishes of Laeken and the capital; several envoys
from the provinces, and a representative of each of the religious orders
now established in Brussels. At their arrival at the palace, which they
entered two by two, the principal members of the clergy were admitted
into the temporary chapel, where were already assembled H.M. the King;
H.R.H. the Comte de Flandre; Monseigneur la Prince de Ligne; and several
officers of the household, amongst which was Monsieur Donny, the prince’s
tutor, who since the morning could not be persuaded to quit the remains
of his beloved pupil. After the usual prayers, the coffin was delivered
into the hands of some of the non-commissioned officers of the army,
and such of the Garde-Civique as had been deputed to carry it to its
last resting-place. The coffin was of black wood, with silver nails and
ornaments; lions’ heads formed the handles, and a splendid ivory crucifix
was on the lid, but there was no plate, descriptive of the name or
distinctions of the deceased child.
As soon as the coffin had been placed on the bier on which it was to be
carried, the white pall with its golden cross was thrown over it, and
the funeral _cortége_ was set in motion. The pall was held by MM. les
Généraux Chazal and Pletinckx; MM. Frère-Orban, Minister of Finance, and
Bara, Minister of Justice; Dolez, President of the Chamber, and Omalius
d’Halloy, President of the Senate.
The king, with the Comte de Flandre, headed the procession. He was pale,
and appeared sadly changed; his step was slow and faltering, and he was
obliged to lean for support on the arm of his royal brother. They were
attired in the uniform of lieutenant-generals of the army, and opposite
to where they wore the ribbon of the Order of Leopold hung a long black
crape scarf. Both seemed much affected, but the father had evidently
great trouble in keeping back his tears; and one can well imagine that
it must have been real courage on his part to attend the sad ceremony
in person. Immediately after the king and his brother, who walked behind
the little coffin, came the officers of the household of the king, queen,
and Comte de Flandre; the ambassadors or plenipotentiary ministers of the
various Powers, the generals of the army, and several other persons of
distinction.
Amongst the representatives of the different Powers were two special
envoys: these were M. de Jamund, aide-de-camp of the Prince Royal of
Prussia, to represent his Prussian Majesty; and M. Schreckenstein, who
did the same for the Prince of Hohenzollern. It was painful to see M.
Donny, who formed part of the melancholy procession: his face bore such
evident traces of the suffering he had passed through; and when the
mortal remains of the little prince passed him in leaving the palace, he
burst into tears. This long _cortége_ was brought up at the rear by the
invited guests and clergy already enumerated, after which came an empty
hearse: first an ordinary one, of which the drapery had been exchanged
for ornaments of black and gold, and escutcheons, with the Belgian lion
placed on each side of the seat; whilst six horses, caparisoned with
black, their heads surmounted with plumes, drew the funeral car. The
dead child’s little pony, sitting astride which he had been photographed
in various positions, covered with crape and led by two grooms,
followed the hearse; and twelve court carriages, their lamps enveloped
in crape, and their coachmen in deep mourning, came after it. In this
order, preceded and followed by troops of horse, as guards of honour,
the procession slowly wended its way towards the church by Montagne du
Tonnerre. Its departure from the palace was proclaimed by volleys of
artillery, which continued throughout the ceremony, and indeed from
daybreak canons fired at intervals, had announced the coming solemnity;
first, every half-hour, and afterwards, every five minutes. The bells
of all the churches, also of the capital and its suburbs did not cease
tolling until the funeral obsequies of the young prince were completed.
At the gate of the palace a company of Grenadiers presented arms to the
coffin, and a little farther on the barrack-guard went through the same
ceremony. Along the whole length of the road was assembled a silent
crowd: at every window appeared eager and interested faces, amongst whom
was a large number of women,—all dressed in deep mourning, and many
weeping. It was reckoned, and without exaggeration, that more than forty
thousand people went to Laeken that day to see the child of their king
buried. From the palace to the church the _coup d’œil_ of the procession
was very imposing.
