PERHAPS my American readers would get a better conception of the extent of French soil which paid the heaviest tribute to the invading armies of Germany, through the almost complete destruction of everything of value, if I were to compare it in size to some well-known territory in our own country. From official reports given to me by the best authority in the French Government, such devastated territory in ten Departments, whose total area is nearly 24,500 square miles, reckoned among the richest in France, and exclusive of Belgium and Luxembourg, embraced an invaded or bombarded zone of 15,600 square miles. The population of this portion in 1914 was 4,690,183, of whom it may be estimated that barely 2,000,000 remained at the time of the Armistice.

With such figures before us, a comparison may be made with the State of Indiana which would be fairly accurate, since the destruction from gun fire extended beyond the actual area of invasion. But it is to he observed that the population affected was even greater than that of Indiana. With what horror her sister States in the American Union would hear of some cataclysm of such a nature as to destroy every town and city within her confines, leaving them a mass of jumbled ruins! In many places the most arable soil in her fertile counties churned up in such a manner as to make hopeless for years to come its use for agricultural purposes! Thousands of the finest orchards cut down. Railroads, bridges, telegraph and telephone poles everywhere destroyed beyond repair; factories with their valuable machinery burned to the ground, and a sum total besides of approximately 400,000 dwellings, exclusive of business houses, levelled to the ground or rendered uninhabitable. Not a church or school-house left intact. Indeed, not a farmhouse, no matter how isolated, without at least its roof destroyed.

But such a visitation of ruin, if conceivable, would lack the horrors attending that of the invaded Departments of France, in that the latter such destruction was repeated several times, and twice on a maximum scale, in the late Summer and early Autumn of 1914, and in the Spring of 1918 respectively.

The extent to which France suffered materially is too often forgotten, as quite distinct from the sacrifices made by her in the lives of the young flower of her population.(1) That the war could be fought out to a successful conclusion, without indefinite delay, nowhere save at or near Germany's western frontiers was one of the factors which had constantly to be borne in mind.

When Colonel House had once said to me that should France grow tired and drop out of the war, America alone would fight Germany, I pointed out that even then America would have to fight Germany on French soil. We could not fight her on German soil till we had whipped her sufficiently to gain a foothold. And we could not thrash her on the sea, unless she chose to come and meet us, which she had not chosen to do with England. I ventured to add the significant remark that in the time or two that she emerged on the sea, Germany had given quite as good an account of herself as England, and I was not far from believing that if all the truth were known, in one of those sea fights Germany had had the better of the argument(2.)

I am sure that no pen or word of mouth could give a description which would adequately portray the absolute ruin wrought by the invading Germans, so complete and thorough in its execution, which these towns and little villages presented to the visitor.

Speaking as I do as an eye-witness to these scenes of desolation, not on the occasion of one visit alone but from two to four times to the same places, periods of six months sometimes intervening, I make the statement without reservation.

Seeing these sad sights extending all the way from the little town of Gerbevillers near the edge of the Vosges in Lorraine, in a line extending north and westerly from Nancy, through Rheims to Amiens and Cambrai, I early became impressed with not only the tremendous loss inflicted upon these northeastern provinces of France, but with the almost hopeless task of rehabilitation necessary to bring back to life that stricken section.

The first of these towns I visited late in the year 1916. If in the course of the war other cities were destroyed on the grounds of military necessity, there could have been no such claim in the wanton destruction of Gerbevillers.

Here in this quiet little town of barely two thousand inhabitants, noted for its manufacture of embroidery, a small band of chasseurs had, in the early days of the war, put up a heroic defence, holding a bridge across the little river Agne against an overwhelming force of Bavarians. So obstinate was the defence by this handful of men that the capturers of the place, prevented from gaining access to the bridge and being forced therefore to cross the stream at another place, vowed dire vengeance. How well that threat was carried out, the musty ruins of a large portion of the town, rendered wholly uninhabitable, will, for many years to come, bear mute testimony.

One of the peculiarly atrocious things connected with the capture of the town was the shooting down in cold blood of a number of old men of the place, who were led out into a field for execution.(3) Here, as I was later to see duplicated many times, were the ruins of the magnificent château of the Marquis de Lambertye which, before its destruction, must have been of great architectural beauty. Only the shell of the stately façade and the fine grounds covering the broad acres in the rear had been left to tell of the former grandeur of the place. I was told, on visiting this ruin, that there were burned with it all the furniture and works of art of great value.

It was upon my return to Paris on that trip that I caught my first glimpse of Rheims. Having secured permission through the courtesy of the French Government to proceed with the members of my party from Epernay to Rheims, I was surprised, on the eve of my departure, to receive word from my good friend M. Léon Mirman, the Prefect at Nancy, countermanding it. However, on the following morning, as I was about to take the train to Paris, a telegram came announcing that the trip to the Cathedral City might be made. Only when I reached that city did I learn of the reason for such action.

It appeared that late in the preceding afternoon a detachment of dashing young French soldiers---all, as I was informed, under twenty years of age---had made a raid on the front trenches of the German lines as one of their first exploits in the war. With only a slight loss they succeeded in capturing a number of Germans. As it had been a well-established fact that in retaliation of such "coups de main" the Germans always recommenced the bombardment, such action was considered as imminent just before my arrival. But more quickly than had been thought, the retaliation was put into execution. Early that afternoon a large number of shells was thrown into the city. After the bombardment had ceased a reasonable respite could be counted upon, so the message was sent to me that it would be all right to carry out my original plans.

Our way lay through great stretches of vineyards, each vine supported by its pole, and looking marvellously peaceful. Yet the external signs of war were not only evident in what could be guessed of the enemy's earthworks and fortifications, but in the camouflage that hemmed in the road on either side, save in certain portions well concealed by rising ground from the German lines, Having close at hand the appearance of mere daubs arbitrarily smeared with colouring, the cloths were sometimes stretched neatly for a considerable space but often in smaller sections, and sometimes torn to strips waving in the wind and seeming to have also their utility. It was my first view of this new method of protection. Indeed, I believe it was here that camouflage was first applied with marked success.

In the distance, growing steadily larger as we followed the winding roadway, the great towers of the Rheims Cathedral appeared, their line seeming to be intact against the sky. It was only at close quarters that one appreciated the gravity of the damage done and which, already great, was alas! to become still greater in the course of succeeding months.

