this unequal struggle, the true ring of legendary heroism; it seems an
echo of the tale of David and Goliath, or of Jack the Giant Killer; it
is full of the triumph of the spirit over the flesh, of independence and
free will over fatalism and brute force, of Right over Might.

I feel confident that some day a poet will be able to sing this great
epic in verses which shall answer to the swinging rhythm of battle and
roll with the booming of a thousand guns. But, in the meantime, I should
like to say a few words about a much humbler, a much simpler, a much
more familiar subject. It awakes no classical remembrances of Leonidas
or Marathon. My heroes risk their lives, but they are not soldiers,
merely prosaic "bourgeois" and workmen. They have no weapon, they cannot
fight. They have only to remain cheery in adversity and patient in the
face of taunts. They cannot render blow for blow, they have no sword to
flourish against an insolent conqueror. They can only oppose a stout
heart, a loyal spirit, and an ironic smile to the persecutions to which
they are subjected. They can do nothing--they must do nothing--only hope
and wait. But there are as much heroism and beauty in their black
frock-coats and their soiled workmen's smocks as in the gayest and most
glittering uniforms.

It is the plain matter-of-fact story of Belgian life under German rule.
Many more people will be tempted to praise the glory of our soldiers.
But, if the incidents of conquered Belgium's life are not recorded in
good time, they might escape notice. People might forget that, besides
the 150,000 to 200,000 heroes who are now waging war for Belgium on the
Western front, there are 7,500,000 heroes who are suffering for Belgium
behind the German lines, in the close prison of guarded frontiers, cut
off from the whole world, separated alike from those who are fighting
for their deliverance and from those who have sought refuge abroad.