That was all;
but it was an excuse for a procession, music, and drinking healths.
Not long ago a young man won a prize at a great School of Music in
Brussels called the _Conservatoire_, and so his native town must needs
have a procession. There were two bands, a number of flags, and
several carriages, in one of which the young fellow sat, bowing from
side to side as he was driven through the streets to a cafe, at which
what they call the _vin d'honneur_, or cup of honour, was served.
In the same town two years ago the football team of a regiment
quartered there won a cup, and there was a long procession of soldiers
and townsmen in honour of the event. The cup was carried in triumph on
a platform adorned with wreaths, and the crowd shouted as if the
soldiers were returning victorious from war.
The Belgians have always been the same in their love of such displays.
Long ago their country was oppressed by the Spaniards, who killed and
tortured many of them without mercy. But that made no difference, and
their sorrows were soon forgotten if their conquerors provided some
pageant to amuse them.
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