On entering the city I went first to the Hôtel de Ville, where the venerable mayor, Doctor Langlet, and members of the city council were assembled to receive me. He had been among the hundred hostages arrested, together with Monseigneur Neveux, Coadjutor of the Archbishop, with threats to hang them all and burn the city if the Germans were molested. This was upon the arrival of the Crown Prince, September 11, following the withdrawal of the French from the town and the entrance of Prince August Wilhelm of Prussia with his troops on the 5th. But on September 12, the change of the tide at the Battle of the Marne fortunately caused the Germans to withdraw, taking the hostages along for a short distance but releasing them at Vitry-les-Rheims.

Probably next to the despoilment of Louvain early in the war, the destruction of Rheims, involving the serious, perhaps irreparable damage to its historic cathedral, serves to epitomize in the minds of the people the barbarity of the invading foe more than any other atrocity committed by them.

At the time I visited this stricken city early in December, 1916, there were less than 30,000 of its inhabitants remaining out of the normal population of 120,000. This number was gradually reduced in the latter days of the bombardment. Heroic as was their courage, this could be well understood. While the immense wine-cellars for which the city is famous afforded ample protection during the times of bombardment, and indeed schools were organized there for children who had insisted on remaining with their parents, yet there could at no single moment have come to the people of that devoted city the remotest sense of security or even tranquillity.

In the course of my visit on that first occasion, I took tea with his Eminence Cardinal Luçon, who spoke at length with me about the injury done to his beloved and beautiful cathedral as well as to the noble and historic city itself.(4)

He told me notably that, very soon after the beginning of the war, the population had been painfully impressed by reports of atrocities committed in Belgium. Fugitives brought stories with circumstantial details of what was occurring, and others followed with confirmation of these and additional reports. Frightened by the prospect that what the invaders had done in Belgium they might renew in France, a great part of the population of Rheims had then fled. The heads of families considered it their first duty to protect their wives and children against massacres such as were known to have occurred at Dinant. This first evacuation reduced the population to about 80,000.

But the enemy bombardments and incidental conflagrations having continued the progressive destruction of the town, many families who had desired to remain found themselves without a roof over their heads, their houses and all their furniture having been swept away in a few moments. In consequence they, in turn, had no choice but to leave. Then of course almost all work had ceased; day labourers lacked bread, which they had to go and seek elsewhere. Meanwhile, the difficulty of conveying supplies of all sorts to the stricken town had increased steadily. The only roads available to convoys were in full view of the enemy, though camouflaged, and whoever sought to enter the city did so at the peril of his life. Faced by shortage of both food and fuel, the City Council encouraged civilians to leave, using persuasion wherever it was possible but in certain cases of a particularly pathetic nature, where the afflicted family wished to perish in the beloved town, their evacuation was operated by order. Thus was the population of the "bouches inutiles" further reduced---the mouths to be fed which could not contribute to the defence of Rheims.

During all this time, with indomitable bravery Cardinal Luçon had wished to remain among his flock, inspiring them with all the ardour in his own great soul. Even then, in the midst of the wreckage which grew from month to month, he was elaborating plans for the resurrection of the city of Rheims when its hour of sore trial should have come to an end.

When I returned to Rheims at the beginning of April, 1919, just before sailing for home, I learned of further and even more tragic happenings.

From some 25,000 inhabitants in January, 1917, the population had fallen to 5,000 on January 1, 1918. Then came the German drive, and the evacuation of those who had remained was ordered, On February 24, Cardinal Luçon himself officiated at a "Farewell Mass" in the chapel of the Setting Sun of the Cathedral, offered for those members of his diocese who now had no choice but to leave. The next day, only 1,500 remained, among them being the Cardinal himself. No civilians were to be tolerated by the military authorities unless their presence was admitted to be necessary. The highest tribute which could have been paid to Cardinal Luçon, a tribute higher and more eloquent than any which the human language is capable of voicing, lay in the tacit recognition that he should remain in Rheims as long as one single civilian was there.

Those last few had, however, been warned that at the next threatened movement on the enemy's part, they too must leave. This came on March 25, 1918. And thereafter for long and tragic weeks, while the Allied Armies under Foch and with the aid of Pershing's men were fighting and winning the battles which led to victory, Rheims was a city of ruins abandoned by all save the military who still held heroically out for her defence.

Soon after the extensive German retreat in the early Spring of 1917, I was given an opportunity of witnessing the real horrors of the war. Such towns as Chauny, Noyon, Roye, Ham, St. Quentin, Péronne, and Bapaume, which had remained in the hands of the enemy, now learned the full extent of diabolical barbarism which could be visited upon them.

With Captain Joubert as my guide, I left Paris late in March, 1917, to visit the nearest towns in this territory. In fact, it is not a mere figurative expression to say that I could still see in the wet ground, in some places, the footprints of those who had for so long held the outlying trenches, with guns turned towards these others who had been heroically defending their soil.

What a scene of desolation, after we had crossed that line! To attempt to convey a description of the conditions found in these destroyed towns would mean simply calling into requisition all the appropriate adjectives in their superlative degree. Otherwise it would be impossible to portray that extent of destruction which, after all, could be grasped only by seeing for oneself. The sceptical mind, on looking at photographs of such scenes as reproduced, might possibly be led to believe that only the worst examples had been shown. But I assure such that a far more accurate reason for selecting similar examples is, that it would be quite out of the question to find any other kind in all these towns, so thorough had been the carrying out of orders of vandalism.

I sent by cable to the Government at Washington two lengthy accounts of my trip, in part as follows:

Telegrams from Ambassador Sharp to the State Department.

Paris, April 1, 12 midnight, 1917.

SECRETARY OF STATE, WASHINGTON.

I yesterday visited many of the French towns recently retaken in the invaded territory, accepting an invitation extended to me several days ago. The trip was made in a military automobile. I was accompanied by the Military Attaché of the Embassy, Captain Carl Boyd. I regret to report that I found the various accounts in circulation here and doubtless forwarded to the newspapers in the United States of the deplorable conditions in those towns as in no way exaggerated. The places visited, numbering upwards of thirty, though few by comparison, had been quite destroyed by the Germans, with very few exceptions, before their evacuation. The destruction wrought in the larger towns of Ham, Roye, and particularly the once thriving and attractive city of Chauny, was complete. In many of the other small villages scarcely a house remains with its roof intact. A scene of desolation reigns everywhere over the reconquered territory. This is true not alone where the possibly excusable military operations carried out by the Germans protected their retreat by the blowing up of all the bridges and the destruction of the means of telegraphic and telephonic communications, including portions of lines of railways and the blocking of highways by the felling of many trees, but also where, as far as the eye could see, nearly all the fruit trees had either been cut down or girdled so as to ruin them completely. The towns were destroyed for no seeming military reason. Also every private house along the country's highways, together with some of the most beautiful châteaux of great value, had been completely gutted by explosives or by fires systematically planned. I was also informed that before the retreat commenced the agricultural implements found on the farms were destroyed. Blackened walls of what must have been extensive manufacturing establishments were to be seen in many places, the salvage of which, including likewise that of most of the other structures destroyed, would scarcely pay for the removal of the material.

