A BELGIAN MEMORY,

SUCH are the limits of the human imagination that the destruction of the glories of Reims, which was only a name to me, has touched me less than the wanton desecration of a little place which hitherto has occupied a special niche in my memory as essentially the abode of peace. Some places bold one like that. A panorama of beautiful and interesting cities and countries may be unfolded before one's eyes and leave many and varied memories, but here and there one comes, usually by chance, on, a spot which by some subtle harmony of moods leaves an impression out of all proportion to any intrinsic interest or beauty it may possess. It is like the face, not beautiful perhaps in itself, or the personality, not specially striking, which on a chance meeting may suddenly leap into one's intimacy and give that sense of sympathy and completeness lacking at times in far closer relationships.

It was in the early spring of 1912, at a season when the British and German tourists had not yet begun their annual invasion of the Ardennes country, and when the hotels were sleepily opening only a few of their shuttered windows, that we first discovered this little old Belgian town. Zigzagging down the steep sides of the Semois Valley through the care- fully trimmed forests of the Ardennes, we fell in love instantly with the quaint hamlet, clustered at the foot of a rocky promontory on which the ancient castle of Godfrey de Bouillon is perched. The Semois makes such a loop round the rock that it is almost an island, and from the eighth century a castle has stood there, portions of the original walls being still intact, while great masses of it date from the eleventh century. The castle has seen many wars and has stood many sieges, passing from the hands of the Prince-Bishops of Liege, to whom Godfrey sold it, to the Lords of the Mark, then to France, when Louis XIV. caused Vauban to renew its defences, and later, in the readjuatinents of 1815, to Belgium. Massive walls surround uncovered courts where once were banqueting-halls and guard-rooms, and narrow passages lead to dark chambers, in one of which one comes suddenly on a deep well of clear water—the key, perchance, to the position of the castle, isolated as it is by steep rocks and surrounding river.

The castle was for us, however, little more than a picturesque background for our lazy holiday. Every evening we mounted to the grassy slope at the gates to watch the sunset, or rather the reflection of it, for the sun disappeared early over the crest of the valley, and the castle top was in brilliant light long after the town and riverside were in shadow.

More fascinating to us even than the play of light and shade on this great mass of rock and masonry, fringed with the tender green of saplings that had pushed their way through, was the living interest of the town which centred in the old stone bridge. Our hotel stood at the bridge-head ; two windows of our room commanded the river, and two looked out over the little square to which the bridge leads. The life of Bouillon seemed to ebb and flow across the old bridge, reaching the height of activity when the noontide bell brought gay little workgirls in coloured aprons, school-children, workmen in blouses, and blue-uniformed soldiers clattering to and fro from their work to their cl6 caner, and in a short time, rather less lively, from their deleuner to their work. After this came the long, hot afternoon, when a toothless conclave of olden occupied the bridge, and yellow dogs lay limply in the sun, until the shadow crept down from the valley sides and the end of the day's work brought another stream back home, or to the barracks on the far side of the river beneath the castle walls. Then the small boys, with string and bent pins, scrambled over the parapets, and citizen dames in their best clothes paused to gossip or hurried churchwards at the sound of the vesper bell. Twilight found the bridge empty save for the inevitable bucolic lovers, who seem to find the murmur of water a valuable cover for conversational deficiencies.

Across this bridge, on September 3rd, 1870, came the French troops, Napoleon III. riding at their head, with death at his heart and a simulated flush on his cheek. For days the French had poured into Bouillon, and now they crowded round to acclaim him as he stood at the window of what forty-two years later was my bedroom, looking down at the square filled with people and soldiers pressing forward to wave and shout " Vive l'Empereur 1 " •• Which I find very curious, Madame," said the old lady who keeps the sweatshop on the other side of the bridge, and bad witnessed the scene. "For, see you, he had ruined them, these people!" And we made up our minds that the Belgians did not understand loyalty to Kings, which shows how shallow one's judgments of other peoples may be.

Here, in my long, low room, with its wooden bedsteads, squat grey marble mantelpiece, gilt clock and candelabra (so typical of a French hostelry) and the graceful Third Empire chairs—nothing need have been changed—Napoleon ILL spent the night before Sedan. As I lay in the early morning I watched the sun peeping over the steep sides of the valley till it could strike sparkles out of the dark water below, and I wondered whether the Emperor slept on the morning of the battle of Sedan, and I wondered still more who watched that sunrise on August 24th, 1915.

