the enemy, and have cut their way through or have fallen to a man with their guns in their hands.  But I could not permit it.  The great drama had been played to its end.  But men are seldom permitted to look upon such a scene as the one presented here.  That these men should have wept at surrendering so unequal a fight, at being taken out of this constant carnage and storm, at being sent back to their families; that they should have wept at having their starved and wasted forms lifted out of the jaws of death and placed once more before their hearthstones, was an exhibition of fortitude and patriotism that might set an example for all time.

SEDAN.

BY VICTOR HUGO.

The Second Empire of the French was pounded to powder in a bowl.  This is literal, not figurative.  To attempt to describe Sedan after Victor Hugo has described it for all mankind were a work futile and foolish.  To Hugo we concede the palm among all writers, ancient and modern, as a delineator of battle.  His description of the battle of Waterloo will outlast the tumulus and the lion which French patriotism has reared on the square where the last of the Old Guard perished.  His description, though not elaborate, is equally graphic and final.  He was returning, in September, 1871, from his fourth exile.  He had been in Belgium in banishment for about eighteen years.  It is in the “History of a Crime” that he tells the story.  He says that he was re-entering France by the Luxembourg frontier, and had fallen asleep in the coach.  Suddenly the jolt of the train coming to a standstill awoke him.  One of the passengers said:  “What place is this?” Another answered “Sedan.”  With a shudder, Hugo looked around.  He says that to his mind and vision, as he gazed out, the paradise was a tomb.  Before substituting his words for our own, we note only that nearly thirteen months had elapsed since Louis Napoleon and his 90,000 men had here been brayed in a mortar.  Hugo’s description of the scene and the event continues as follows: 

The valley was circular and hollow, like the bottom of a crater; the winding river resembled a serpent; the hills high, ranged one behind the other, surrounded this mysterious spot like a triple line of inexorable walls; once there, there is no means of exit.  It reminded me of the amphitheatres.  An indescribable, disquieting vegetation, which seemed to be an extension of the Black Forest, overran all the heights, and lost itself in the horizon like a huge impenetrable snare; the sun shone, the birds sang, carters passed by whistling; sheep, lambs and pigeons were scattered about; leaves quivered and rustled; the grass, a densely thick grass, was full of flowers.  It was appalling.

I seemed to see waving over this valley the flashing of the avenging angel’s sword.

This word “Sedan” had been like a veil abruptly torn aside.  The landscape had become suddenly filled with tragedy.  Those shapeless eyes which the bark of trees delineates on the trunks were gazing—­at what?  At something terrible and lost to view.