In some of the towns the Germans had reduced the churches and the cathedrals to a mass of ruins, either by fires or heavy charges of explosives.

I was told by the mother of six children, at Ham, that her husband and two daughters, aged fifteen and eighteen, had been carried away by the Germans upon their evacuating the town. Upon her remonstrating the Germans told her that as an alternative she might find their bodies in the canal in the rear of her home. I was informed by the same woman that out of that town's total population several hundred people had been compelled to accompany the Germans.(5) Nearly half of this number were women and girls above fifteen years of age. There is the belief that a large number of the French people in the evacuated towns and surrounding country were forced by the Germans to go with them in their retreat, as comparatively so few are now to be found.

After traversing a distance of more than one hundred miles in this reconquered territory, I left there with the conviction that there is no parallel in history for such thorough destruction either by a vanquished or victorious army.

SHARP.

 

(Undated)

It may be desirable to learn in a few words of the widespread distress that prevails throughout those invaded districts because of the very wantonness of the retreating army in destroying not only everything that would contribute to the bare existence of the population but of the means of their earning a livelihood. The Germans carried away or destroyed every article of furniture in the houses. In many places where the buildings were not actually destroyed a methodical program of removing or destroying every door and every window-frame in the house was carried out, so that even in some places where lack of time had not given opportunity to destroy the roof overhead, the houses were left entirely untenable in an unusually severe stress of weather. A local paper contains the following description of these scenes, written by a German correspondent, which originally appeared in the Lokal Anzeiger. From personal observation I can vouch for the entire accuracy of this picture.

"All is a desert across which the road is the last vestige of a vanished civilization, and the road itself will disappear in a few days. All the cross-roads are mined and the minechambers charged. Motor-driven ploughs are at work in the fields rendering them impassable for the enemy's artillery and convoys. Troops on the march pass, with wagons laden with provisions and utensils. They have left nothing in the positions evacuated. What has not been destroyed has been burned or smashed. The soldiers have blown up their shelters and rendered their wells and former quarters useless. The walls that remain standing after the fire will be destroyed with explosives. Even cellars have been blown up. All this was not done in a day. The work was carried out methodically during weeks and months, in order not to arouse the suspicion of the enemy."

The wife of the Mayor of Noyon told me that one of the most urgent needs at present confronting the people of that town is that of tools with which to engage in the work of reconstruction, as the inhabitants have been deprived of every implement which would enable them to repair or rebuild their homes. The farmer is in no way more favored, for all the agricultural implements have likewise been destroyed.

While food is being supplied to the stricken inhabitants by the Government of France through the military organizations, yet they are sorely in need of boots and shoes particularly, also blankets and bedding. There is a great need especially in the devastated regions for all kinds of farm implements as well. The needless and widespread ruin wrought by the retreating enemy in so many ways upon this unhappy portion of France, even affecting the very landscape in the denuding of forests, the cutting down of thousands of stately trees which lined for miles the country highways and constituted their charm, and the destruction of historic monuments, will not be effaced for a generation.

SHARP.

Immediately after leaving Noyon, as I proceeded on my way, orchards completely and scientifically devastated came into view. The historic castle of Ham had been blown up by a mine, strangely enough the tower remaining untouched. The organ pipes had been taken away from the church here as in the cathedral at Noyon. Beyond Ham lies the village of Esmery-Hallon, once a prosperous farming centre which now presented still another instance of the burning of villages and agglomerations having no military value whatever.

A particularly striking example of ruthlessness was mentioned to me, the house belonging to a lawyer at Champien, the interior of which had been methodically sacked although it outwardly remained in good condition. Not only had the furniture been carried off but the staircase, the walls, and the roof had been torn or hacked away with hatchets or other instruments. Near this town, at Margny-aux-Cerises, two battering-rams had been used to demolish cottages.

At Roye the City Hall square had been blown up by a mine, the City Hall and most of the surrounding houses collapsing into the excavation. The town of Nesle, on the Somme, had perhaps suffered less in material damage, but here the citizens and country people had been exposed to the horrors of deportations,(6) over a hundred women and young girls being carried off by the Germans from this region alone.

A certified order for one of these deportations was shown to me, as follows:

"Mlle R-------, rue du Faubourg St. Echouart, shall on the 17th at 7 o'clock in the morning German time go to the Soldatenheim (Faubourg St. Marcoul) to leave on the march.

"She will be allowed to take the luggage which she can herself carry.

"It will be necessary for her to have food for one day.

"Signed: ORTSKOMMANDATUR
"NESLE."

Mr. James W. Gerard explained as follows the principle of these deportations, which occurred not only in Northern France but also on the Balkan Front:(7)

"It seems that the Germans had endeavored to get volunteers from the great industrial towns of Lille, Roubaix, and Tourcoing to work these fields, but after the posting of the notices calling for volunteers only fourteen had appeared. The Germans then gave orders to seize a certain number of inhabitants . . . . A man would come home at night and find that his wife or children had disappeared, and no one could tell him where they had gone, except that the neighbors could relate that German non-commissioned officers and a file of soldiers had carried them off."(8)

I would remark here that although certain categories of atrocities committed by the invading German soldiers have been exaggerated, too often a few cases being magnified into many by repetition of the story,(9) yet instances of atrocities did exist, taking many and sometimes very unusual forms. I have in mind, for example, the case of one of my friends who, happening to be in Switzerland in the early months of the war, came by sheer accident upon information concerning secret German plans involving an important French fortified area where adequate preparations had not been made against an attack. For reasons best left unexplained here, this place might not only have been taken at that juncture, but under conditions such as to entail complications of a highly embarrassing nature for France and of consequent advantage to Germany. The fact that my friend held such information exposed him to being the victim of three attempts upon his life, from which he escaped, though not entirely unscathed.(10)

Through the courtesy of the British Military authorities, I was given the opportunity to traverse the territory commencing about fifteen miles east of Amiens and embracing such towns as Péronne, Bapaume, Albert, Arras, etc., in the Spring of 1917.