A veil of black seemed to hover over the vast multitude, who, with
uncovered heads, paced slowly beneath the wintry sky; and the rays of
frosty sunshine, powerless as they were to warm on such a day, had yet
sufficient brilliancy to outshine the lights which flickered in a sickly
manner in the carriage lamps, overshadowed by their coverings of crape.
When the coffin arrived at the church, it was already nearly filled
with the functionaries of the different administrations of Brussels and
the provinces. There were also representatives of all the constituted
bodies, most of the governors of the province, and deputations of the
communal and provincial councils. MM. le Capitaine Nicaise and Lahure,
junior, were appointed to keep order in the church; and the places for
each body of functionaries were marked beforehand by printed bills. The
king and the Comte de Flandre occupied seats in front of the altar; those
belonging to their households sat behind. The diplomatic body was to the
right of the bier, on which rested the coffin—the various deputations to
the left; and all the rest of the assemblage were disposed in the two
aisles of the church.
The building was completely hung with black: each pillar bore an
escutcheon, in the centre of which was blazoned a golden lion, surmounted
by the word ‘Obiit,’ and the date of the child’s death. The bier, placed
in the middle of the church, and at the entrance of the choir, was raised
upon a pedestal covered with black velvet, bordered with ermine and
embroidered with lions. The bier itself was covered with a white pall, on
the top of which was placed a wreath of roses, just like the one which
lay upon the coffin whilst in the temporary chapel, and was surmounted
by a black canopy bordered with heavy gold fringe, from which fell four
large curtains, enveloping the pedestal. Round the coffin burned numerous
wax tapers, and on the four panels of this funereal erection, and at each
corner of the altar, were the royal arms of Belgium. The Archbishop of
Malines was the principal officiator at the ceremony, and it was he who
pronounced the Absolution, standing beneath a canopy of crimson velvet
fringed with gold, which had been raised for him, to the right of the
altar. The suffragan bishops took a part in the service; but the mass was
sung.
Directly it was concluded, the coffin was placed in the chapel in front
of the vault where King Leopold I. and Queen Marie-Louise already rest,
and there it will remain until the three coffins can be together moved to
the permanent vault in course of erection in the new church at Laeken.
Then the king came forward, and, having placed on the coffin of his child
a wreath of white flowers, left the church to return to the palace. He
was terribly moved, and had difficulty in restraining his tears until he
should have regained his carriage.
The Mass for the Dead was then resumed, and lasted for an hour and
a-half; and it was two hours before the funeral ceremonies were finally
completed.
On the following Wednesday, the church of Ste Gudule and St Michel at
Brussels, having been hung in the same lavish manner with black and
white, a second Grand Mass was said and sung there for the repose of the
little prince’s soul; and then the whole business was over, and people
began to talk of something else. But it will be a long time before
Belgium forgets her Prince Royal or the bereavement of her king.
The funeral was, perhaps, as grand a one as ever was given for a child,
and the decorations of the churches, biers, and coffin, things to be
remembered; but the way in which true Belgians will love best to think of
Leopold-Ferdinand, Duc de Brabant, will be the recollection, treasured by
his father and mother—the recollection of a pure dead face, freed from
all suffering and pain, lying on its once familiar bed, a little virgin
clasped in the inanimate hand, and a wreath of white roses laid upon
the pillow; but above all, of a happy soul freed from the suffering of
sin, and in the enjoyment of a kingdom from the possession of which the
temptations attendant upon wearing an earthly crown might have debarred
him.
THE END.
[Illustration]
LITTLE WHITE SOULS.
I am going to tell you a story which is as improbable an one as you have
ever heard. I do not expect anybody to believe it; yet it is perfectly
true. The ignorant and bigoted will read it to the end perhaps, and then
fling it down with the assertion that it is all nonsense, and there is
not one word of truth in it. The wiser and more experienced may say it is
very wonderful and incredible, but still they know there are more things
in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in their philosophy. But no one
will credit it with a hearty, uncompromising belief. And yet neither
ridicule nor incredulity can alter the fact that this is a true history
of circumstances that occurred but a few years since, and to persons who
are living at the present time.
The scene is laid in India, and to India, therefore, I must transplant
you in order that you may be introduced to the actors in this veracious
drama, premising that the names I give, not only of people but of places,
are all fictitious.
