ay there is no firing, and I suppose that the last shell has fallen
into Paris. I went out yesterday to St. Denis. Along the road there were
a few people coming into Paris with their beds and tables in hand-carts.
In the town the bombardment, although not so heavy as it had been, was
far too heavy to be pleasant. Most of the people still remaining have
established themselves in their cellars, and every moment one came
against some chimney emerging from the soil. Some were still on the
ground-floor of their houses, and had heaped up mattresses against their
windows. The inhabitants occasionally ran from one house to another,
like rabbits in a warren from hole to hole. All the doors were open, and
whenever one heard the premonitory whistle which announced the arrival
of one of the messengers of our psychological friends outside, one had
to dodge into some door. I did not see any one hit. The houses were a
good deal knocked about; the cathedral, it was said, had been hit, but
as shells were falling in the Place before it, I reserved investigations
for a more quiet moment. Some of the garrison told me that the forts had
been "scratched," but as to how far this scratching process had been
carried I cannot say from personal observation, as I thought I might be
scratched myself if I pushed my reconnaissance farther. I am not a
military man, and do not profess to know anything about bombs
technically, but it seems to me, considering that it is their object to
burst, and considering the number of scientific persons who have devoted
their time to make them burst, it is very strange how very few do burst.
I am told that one reason for this is the following:--when they lose the
velocity of the impelling force they turn over in the air, and as the
percussion cap is on the lighter end, the heavier one strikes the
ground. Many of these, too, which have fallen in the town, and which
have burst, have done no mischief, because the lead in which they are
enveloped has kept the pieces together. The danger, indeed, to life and
limb of a bombardment is very slight. I would at any time prefer to be
for 24 hours in the most exposed portion of a bombarded town, than walk
24 times across Oxford Street in the middle of the day. A bomb is a joke
in comparison with those great heavy wagons which are hurled at
pedestrians by their drivers in the streets of London.

_January 28th._

The Government has not yet made up its mind to bell the cat, and t