At Amiens our little party, consisting of several members of my Embassy staff, was placed in the charge of Major Lytton,(11) whose father had been British Ambassador to France nearly thirty years before and whose grandfather was Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, the novelist. A more charming and withal obliging officer I have never met. With that nonchalant air and breezy manner which characterized so many of his brother-officers during the war, he showed to us every possible attention.

As it was my desire to give more careful examination to what I saw than merely hurriedly passing through the towns, an itinerary was arranged which, on the first day, would embrace the territory extending to Péronne; then returning in the evening to Amiens, the following day would be devoted to the territory lying about Bapaume.

While perhaps the destruction in those towns differed very little in character from that which I had previously seen in those located farther to the south, where the French troops were in command, yet there was an element which differentiated the manner in which some of the smaller towns, particularly, had been destroyed. This was due to the fact that a number of such towns had been terribly shelled in a cross fire between the two contending armies, before the actual retreat of the German forces had been made. This was evidenced by the havoc created on some of the battlefields, particularly noticeable where wooded tracts had intervened.

Along the highways at one such place where formerly must have stood a beautiful wood composed of large trees, there was nothing now left standing but their bared and splintered trunks. Though the season was late enough for the appearance of verdure in other forests through which we had passed, yet here there was not a semblance of vegetable life. In not a few trunks were still to be seen unexploded shells, and everywhere about on each side of the highway and across the fields were myriads of shell-holes, making the surface resemble a billowy sea. The artillery duel at such places must have been so intense as to baffle description.

There vividly dwells in my mind yet the appearance of what formerly must have been a thriving little village of two or three thousand inhabitants. The locality was called Bois de Delville, but the English had nicknamed it "Devil-wood" because of the severity of the punishment there. From its appearance after this carnage, as I saw it in riding along that Spring morning through what had once been its busiest street, I dubbed it to my companions as a "tooth-pick" town. The shells of the contending artillery forces sent over into the town had crumbled to pieces the concrete walls of the houses, leaving everywhere a regular forest of supporting timbers or studding which, at a distance, looked like a forest of standing tooth-picks. I do not recall, as I passed through that village, seeing a single building with a roof left on, nor, in fact, anything that could have resembled its former self.

At the hotel, before my departure, I was introduced by Major Lytton to his friend John Masefield who had already written a number of interesting works on the war, one of the most noted, as I remember, being on the campaign at Gallipoli.

As I proceeded on my journey that day, labourers were hastily repairing the highway which the retreating enemy troops had blown up, whenever, their time in such a hasty retreat gave them the opportunity. On each side of the roadway I saw many tanks bearing the unmistakable evidences of the hard fate through which they had passed. Here was one shattered to pieces, there was a large one which had encountered natural obstacles in the topography of the ground which it could not overcome, and it had been stalled. Others were found in deep ditches, but all had evidently been put out of commission by the fire of the enemy.

Involuntarily my thoughts were of those brave fellows who had been inside them, and I wondered whether they had shared the fate of the little iron houses which had sheltered them. From all that I learned in the days to follow---for even then the use of these new implements of war had not been fully tested---I am led to believe that no class of soldiers was called upon to face a greater peril than those who were selected for the tank service. I am firm in this belief from the stories told to me by those in a position to know, of the early fate of the tanks used by the British troops.

It is said that at their introduction these unwieldy monsters inspired more terror among the Germans than any other force that they were called upon to face. Special attention was devoted by them to combating this new danger, and gunners with specially devised rifles were trained for defence against it.(12)

But perhaps the crowning infamy of this programme of annihilation of everything that had value on the soil of France was the wanton destruction of the historic places of worship. No excuse could be offered for the work of vandalism which left only jagged fragmentary walls of such historic buildings as the Cathedrals of Soissons, St. Quentin, Noyon, and edifices of lesser grandeur but none the less of historic interest in a multitude of the smaller towns throughout those unhappy provinces.

As mere antiquity itself often gives the chief value to one's possessions, so any attempt to assess the value in estimating reparation for the destruction of such time-honoured edifices must be useless. Many of those structures had passed unharmed through the wars of previous centuries as being something entirely too sacred for even the passions of men to profane. They had been looked upon as some precious heritage handed down to posterity by those who had been inspired by the awakening from the slumber of the Middle Ages to an exalted conception of a Christian religion. Their matchless grace and dignity in their every part signified as much. Indeed, as I have sometimes looked at the stately pile of Salisbury, with its unrivalled spire, I have thought what a living refutation it was of the conception of man to-day of the inferiority of those who built it in the time of Chaucer. Many such structures, too, on the soil of France must produce the same feeling. What traveller has not been moved by seeing ahead of him far across the country, as he approaches these French towns and cities, the vaulted roofs and spires of such structures, dominating by their height and size everything else about them? Their builders had, by their works made visible to man, given majesty to the faith that was in them.

Many of these destroyed temples of worship had stained glass windows to which the lost art of centuries before had given priceless value. Others had organs which had delighted a dozen generations of people. They were, indeed, the very soul of the community. Homes and business houses of the former dwellers in such communities may be rebuilt and the new structures may carry with them more pride and appreciation than those destroyed, but as for these priceless monuments which gave to them an enduring fame, it would almost be a mockery to attempt to replace them; besides, the people of those unfortunate towns have, by their losses, been made as poor in purse as they are depressed in spirit.

Nothing, I think, in the course of all my trips impressed me more than the church in the ruined town of Albert. High above the church door, and spared though the building itself had severely suffered, the figure of the Virgin had been bent over, undamaged, in such an attitude as to be seemingly protecting the town below. For many long months, during which the bombardment continued, this figure was preserved as it were miraculously, becoming a spectacle much talked of throughout France and popularized by means of photographs.

When, as was inevitable, the statue eventually fell under the continued fire, it was to a great extent forgotten. But perhaps the symbol remained in an even clearer sense than before. Was not the work of reconstruction already beginning? Had not the promise which had seemed to be conveyed to these brave people signified that this, and other towns destroyed by the fire and steel of shells, should rise again from the desolation of their complete ruin?

