These reminiscences of prison years in Brussels, during the entire
German occupation, aim merely at giving an accurate account of the
city’s moral atmosphere, and of certain events which came to me
first-hand and have not yet been recorded. Only indubitable facts are
related, while many of, perhaps, greater and more tragic interest,
already made public, or reaching me through roundabout channels, have
been omitted.
This slight record, which, in great part, lay for many months buried
under Belgian soil, to escape German inquisition, may appear an
unnecessary addition to the volumes of more important matter already
produced by the war. But as the United States, after long-forgiving
delay, entered the conflict heart and soul—as England, the land of my
forefathers both paternal and maternal, performed very miracles and
risked her all for a cause so great—it seems my duty, as that of every
eye-witness, to give all positive evidence possible, to those who must
bear the consequent taxation, that the cause was worthy of the vast
sacrifices it demanded.