BRUSSELS WELCOME TO KING ALBERT.

Otago Daily Times, Issue 17533, 27 January 1919, Page 6

BRUSSELS WELCOME TO KING ALBERT.

TRIDMPHAX. PROGRESS.

By Leonard Spray in the Daily Telegraph. BRUSSELS, November 22. All tho pens of the world could not give to those outside an adequate description of this, tho_ greatest day of the world war, and, in Belgium, a day of gorgeous pageantry and tender beauty, of laughter and tears, of all tho deepest emotions that move humanity—those last can never be translated into words—a day that must have been lived through here in Brussels for any true realisation of all it held. There will already have reached you accounts of its chief event, of the triumphal progress of the King through tho living lanes of his subjects, of how he rode at tho head of his victorious army, and what an overwhelming ovation tho people gave their Sovereign and warriors—not only tho warriors of Belgium, but warriors from tho other armies of civilisation and deliberation. I will only attempt to convey some scenes and impressions, with the feeling that too much cannot he said or read of this wonderful day. First, that which will surely linger longest in the memory of all -who have been here to-day, that marvellous evening 6cener—a perfect symphony at once of sound and colour—in the Grand Place, when the King came to receive the homage of and to do homage to the city of Brussels. Evening was falling _ to darkness, and the sky was like a hanging canopy of velvet. But tho air was luminous with starshine. and a soft.glow from surrounding windows which touched the gilded facades to subdued butmagical splendour, and made the banners and streamers _ falling from a tower and balcony look like cascades of fire. In this glow the fluted spire of the Maison de Ville was transmuted to a fairy pinnacle, a thing of wavering beauty, and high over all the statue of Saint Michael was dimly glimpsed with a dragon at its feet —symbol of defeated Germany. Such was; the unsurpassable setting, and what it framed had beauty too,, though a beauty of a different quality, a beauty that cannot be translated into -words, for it lies only in the atmosphere that pervades when thousands of people are sharing the same emotions, thinking the same thoughts, -waiting for the same moment. COMING OF THE KING. That moment is the coming of the King-. And then he comes. From the balcony of the Hotel de Ville I gaze down upon this throng—in the darkness you see only their faces, upturned, expectant, and it is like looking upon a wind-broken moonlit sea. Suddenly there is another touch of magic, this tim© of sound. The bells break into a carillon that is like musio of a thousand fountains. Then a fanfare of trumpets. There is ?, thrill in this which cannot be described, because the trumpeters are invisible, and so those notes come, as it were, from nowhere, "horns of elfland, faintly blowing." You are only recalled to reality by the sound of human voices, •what a sound it is—ls,ooo people crying m union "Vive le Roi!" King Albert comes through. the archways of the old palace seated in a motor car making its way through the surging throng to the Hotel do Ville, where tho Soveriegn is going to greet and bo greeted by the city in of its immortal municipal chief, Burgomaster Max. The stairway is lined by ttie halberdiere, in costumes just like our own Beefeaters of the Tower, only black and silver instead of red and gold and through them the King, with two young Princes at his side, passes into the toalon de Reception, of carved oak in Gothic style and hung with tapestries of the MaJines craftsmen. He enters to cries of " Vrve le Roi!" and then M. Max, in words of eloquence, tells him of the city's love and homage. The King whose tall figure towers over tne rest of the company, replies, and then comes the climax of this wonderful evenr ?! zs ' ll tlle win dow you hear a shout J}£ Roi! Le Roi!"—insistent, imperative, lhe King steps out on the balcony, and looks upon that upturned sea of laces, stands at the salute, and listens to the great acclaim. It goes on for minutes that roar trom thousands ~,of throats, and then it suddenly changes" into a harmonious chants La Brabanoonne." That song, thus sung, will always echo in the ears of those who heard it The concluding line of each verse is "Que le roi, la loi, la liberte," and it is thrice repeated each time. There were 15..0C0 singers, all that square would hold, and there was something in. the repeated chanting of that line -which seemed fateful, and overwhelmed the soul with all that it conveyed. No singers have ever thrown their hearts and voices into a chanted phrase as those 15,000 men and women just released from years of bondage did when they uttered that line with its culminating shout of triumph, "La Liberte!" La Liberte—it was the expression of a destiny fulfilled. EMOTIONS OF THE PEOPLE. One throws one's thoughts