Nowhere was the full importance of this work of reconstruction more evident than in the little Lorraine town of Vitrimont, which always appeared to me as typical of what material suffering could signify and what human aid, intelligently administered, could do to assuage the wound. This was, I believe, at one time the only village which stood entirely reconstructed by Americans. The task had been undertaken and was supported financially by Mrs. William H. Crocker of San Francisco through the personal direction of Miss Daisy Polk.(13)

I had visited Vitrimont at the end of 1916, and I had thus been in a position to judge for myself. The conspicuous feature of the undertaking was certainly that the Americans devoting themselves there had solved the problem of respecting the traditions of the inhabitants, while meeting the necessities for economy as well as for improvements and hygiene.

In the despatch which I sent to the State Department reporting upon my trip, I said in part:

"I cannot give too much praise of the officials, both military and civil, of the cities visited---particularly Nancy, Lunéville, and Rheims---who showed us so many courtesies during this trip on which I was accompanied, among others, by M. André Chevrillon, the distinguished French writer. In truth, I might also well add that everywhere the most kindly disposition was shown towards everything American by the people, whose fortitude under such trying conditions deserves the greatest commendation.

"The humanitarian work undertaken by Mrs. Crocker, through the indispensable aid and efficiency of Miss Polk, will be most welcome to the people of Vitrimont, many of whom have no shelter above their heads. Not alone is the rebuilding of a considerable portion of the town contemplated, but in various ways---chiefly through the widening of the streets and their embellishment by the planting of shade trees ---the conditions of the village are to be much improved. It is to be hoped that this work so auspiciously begun at Vitrimont by Mrs. Crocker may find a duplicate in other devastated towns of that neighborhood equally in need of help."

I learned subsequently that Mrs. Crocker had herself visited Vitrimont for the formal consecration of the restored village in the summer of 1920, being greeted by the old chimes which had happily been spared in the little church. The paper La France gave a charming description of the village as "a veritable joy to the eye in its new setting of red tiles, long alleys of maple, chestnut, and linden trees, planted the year before, putting forth their first leaves as if to do their part in presenting the picture of a perfect village."

Equally wise and generous in its inspiration, but conceived and executed on a more extensive scale, was the very exceptional work of "The American Committee for Devastated France," organized in the winter of 1916-1917 with the object of aiding in all ways the civilian population in the war-ruined Departments, and operating particularly in the Aisne. No sooner had von Hindenburg executed his retreat from his famous "line than this Committee actively set about its task, caring at first for thirty entire villages, the number being increased to sixty within six months, and progressing steadily as time went by.

Food was supplied to the civilians; house-keeping and garden utensils were provided; live-stock and poultry were brought in to restock the farms ; tractors were supplied; mechanics were given tools ; grain and vegetable seeds were distributed ; little shops were stocked with household necessaries ; schools, dispensaries, hospitals were equipped; poultry farms were started to supply food and give employment to incapacitated soldiers.

Mrs. Anne Murray Dike(14) was the "Commissionnaire" in France, with an executive committee and a board of directors prominent in which were Miss Anne Morgan and Mrs. Lewis Buckley Stillman.

By March, 1918, more than eight hundred families had been reinstated and made partially self-supporting; five hundred children who had suffered from German brutality were fed, clothed, doctored, and given special mental and moral training to bring them back to normality. Enough grain had been raised to feed four thousand persons for one year; seven thousand fruit trees had been set out, and one million vegetable plants.

In June, 1918, the Committee operated stationary and travelling canteens serving between five and eight thousand soldiers a day; one canteen even served forty-five thousand in a single week.

For some time the Committee maintained a work-room in Paris where refugee women were given sewing to do and were paid for it; and during its entire existence the Committee had a warehouse in Paris, under Mrs. Stockley and Mrs. Pierpont and eventually Miss Louise Sedgwick Rackemann as Directress, where were received all gifts and whence were sent out all shipments to the devastated regions in the Aisne; one item alone being 180,000 kilos of foodstuffs.

In the reconstruction of churches, public buildings, houses and schools the Committee had a great share, working with the "Building Co-Operative Society" recognized by the Government.

Five libraries organized by Miss Carson and run on the American plan at Anizy-le-Château, Vic-sur-Aisne, Coucy-le-Château, Soissons, and Blérancourt; an Association of Social Hygiene founded and endowed; Agricultural Syndicates; and Miss Anne Morgan's Museum at Blérancourt,(15) were to remain as lasting monuments to the Committee's work.

The interest taken by America in such enterprises was unflagging. Yet the impression which one ever brought away from a visit to these sorely stricken spots was, how much always remained to be done! I recall that very shortly before I left France at the close of my mission, Mrs. Sharp received a request in February, 1919, from the Maryland Daughters of the American Revolution to investigate the devastated village of Tilloy, as they wanted more information in regard to its condition before assisting the National D.A.R. to reconstruct it. The State Chaplain, Mrs. Charles Linthecum, a personal friend of Mrs. Sharp's, therefore volunteered to write to her. Through the American Army authorities, this region being then in our zone, Mrs. Sharp obtained permission for a visit and was distressed to note the deplorable conditions prevailing on all hands. Of course she immediately wrote a letter to encourage the work which the D.A.R. planned to do.

Ever since the hurried retreat of the German armies before the victorious Allied forces had come to my knowledge, I had expressed to the Paris Ministry of War, through the usual channels of the Foreign Office, my earnest desire to visit St. Quentin, and to be, if possible, the first civilian to set foot in the reconquered city whose evacuation seemed to be imminent.

I had, indeed, in one of my cabled reports to the State Department some weeks before, given it as my judgment that, on account of the stubbornness with which that town had been held by the enemy, its evacuation would go very far to prove the final cracking of the Hindenburg line.

My request met with much resistance, based partly upon apprehensions lest the enemy might attempt making an offensive return, after his evacuation on October 1st, but partly also upon risks from shell-fire and more particularly asphyxiating bombs. I had nevertheless quite resolved to undertake this trip.

I had, on a previous occasion, been able to see this town from a considerable distance when it was in the possession of the Germans. That had been the year before, when in the company of Captain Joubert, I had expressed a desire to get near St. Quentin---then invested by the combined French and English troops to recover it from the Germans.

Proceeding northward on that March day, I had reached a point which was a veritable freak of nature. I had heard much talk of the look-out of Prince Eitel Frederick, the second son of the Kaiser, from which place of observation he had only just been driven out by the Allied forces.

