The war has gone onward, down into France; and all the people know is what the official bulletins tell them; in fact, I think they must know less about operations and results than our own people in America.  I know not what the opportunity of the spectator may have been with regard to other wars, but certainly in this war it is true that the nearer you get to it the less you understand of its scope.

All about you, on every side, is a screen of secrecy.  Once in a while it parts for a moment, and through the rift you catch a glimpse of the movement of armies and the swing and sweep of campaigns.  Then the curtain closes and again you are shut in.

Let me put the case in another way:  It is as though we who are at the front, or close to it, stand before a mighty painting, but with our noses almost touching the canvas.  You who are farther away see the whole picture.  We, for the moment, see only so much of it as you might cover with your two hands; but this advantage we do have—­that we see the brush strokes, the color shadings, the infinite small detail, whereas you view its wider effects.

And then, having seen it, when we try to put our story into words—­when we try to set down on paper the unspeakable horror of it—­we realize what a futile, incomplete thing the English language is.

This present day in Aix-la-Chapelle will be, I assume, much like all the other days I have spent here.  An hour ago small official bulletins, sanctioned by the Berlin War Office, were posted in the windows of the shops and on the front of the public buildings; and small groups gathered before them to read the news.

If it was good news they took it calmly.  If it was not so good, still they took it calmly.  If it was outright bad news I think they would still take it calmly.  For, come good or evil, they are all possessed now with the belief that, in the long run, Germany must win.  Their confidence is supreme.

It was characteristic of them, though, that, until word came of the first German success, there was no general flying of flags in the town.  Now flags are up everywhere—­the colors of the Empire and of Prussia, and often enough just a huge yellow square bearing the spraddled, black, spidery design of the Imperial eagle.  But there is never any hysteria; I don’t believe these Prussians know the meaning of the word.  It is safe to assume that out of every three grown men in front of a bulletin one will be a soldier.

Yet, considering that Germany is supposed, at this moment, to have upward of five million men in the field or under arms, and that approximately two millions more, who were exempt from call by reason of age or other disabilities, are said to have volunteered, you would be astonished to see how many men in civilian dress are on the streets.  Whether in uniform or not, though, these men are at work after some fashion or other for their country.  Practically all the