Reuter.  Automobiles and chauffeurs abounded for our small party of four.  Never once at any moment of the day, whether driving furiously along somewhat deteriorated roads in the car, or walking about the land, did I lack a Staff officer who produced in me the illusion that he was living solely in order to be of use to me.  All details of the excursions were elaborately organised; never once did the organisation break down.  No pre-Lusitania American correspondent could have been more spoiled by Germans desperately anxious for his goodwill than I was spoiled by these French who could not gain my goodwill because they had the whole of it already.  After the rites of greeting, we walked up to the high terrace of a considerable chateau close by, and France lay before us in a shimmering vast semicircle.  In the distance, a low range of hills, irregularly wooded; then a river; then woods and spinneys; then vineyards—­boundless vineyards which climbed in varying slopes out of the valley almost to our feet.  Far to the left was a town with lofty factory chimneys, smokeless.

Peasant women were stooping in the vineyards; the whole of the earth seemed to be cultivated and to be yielding bounteously.  It was a magnificent summer afternoon.  The sun was high and a few huge purple shadows moved with august deliberation across the brilliant greens.  An impression of peace, majesty, grandeur; and of the mild, splendid richness of the soil of France.

“You see that white line on the hills opposite,” said an officer, opening a large-scale map.

I guessed it was a level road.

“That is the German trenches,” said he.  “They are five miles away.  Their gun-positions are in the woods.  Our own trenches are invisible from here.”

It constituted a great moment, this first vision of the German trenches.  With the thrill came the lancinating thought:  “All of France that lies beyond that line, land just like the land on which I am standing, inhabited by people just like the people who are talking to me, is under the insulting tyranny of the invader.”  And I also thought, as the sense of distance quickened my imagination to realise that these trenches stretched from Ostend to Switzerland, and that the creators of them were prosecuting similar enterprises as far north-east as Riga, and as far southeast as the confines of Roumania:  “The brigands are mad, but they are mad in the grand manner.”

We were at the front.

We had driven for twenty miles along a very busy road which was closed to civilians, and along which even Staff officers could not travel without murmuring the password to placate the hostile vigilance of sentries.  The civil life of the district was in abeyance, proceeding precariously from meal to meal.  Aeroplanes woke the sleep.  No letter could leave a post office without a precautionary delay of three days.