It is Christmas time in a single station on the frontiers of Bengal,
and a very dull Christmas the members of the 145th Bengal Muftis find
it in consequence. For to be quartered in a single station means to be
compelled to associate with the same people day after day and month after
month and year after year; and to carry on that old quarrel with Jones,
or to listen to the cackle of Mrs Robinson, or be bored with the twaddle
of Major Smith, without any hope of respite or escape, and leaving the
gentlemen out of the question, the ladies of the 145th Bengal Muftis are
not in the best frame of mind at the time my story opens to spend the
day of peace and goodwill towards men together. Regimental ladies seldom
are. They are quarrelsome and interfering, and backbiting enough towards
each other in an English garrison town, but that is a trifle compared to
the way in which they carry on in our outlying stations in India. And
yet, the ladies of the 145th Bengal Muftis are not bad specimens of the
sex, taken individually. It is only when they come in contact that their
Christian love and charity make themselves conspicuous. Mrs Dunstan, the
wife of the colonel, is the most important of them all, and the most
important personage, too, in this little story of a misfortune that
involved herself, therefore let Mrs Dunstan be the first to advance for
inspection.
As we meet her, she is seated in a lounging chair in her own
drawing-room, at Mudlianah, with a decided look of discontent or
unhappiness upon her countenance. The scene around her would seem fair
enough in the eyes of those who were not condemned to live in it. Her
room is surrounded by a broad verandah, which is so covered by creepers
as to be a bower of greenery. Huge trumpet-shaped blossoms of the most
gorgeous hues of purple, scarlet and orange, hang in graceful festoons
about the windows and open doorways, whilst the starry jessamine and Cape
honeysuckle fill the air with sweetness. Beyond the garden, which is laid
out with much taste, though rather in a wild and tangled style, owing
to the luxuriance of the vegetation, lie a range of snowy hills which
appear quite close in the transparent atmosphere, although in reality
they are many miles away.
Mrs Dunstan’s room is furnished, too, with every luxury as befits the
room of a colonel’s wife, even in an up country station. The chairs and
sofas are of carved ebony wood, and cane work from Benares; the table
is covered with flowers, books, and fancy work; a handsome piano stands
in one corner; the floor is covered with coloured matting, and in the
verandah are scattered toys from various countries, a token that this
comfortable home does not lack the chief of married joys, a child-angel
in the house.
The mistress, too, is still young and still handsome, not wanting the
capacity for intellectual nor the health for physical enjoyment, there
must be some deeper reason than outward discomfort therefore for that sad
far-away look in her eyes and the pain which has knitted her brow. Yes,
‘Mees Mar-gie MacQueerk’ (as she would style herself) has been giving Mrs
Dunstan an hour of her company that morning, and as usual left her trail
behind her.
‘Mees Margie’ is a tall, quaint, ill-favoured Scotchwoman on the wrong
side of fifty, who has come out to India to keep the house of her
brother, the doctor of the 145th. She is a rigid Presbyterian, with
a brogue as uncompromising as her doctrine and a judgment as hard as
nails. Never having been tempted to do anything wrong, she is excessively
virtuous, and has an eye like a hawk for the misdoings of others; indeed,
she is so excellent a detective that she discovers the sins before
the sinners have quite made up their minds to commit them. She is the
detestation of the regiment, and the colonel’s wife has been compelled in
consequence to show Miss MacQuirk more attention than she would otherwise
have done to make up for the neglect of the others. For never does Miss
Maggie pass half-an-hour without hinting at a fresh peccadillo on the
part of somebody else. She has a rooted conviction that all soldiers
are libertines, not fit to be trusted out of sight of their wives or
sisters, and if she has no new misdemeanour to relate on the part of the
masters, the servants are sure to come in for their share of abuse, and
so Miss Maggie MacQuirk manages to find food for scandal all the year
round. Ethel Dunstan ought to know her foibles well enough to mistrust
her by this time, and had the doctor’s sister come in with some new
story of young Freshfield’s flirting, on Mr Masterman’s card-playing,
she would have been as ready as ever to laugh at the old Scotchwoman’s
mountainous molehills, and to assure her she was utterly mistaken. But
Miss MacQuirk’s discourse this morning had taken a different turn. She
had talked exclusively of the latest arrival in Mudlianah: lovely Mrs
Lawless, who has just returned with her husband, Jack Lawless, from staff
duty in the Northwest Provinces, and how her beauty seemed to have addled
the heads of all the men of the 145th Bengal Muftis. And there was a
great deal of truth in Miss MacQuirk’s assertions, and that is what has
made them go home to the heart of Ethel Dunstan. We are all so ready to
believe anything that affects our own happiness.