Rising abruptly from a fairly level stretch of ground extending for a considerable distance about was a hill, if such it could be called. At the top, which was well nigh flat, it covered scarcely a hundred square rods of ground. On this elevation was a sort of hunting lodge, resembling in design the little chalets to be found on the side of the Swiss mountains. Above the door were the arms of St. Hubert---patron of the hunt. With an open balcony all around it, there was but one sheltered room in the centre. Outside of the look-out itself was a rustic fence which some crude artist had constructed in such a manner as to spell out the words "Eitel Frederick." Inside the enclosure were benches and tables, giving it the appearance of an outdoor beer garden, which one might well accredit to this phlegmatic son of royalty.

From this point observations could be taken covering a radius in some directions of eight or ten miles. In the distance, to the north, I could easily see the vaulted roof of the famous old church of St. Quentin, to the complete destruction of which I was eventually to be a witness. Far to the east and south-east, at intervals of seconds, great shells were bursting and sending back their dull roar.

I therefore had a sentimental desire to be able to enter the precincts of St. Quentin in 1918. But I considered it my duty to gather first-hand evidence as to the conditions under which the victorious Allied forces were following up the enemy, forecasting a peace which I was now convinced must be near at hand. Of course I furthermore purposed to send in a report of the situation to the State Department.

Somewhat sooner than I expected, I was courteously given the necessary permission by the French Government. Early on the morning of Monday, October 7, 1918, Major Bloch-Laroque and Lieutenant Stanislas de Montebello called at my residence in two large Packards for this trip. My party included, in addition to myself, my son George and Mr. Warrington Dawson of my Embassy staff. I was to have been accompanied also by M. Klobukowski, who was French Minister Plenipotentiary at Brussels at the outbreak of the war and later Commissioner-General of the Paris Maison de la Presse, a branch of the Foreign Office, and M. Georges Grosclaude, connected with the French Propaganda Service. At the last moment, M. Grosclaude proved to be unable to go. M. Klobukowski joined me later, in St. Quentin itself, having come by another route.

Our party passed through Senlis and Compiègne, the latter particularly being sadly different from the Compiègne I had known, as it was now a mass of ruins. At Mont Renaud, a little more than three miles from Noyon, we were met by a French officer whose duty it was to escort us in that region and show us the scenes of the late action. I noted that the forest crowning Mont Renaud had been shattered to pieces by shellfire, and the ground was burrowed with trenches in all directions; the point was an important one, as it was there that the French had held the Germans back in their Spring advance. About half a mile away some large barracks had been occupied by the Germans, and of course Noyon further on. It was a sad spectacle to see the trees so pitifully battered, whose colouring should be so beautiful at this season.

At the entrance to Noyon, guards called upon us to halt and we left our cars to walk through the streets which, the French officers assured us, were quite safe now in spite of the signs "No Thoroughfare, Danger of Death," still standing in many places. I understood, however, that where these signs had been left it was because of suspicions that the Germans had put mines and there might be a risk in entering the subterranean refuges, although none was entailed by walking in the adjacent streets. It is an established fact that many lives were lost at Noyon and much destruction done to property by the explosion of such mines and traps.

Only eighteen months before I had visited Noyon with my son and had beheld it almost intact; it was stated that it had been spared as the birth-place of John Calvin. I could now say that I had never seen a large town more completely and thoroughly destroyed. Practically every house in the city had been dynamited. The grand Cathedral of such historic fame, whose foundations were laid more than eight centuries ago, was also in a very much ruined condition. Its beautiful stained glass windows had all been broken, a portion of the roof destroyed, and its walls in many places irreparably shattered. The impressive front had also been seriously damaged by heavy charges of dynamite, placed with much design and hard labour where the greatest amount of destruction would follow.

Sculptured figures of the saints were ruthlessly strewn about the floors, and a large figure of the Saviour had been thrown over into a corner of the adjoining chapel. Great havoc had been wrought in the court of the ancient cloisters. Fronting the square near by, on which had once faced the former Hôtel de Ville, the City Hall of Noyon, now in complete ruins, I looked in vain for the hospitable château in which I had lunched with General Humbert, whose military headquarters had been there on my former visit.

Everything in the square, as indeed throughout the city, was a mass of ruins resembling the worst portion of what I had seen of the city of Rheims during its many bombardments. Even the ancient monument rising in the centre of the square---the tablets of which recited the fact that here in Noyon Childéric was buried, Charlemagne had been crowned here more than twelve centuries ago, and here also Hugues Capet had been elected king----had been broken and left a half-ruin.

At Beaulieu, near Noyon, General Debeney, in command of the First Army and the St. Quentin sector, had established his headquarters in a house partly ruined but hastily put into condition for his use by German prisoners of war.

I was informed that the extensive damage done was due to new methods adopted this year by the Germans for the destruction of property in France. Whereas in previous years they had placed charges of powder next to a wall, blowing in the wall so as to cause the fall of the roof, this year they had been putting the powder in house-cellars, thereby causing far graver damage.

General Debeney invited us to lunch with him and his staff, an invitation which we gladly accepted. The General is a somewhat tall man, very well-built, with dark searching eyes. He is a great admirer of Marshal Joffre and paid him a high tribute, calling him "our great master," and declaring that he had, by his strategy from 1914 to 1916, laid the foundations for what was now being done by the victorious Allied Armies.(16) In a conversation with me not long before, Marshal Joffre on his side had referred to General Debeney as one of the very best generals France had.

My last act before leaving Paris upon this trip had been to pass by the Chancery in order to send a telegraphic message to the Department dealing with the sentiments of France towards German suggestions for an armistice. As this was a subject requiring particularly careful handling, I made a point of asking General Debeney what was the feeling among the Poilus as to these proposals. He replied that he had not yet had sufficient time to inquire into the matter, but that in any case it was highly necessary that the answer should be sent promptly. The reason for this was that the time which had passed since the latter half of September, when peace rumours began to pervade the air, tended somewhat to exasperate French soldiers at the front, who were inquiring as to the prospects of a winter campaign. At present the spirit among them was still excellent, but it was important that their hopes should not be raised and be allowed to subsist, only to be dashed by a rejection of offers unacceptable to the Allies. It appeared that all newspapers arriving from Paris were seized upon with avidity by the soldiers, a big group immediately forming and inquiring for news. If there was to be a winter campaign, the soldiers must know it at once and they would prepare for it with the undaunted spirit which they had shown for already more than four years.

