* * * * *

It was the evening of the third day that we turned our faces to Paris
once more. It was my last view of the French. The roar of their guns
went far with me upon my way. Soldiers of France, farewell! In your own
phrase I salute you! Many have seen you who had more knowledge by which
to judge your manifold virtues, many also who had more skill to draw
you as you are, but never one, I am sure, who admired you more than I.
Great was the French soldier under Louis the Sun-King, great too under
Napoleon, but never was he greater than to-day.

And so it is back to England and to home. I feel sobered and solemn
from all that I have seen. It is a blind vision which does not see more
than the men and the guns, which does not catch something of the
terrific spiritual conflict which is at the heart of it.

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord
--He is trampling out the vineyard where the grapes of wrath are stored.

We have found no inspired singer yet, like Julia Howe, to voice the
divine meaning of it all--that meaning which is more than numbers or
guns upon the day of battle. But who can see the adult manhood of
Europe standing in a double line, waiting for a signal to throw
themselves upon each other, without knowing that he has looked upon the
most terrific of all the dealings between the creature below and that
great force above, which works so strangely towards some distant but
glorious end?

ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.