back over the preceding hours of the day, which seems to haYe lasted a lifetime, ana.ponders over the impressions left by the passage of the King through the city, aha especially or the people who saw it, for it is not my duty to describe the splendid pageant itsell They were wonderful, the Bruxellois—wonderful in their enthusiasm, and yet in the manner in which they held the expression of their emotions, pent up during four years of alien tyranny, within the bounds of dignity. Scores of thousands of men and women who, be it remembered, have hardly dared to breathe all through that awful bondage, were in the. streets, freed at last from all restraint, and yet there was not a trace of anything of license or even frivolity. There is something solemn as well as joyous in the return of the _ King to the capital of a country which has suffered years of subjection to an invader, but it was wonderful that you should have felt a realisation of this solemnity in such a mingled mass of humanity. Not that there was anything lacking in the welcome which these miles of people gave to their King, their army, and their Allies. You heard long before you saw the van- . guard of the procession,' and heard it going on long, long after the company of cyclists at the rear had disappeared.from you. The air was vibrant with the voice of the multitude all the time ihe ■ King was ridiri"through the spacious ehry. Belgian, French" British, American—all were deafened with cheers and bombarded with flowers, and yet there were certain nuances, as it were, in the demonstrations that struck the observer. The Americans came first in the military cortege which followed the royal party, and the effect they made on the people was one of awe. They marched like machines, these newest of all the world's armies. And the men themselves were like parts of a machine—looking straight ahead; their faces betrayed no emotion, and the artillerymen sat bolt upright oh the caissons of the guns, with folded arms, impassive as monuments. It was a demonstration of physical strength, of determination, that impressed the crowd too deeply for great exuberance. Then came the French, and they had musio with them; and tho horizon blue of their uniforms shono forth against the grey houses, and their long bayonets seemed to dance to tho rhythm of the march, and the people, too, danced their appreciation and sang their thanks to France. GREETING TO THE ARMY. Silence, and then a sound strange to the Bruxellois—the wild melody of bagpipes blown by 30 Highlanders, leading the way for a company of their kilted comrades. The pipes and the kilts, yes, it was tho Scotsmen, let it be recorded, who had the "sucoes d'estime" of the parade. How tho ladies waved' their handkerchiefs aa the Highlanders swung past, and how everybody voiced his and her adrniration for these stalwart men. And then their own bravo warriors—Booo men, representing every regiment of the Belgian army I Their reception—'well, think what will happen when our own march through London, and you may realise it, if you add the emotions of a less imperturbable race than ours. There was patho3 as well as joy, though, of course, little of the former by comparison. There was especially the joy of those who recognised in the passing ranks, husbands, sons, and brothers, whom they have not seen for four long years, for, remember, until now an iron barrier has separated the Belgian soldiers front home and familv, and no leave tickets have availed. And there was tho pathos of those who watched, but with no hope of seeing their loved' ones, who marched away in those tragio early weeks, go past to-day. Looking towards the cheering crowd waving their greetings, you saw here and there lonely, impassive women in black and tearstained faces, though many of the tears wero tears of joy pressed down and runninff over. At night it was all joy, and the boulevards were thronged with the cheerin" singing folk, and the city hung out festoons of fire. The people walked up and down the boulevards in ranks, a dozen in - an parade of all tho Allied nationalities. You saw "Tommies" —at least, that is what the Belgians call our men—4infeed with Pouus, and Americans arm-in-arm with Belgians, with the girls of Brussels on either side. They all seemed to have known each other for years, and to hav© acquired a marvellous language which makes conversation easy, if incoand ought to be written down, and

established as fte Esperanto of the future. But _ with all the happiness and joviality, n °thuiE to offend the eye or ear. That is the most lasting psychological impression left by ten days' sojourn in Brussels—the wonderful self-restraint of tiie Belgian people through these strangely-varied and exciting times. Brussels in its hour of triumph, of liberation, is worthy of the Brussels which maintained suph patience and dignity through its years of humiliation and persecution.