not a war of defence and civilisation, but a war of conquest and barbarism.  The conjecture may, perhaps, legitimately occupy the brains of citizens.  In any case, the French Government would do well to invite to such places as Arras, Soissons, and Senlis groups of Mayors of the cities of all countries, so that these august magistrates may behold for themselves and realise in their souls what defensive war and the highest civilisation actually do mean when they come to the point.

Personally, I am against a policy of reprisals, and yet I do not see how Germany can truly appreciate what she has done unless an object-lesson is created for her out of one of her own cities.  And she emphatically ought to appreciate what she has done.  One city would suffice.  If, at the end of the war, Cologne were left as Arras was when I visited it, a definite process of education would have been accomplished in the Teutonic mind.  The event would be hard on Cologne, but not harder than the other event has been on Arras.  Moreover, it is held, I believe, that the misfortunes of war bring out all that is finest in the character of a nation, and that therefore war, with its sweet accompaniments, is a good and a necessary thing.  I am against a policy of reprisals, and yet—­such is human nature—­ having seen Arras, I would honestly give a year’s income to see Cologne in the same condition.  And to the end of my life I shall feel cheated if Cologne or some similar German town is not in fact ultimately reduced to the same condition.  This state of mind comes of seeing things with your own eyes.

Proceeding, we walked through a mile or two of streets in which not one house was inhabited nor undamaged.  Some of these streets had been swept, so that at the first glance they seemed to be streets where all the citizens were indoors, reflecting behind drawn blinds and closed shutters upon some incredible happening.  But there was nobody indoors.  There was nobody in the whole quarter—­ only ourselves; and we were very unhappy and unquiet in the solitude.  Almost every window was broken; every wall was chipped; chunks had been knocked out of walls, and at intervals there was no wall.  One house showed the different paperings of six rooms all completely exposed to the gaze.  The proprietor evidently had a passion for anthracite stoves; in each of the six fireplaces was an anthracite stove, and none had fallen.  The post office was shattered.

Then the railway station of Arras!  A comparatively new railway station, built by the Compagnie du Nord in 1898.  A rather impressive railway station.  The great paved place in front of it was pitted with shell-holes of various sizes.  A shell had just grazed the elaborate facade, shaving ornaments and mouldings off it.  Every pane of glass in it was smashed.  All the ironwork had a rich brown rust.  The indications for passengers were plainly visible.  Here you must take your ticket; here you must register