General Debeney furthermore observed that he had a fifteenth proposition to add to President Wilson's fourteen articles, the said proposition consisting of the only words of English he knew: "Down the Boches." He went on to say that what should be done would be to oblige Germany not only to furnish an indemnity in money but in labour, and that this could be effected by having the entire year's military class come to work in France to repair during a certain number of years the damage done. This system, he explained, would also have the advantage of reducing by so much Germany's military strength.

In reply to an inquiry from me concerning our participation in the war and French opinions on this subject, General Debeney paid a handsome tribute to our First Division which was under him for some time, as he informed me, first near Toul and then in the proximity of Noyon at Cantigny. He was exceedingly laudatory of the general bearing as well as of the conduct of our men. He told me that he had got to know General Bullock and his officers very well, adding with a laugh that they used to call him "Papa." He went on to say that what France and her Allies now needed was war material of all kinds. In his estimation, the period had now been reached when we were approaching all the effective forces demanded by the situation, so that we should endeavour to send especially material; men, of course, as we could, but material and always more material.

The General expressed himself in disapproving terms as to my plan for proceeding on my way to St. Quentin. He was even somewhat sceptical as to the possibility of my party arriving there, and did not attempt to conceal a certain amount of anxiety for my personal safety as well as for that of those who accompanied me.(17)

Our way took us through the village of Ham, which was reduced to a state of complete ruin. I was informed that the damage had not been by shell-fire, however, Ham having been taken as a result of an enveloping movement subsequent to which the Germans had systematically burned the place. Many signs of German occupation subsisted in the form of notices, sign-posts, etc. The country round about was truly desolate, a sad spectacle of wanton destruction. The fields, long unused to any plough, were growing wild, and the roads were in very bad condition, all the bridges being down and the railroad tracks torn up. I had ample time for making such observations because I was being constantly stopped for the passage of troops or supplies. Never before on any of my trips had I witnessed so much movement consisting of men on the march upon the highway and long columns of supply camions. A great quantity of German material, including many hundred shells, had been abandoned all along the road. An officer of the general staff told me that in that sector alone the French had taken enough booty to fill 200,000 camions,

As we approached St. Quentin we changed motors, leaving behind the big luxurious Packards in favour of some light plain cars whose utility was soon to be evident to us. The going was very slow, owing to the number of camions proceeding in both directions and also to the condition of the roads damaged by the traffic and by the explosion of shells. At one point we had to turn back, retracing our steps for several miles, as we learned that the road had been cut. Needless to say, our way did not lie along the main highway which was constantly under shell-fire. Finally we took a road across country, as bad a road as I have ever seen, our progress becoming steadily slower as we proceeded. The shell holes to be avoided were so numerous that we sometimes plunged into one before we knew it. Our path even led us behind a battery of 155's and we were regarded curiously by the men working their guns. Soon we were obliged to leave our cars to proceed on foot, walking over a plank road in the course of building by a number of Annamites.

I then met with an experience for which I had not bargained. While technically it was true that the town had been evacuated, yet as a matter of fact an artillery duel was going on between the two opposing armies on the very day that I visited the city. The thunder of shells was in the air continuously. My attention was called to the landing of some shells near the main road, which we had been careful not to take, The French batteries were replying vigorously, and an officer pointed out the objective to me so that I was able to locate where the shells were striking. On an eminence at the outskirts of the city, I was startled by a terrific explosion of a shell not more, perhaps, than a hundred rods distant from me. Then I realized that we were in shelling distance of an enemy that had for four years continuously held on to that territory. Hearing the sharp crack of one of the pieces of artillery beneath a hill not more than fifty rods ahead of me, I asked what battery it was, and was told that the Americans had some guns at that particular point.

Passing along on foot with my conductor, I was told that I was the first civilian except the Mayor who had entered that city since its evacuation---in other words, the first friend of the Allied cause who had been permitted to go inside the city limits since the beginning of the war. The Deputy from St. Quentin had tried to enter the day before, but the town was being too heavily shelled. We had our gas masks with us ready to put them on at a moment's notice, though it so happened that we did not need them.

In the city I was authorized to go only in districts considered as safe, having been cleared of mines. Two regiments of German prisoners were used for the work, these men being obliged to sleep in the houses visited as a means of eliminating foul play, and being furthermore warned that two prisoners would be shot for every mine which exploded "accidentally."

I was asked to abridge my visit and leave as soon as possible, as it appeared that the Germans were beginning to train their guns on the town, possibly suspecting our visit or else a movement of troops there. I had been in St. Quentin about one hour all told, when at 5 p.m. I regained the light car which had been brought up by another road so as to wait at the outskirts of the town.

Because of the German gun-fire and the approach of night, we now chose the main road which had been so badly shelled a short time before, our chief consideration being at present speed. There were six of us in the light car speeding over the uncertain roadway at not less than fifty miles an hour, hearing behind us the exploding shells which seemed to be progressing in our wake, the range fortunately never being modified swiftly enough for the shells to reach us.

I found the large motors were at the spot where I had left them, the headquarters of General Nollet,(18) the General in immediate command of the St. Quentin sector under General Debeney. He proved to be a short and rather stout man, blue-eyed and white-haired and very amiable.

Ambassador Sharp to the State Department.

Paris, October 29, 1918.

Referring to my telegram No. ------ of October 16, 1918, I have now the honor to make a rather more extended report upon my recent visit to that portion of France so lately evacuated by the German armies. Through the courtesy of the Minister of War, I was permitted to pay a two-day visit, in a military car, to this unhappy region---the scenes of so many battles and consequent devastation.

It was at St. Quentin that I was to see what thoroughness of destruction, so ingenious and systematic in its application, could be wrought by explosives of the highest power. No efficiency in constructive work---in the building up of monuments attesting the works of civilization---could surpass that here shown in its undoing. Though the creative task might have involved the patient labor of years, to undo it required but the malevolent work of hours,

As I walked through the silent streets, lined with buildings whose friendly roofs of former days had sheltered the home-loving people of this destroyed city, and saw nothing but jumbled heaps of stone and broken timbers, I was reminded of a visit I once paid to the city of Pompeii. The mighty power of Vesuvius to destroy had not been greater than that of these expert vandals. Though but a week had passed since its inhabitants had fled at the command of the German officers, yet, in the silence of this great ruin, where not a thing of life was to be seen, it appeared as though it were a condition of centuries. It was as though some convulsion of nature had shaken every building down to its very foundation. For nearly a mile from the outskirts of the city, the point of my entrance, to the Grande Place, around which are grouped some of the notable buildings of the city, I walked through these scenes of desolation.