‘Deed, and it’s jeest freetful,’ said Miss Margie, in her provincial
twang, ‘to see a set o’ dunderheids tairned the wrang way for the sake
o’ a wee bit o’ a pasty face wi’ two beeg eyes in the meedle o’ it. It’s
eno’ to mak’ a God-fearing woman praise the Laird that has kept her in
the straight path. For I’ll no affairm that it’s by mee ain doin’ that I
can haud up my heed the day with the Queen o’ England herself if need
be.’
‘But Mrs Lawless is very, _very_ lovely—there cannot be two opinions on
that subject,’ cried generous-hearted Mrs Dunstan. ‘For my own part I
never saw a more beautiful face than hers, and my husband says just the
same thing.’
‘Eh! I nae doot it! The cairnal’s heed is tairned like all the rest o’
them. But he cannot ca’ it reet that men should rin after a leddy that
has a lawfu’ meeried husband o’ her ain.’
‘But you have such strange notions, Miss MacQuirk. If a gentleman shows a
lady the least attention you call it “running after her.” We are like one
family shut up in this little station by ourselves. If we are not to be
on friendly terms with each other, we are indeed to be pitied.’
‘Friendly tairms,’ exclaimed Miss Margie. ‘Do you call it “friendly
tairms” to be walking in the dairk with anither mon’s wife? An’ that’s
jeest what my gude brother saw yester e’en as he was comin’ hame fra’
mess.’
‘What man! whose wife?’ asked Ethel Dunstan, for once interested in Miss
MacQuirk’s scandal.
‘Aye! I dinna ken the mon, but the leddy was Mrs Lawless hersel’. And her
husband was at the mess the while, for Andrew left him at the table, and
he was comin’ home in the dark and he saw Mrs Lawless in her gairden at
the dead o’ neet walkin’ with a strange mon—a tall mon, and stout, and
not unlike the cairnal, Andrew says.’
‘What nonsense; Charlie was back from mess by eleven o’clock,’ said Mrs
Dunstan, with an air of annoyance. ‘When you repeat such stories, Miss
MacQuirk, be good enough to keep my husband’s name out of them, or you
may get into trouble.’
‘Ah, well, Mrs Dunstan, I only mentioned that it was like the cairnal.
Doubtless he was at mess or at home the while. It was half-past ten when
Andrew retairned. But it is hairdly reet that Mrs Lawless should be
walking in her gairden at that hour o’ neet and with anither mon than her
husband. I doot but one should infairm Mr Lawless of the caircumstance.’
‘Well, I advise you not to be the one,’ replied Ethel Dunstan, tartly.
‘Jack Lawless is considered a fire-eater amongst men, and I don’t
think he would spare the woman even who tried to take away his wife’s
character.’
‘Eh, Mrs Doonstan, who talks o’ takin’ awa’ her character? I doot it’s
but little she’s got, puir thing, and it ’twould be a sin to rob her
o’ it. But it’s a terrible thing to see how gude luiks air rated abuve
guid deeds, and enough to mak’ all honest men thank the Laird who has
presairved them fra the wiles o’ the enemy. And now I’ll wish you the
gude mairnin, Mrs Doonstan, for I have several other calls to pay before
tiffin.’
And so the old scandal-monger had left the colonel’s wife in the
condition in which we found her.
Of course if there had been no more truth in it than in the generality of
Miss MacQuirk’s stories Ethel Dunstan would have laughed at and forgotten
it. But there is just sufficient probability of its being a fact to give
a colouring to the matter.