The Semois is a capricious stream. Sometimes it broadens out and loses itself in a wide bed of pebbles, with flower. studdedmeadows on either side; sometimes it gathers its waters together in a swift current, swinging round in a narrow channel with high, tree-fringed banks. Always, everywhere, it is an alluring, chattering, pleasant, familiar little river. The delicate woods on its banks are filled with flowers. Hero the anemone breaks into a myriad white stars; the lily-of- the-valley makes its shy presence known by a penetrating sweetness in the air ; wild plum and cherry fling boughs of blossom across our path; wild maidenhair and other ferns droop from the damp sides of rocks ; while in the lush meadows purple orehis strives for predominance with yellow cowslip and golden kingoups. I have a poignant memory of a party of young soldiers—first-year recruits—whom we met coming back from a walk on the river-banks. They were a rough lot as a rule, these recruits, as we saw them at horse-play in the barrack yard, or leaning out of the narrow windows and trying to catch the attention of the workgirls who tripped,

with ostentatious unconsciousness, past the building. Tha beauty of spring had tamed and softened these big children,

these little soldiers of Belgium. They sang, quite softly, and in parts. Nearly all had bunches of flowers, and 1 remember the solicitude of one boy over a huge bunch of lilies-of-the-valley which he was carrying. Do the lilies still bloom on the bloodstained soil of Belgium P When night came down over the quaint crooked streets, and the black mass of the castle was gradually absorbed into the general obscurity, then Bouillon was at its most fascinating. Night after night we left the little inn, and strolled along the river, noting the dim mystery of the steep banks reflected in it. Lights twinkled here and there, windows gleamed out in yellow brightness. There was one indescribably beautiful moment in the twilight when grey began to master green in the tints that spread from the woods over the river, with scarcely a break to show where land ended and water began. Suddenly the dimness of the river was cut with a gleaming streak and we heard a splash—the ferrywoman unmoors her punt and pushes over to the opposite bank for some belated wayfarers.

Night after night we lingered, listening to the cheerful sounds across the river—children's voices, their mothers call- ing them, the high notes of a bugle from the barracks, then the murmur of lovers as they passed closely locked together. By and by all were hushed. By nine o'clock the town was asleep, for there were no cafés or nightlife in this simple place, no theatres and no picture palace.

We did not move on to complete our exploration of the Ardennes country, as we had intended. We just settled down in a sort of dreamy content to one of those rare intervals of careless happiness which are the true holidays of life. Although I have enjoyed many happy wanderings, I remember only a few of such complete holidays—one in Japan, one in Normandy, and a third in this little old Belgian town. One needs the combination, so rarely to be achieved, of the right mood, the right companion, the right place, and the right weather. For some people such a lucky combination might mean a stimulus to exertion—mountain-climbing, or sport of some kind. For us it meant forgetfulness of the outside world, of Causes, Politics, Crises—in the sleepy atmosphere we had but one thought, to "loaf and invite our souls."

But the tranquillity of Bouillon was at an end when the news of August 2nd flashed across Europe. Once again a French army streamed along the high road and clattered over the ancient bridge, stopping in the streets of the old town for refreshment on that hot day, cheering and being cheered by the eager crowd. The echoes of the old castle rang once more to bugles and drums, the sound of marching and the grinding of wheels. Then came news of victory. The battle of Maissin—great numbers of German dead; but while the news was still passing from lip to lip there surged back through Bouillon a very different army—an army in retreat. One can imagine the hopeless efforts of the Red Cross and Service Corps to keep pace with the troops, with only the little steam-tram-line from Paliseul to help, and an equally inadequate little light railway to the French frontier. The morning of August 24th dawned on an agitated and crowded Bouillon, and presently the loud clanging of the church bells caused every one to run to and fro, striving to find out what must be done.

The French General gave warning to the Mayor, M. llunin, of the Hotel de la Poste (how difficult to picture our quondam placid host in so tragic a role 1), and the word spread that all inhabitants were advised to leave Bouillon if they would escape the awful fate that befell the hapless people of Dinant on August 16th. It is almost impossible to conceive the thunderbolt character of such a blow in such a place. They fled, therefore—pell-mell—on foot perforce for the most part. All through the stifling day along the steep road that leads up to the ridge of the valley, leaving behind them the woods of the Ardennes, they trudged along the dusty high road till the valley of the Met1136 opened before them—Sedan and the French frontier ; a halting-place, but only a temporary one. I have been wondering ever since I read this what was the fate of a little lame girl, whose mother pushed her in a hand-cart every evening to the green on the castle walls, where white goats nibbled and other children played. It would be heavy work pushing her all the way to Sedan. But the hapless fugitives had scarce time to escape, to begin that Odyssey which for many would end only in the grave, when the German cavalry outposts entered Bouillon. Hero was not much to sack, but what there was they took; bedding, pictures, furniture, dragged out and set on fire; valuables rifled, wines and beer seized. Some brutal Prussian officers in the "Napoleon Room," doubtless, leant out of the windows and laughed drunkenly while the little square below was filled with plunder—the windows where,

night after night, I have sat and watched the twilight creep up over the sleepy, beautiful little town.

Across some meadows and along a country lane, in a region which used to be so serenely peaceful as to suggest the legend of the Sleeping Beauty, lay the old farm which the Cordemois monks had made their monastery, and where, through a legacy, a rare collection of mediaeval books and MSS. came to be housed. Of these a Belgian scholar had just completed a catalogue when suddenly, like a tidal wave, the devastating German swept across, obliterating all that was fair, destroying, stealing, desecrating. The library of the Cordemois monks was part of the loot sent back to Germany. One day it will be restored. The bnrgliers of Bouillon, who for the most part fled and did not see their possessions hacked and burnt, will return. The old castle, which has seen so much fighting, will once more frown over a peaceful and beautiful land. But the boys who picked the lilies in the woods of the Semois—where are they P

ETHEL CONITHOUN.