Strangely contrasting with the quietude of this wide-spread ruin were the roar of cannon and the whistling of the shells hurtling above us, evidencing the activity of the artillery of both friend and foe. During my stay of an hour's duration several hundred of these shells must have passed high above my head into the ranks of either army. Now and then I could see the places where they fell, instantly followed by the upheaval of earth and clouds of smoke thrown into the air.

Perhaps the saddest ruin of all was that of the famous Cathedral of St. Quentin---in some respects one of the most noted in France. Bad as was the condition of the stately pile at Noyon, that of the sacred edifice of worship at St. Quentin could hardly be dignified by the name of a ruin. Only jagged columns where once it had stood could now be seen; everywhere else it was levelled to the ground in heaps of broken masonry.

As stated in my telegram No. M, Clemenceau told me, in reference to this particular church, that they had found, at the base of each of the columns supporting the vaulted roof, an aperture into which it was designed to place a charge of high explosives to be connected with a battery for simultaneous action if it became necessary.

The officers accompanying me said that, judging from the experience encountered in other destroyed towns, there were yet many unexploded mines in a number of the larger buildings which had not been completely ruined; among these were the Palais de Justice and the Hôtel de Ville.

Wires cunningly attached to charges of high explosives were common methods of killing those who, on entering buildings, might thoughtlessly come. in contact with them. As a matter of fact, in a number of the more recently evacuated towns, some of the German prisoners who had been caught, being the men who were skilled in this barbarous practice, were assigned to the special work of freeing the ruins of such bombs and other explosives---a task no more hazardous than full of poetic justice.

After leaving Sr. Quentin, stopping to pay my respects to General Nollet, he recounted to me that in a chapel connected with the French château which had been the headquarters of the German General von Huttier---the château being blown up when he evacuated it---the private sepulchre of the family had been destroyed and the bones of the dead scattered about over the stone floors. I enclose herewith a photograph, which General Nollet gave to me, showing the effects of this sacrilegious act.

On the following day, en route to Soissons, I stopped at Longpont to see the ruins of the famous château owned by the Montesquiou family. Picturesquely located and connected with the noted ruin of the Abbey of Longpont, of the Twelfth Century, the château itself, judging from the appearance of the front still standing, must have been a magnificent structure. In its beauty of design it was considered one of the show places of that section of the country. To-day, it is a mass of ruins, and only a trace here and there in the interior remains to show its original state of elegance. In my telegram referred to, I have already described the looting which took place here by German officers of all the accumulated works of art and treasures of priceless value.

Incidentally, one must involuntarily ask the question: "How far shall such acts be considered---and they must find their counterpart in thousands of instances during the German occupation of French soil---in taking into account the amount of compensation that shall be exacted from these despoilers?

Only the highest-minded abnegation of all intent or desire for revenge, or even justice to its fullest limit, would seem to prevent that kind of reparation that would exact from such an enemy "like for like."

It has even been suggested that some of the finest works of art that Germany possesses should be surrendered to France ---some of the finest to be found in the most famous museums in her cities---not alone as a symbol of defeat but as a small measure of compensation for the historic monuments and art treasures which have been so ruthlessly destroyed in so many cities in France.

A description of the destroyed city of Soissons, so long the outpost of the German entrenchments after the first victory of the Marne, would be but a repetition of that already given of the complete ruin and desolation which I saw at Noyon and St. Quentin. Here, as in the other places, the hand of the dynamiter had made sure that the most historic monuments should be levelled to earth, and so it was not surprising that the Cathedral---which must have been of stately proportions---was in its greater part reduced to ruins. Here, as in the other towns, I saw scarcely a building intact; indeed, none that had not been visited by shell, fire, or explosive bombs.

It was near this place, in one of the unmolested châteaux, which are a delight upon the landscape of France, that I lunched with General Mangin---one of the most capable of the French Generals of this war.

In passing, I should not omit to pay tribute to the uniform courtesy of all these French military officers to Americans who have been to the front. Their kindly hospitality is as marked as their bravery and genius in battle.

While not within the province of the subject of this despatch to deal with the problem of restoration, yet a number of ingenious plans have been suggested for its accomplishment. Naturally, with the great loss to the man-power of France caused by the war, the question of labor is one of paramount importance. To supply this, not a few advocate the enforced retention on French soil for a number of years of many German prisoners of war for this work of reconstruction, as one of the penalties to be imposed upon a conquered foe.

Without passing upon its feasibility, the justice of a plan by which those who have destroyed must be compelled to restore would not be seriously questioned from an ethical point of view.

I have the honor to be, Sir,      
           Your obedient servant,
                        WM. G. SHARP.

General Mangin, who invited us to lunch with him, is a genial man, very different from the picture sometimes given of him. Eighteen months before, at the time of his attack at the Chemin des Dames, where circumstances led the French to suffer very heavily, he had been nicknamed "mangeur d'hommes." His words at that time were famous: "As long as I have at my disposal a man and a gun, I will attack." The recent successes of his strategy had since made a hero of him, he was highly praised in the press and was well-loved by his troops, as indeed I was told he always had been. Rather short, with a black moustache, an intelligent face seamed with many lines, clear unblinking eyes, a large head and bull-dog jaw, his appearance could not fail to excite interest. He has held throughout that war is a matter of offensives, and he maintained this argument to me, saying: "Making war means making offensives." He added: "For centuries past the problem has been the same, it is the fight between the armour and the shell, and since the shell is generally the stronger it is the better weapon."

His army alone in the past three months had captured 46,000 prisoners, all in the course of very hard and bitter fighting. He considered the Germans would soon be beaten but that they were not giving up easily, although it was a recognized fact that their morale had weakened.

Other subjects we discussed that day I will revert to when I come to the fast-approaching days of the Armistice.

On leaving General Mangin's hospitable door, I started immediately back to Paris with my son and Major Bloch-Laroque, while the other members of my party continued on the trip as originally planned to Rheims and Château-Thierry. But the possibility of some message from the President in regard to an armistice rendered it unadvisable for me to remain absent another hour from Paris, although I had kept in frequent telephonic conversation with the Embassy and knew that no message had yet arrived.