Antwerp under Bombardment.
(From the picture by Cyrus Cuneo.)
The curtain descends upon the tragedy of Antwerp, and as we rise from its contemplation two pictures remain fixed in our memories—the one, a march of triumph, with all the pomp and circumstance of war, the fanfare of trumpets, the rattle of drums, the gay uniforms, the gallant chargers, the nodding plumes, the stir and movement of victorious legions; the other, long, long trails of anguished men, distraught women, and sobbing children, bereft at one stroke of home, kindred, and possessions, driven forth to perish of hunger by the wayside, to begin life anew as exiles in a foreign land, or to return to their ruined homes as the subjects of a pitiless conqueror. Never were the terrible contrasts of war thrown into sharper relief; never was the ruthlessness of armed strife so painfully brought home to the onlooking world. A mighty nation, drunk with the lust of empire, had trampled to ruin a little, toiling people, innocent of offence in the sight of God and man. It had dared to defend itself, and for this heinous crime an overwhelming foe "slew their young men with the sword in the house of their sanctuary, and had no compassion upon young man or maiden, old man or him that stooped for age." The blare of trumpets and the roll of drums may stop the ears of men to every cry of agony, and deaden their hearts to every impulse of mercy; but they can avail nothing before Him who has said, "Vengeance is mine; I will repay."