vely obscure the light of the sun. I am making these notes on
the Trocadero. Close and immediately opposite to me is the Invalides,
with its gilded dome shining brightly as ever. The wide esplanade of the
Ecole Militaire, almost immediately underneath it, is nearly covered
with armed men, cannon, and horses. Shells from the positions of General
Cissey, at Montrouge, are every minute falling close to the lofty dome
of the Pantheon. It and the fine building of Val de Grace, near it, seem
certain to be destroyed by missiles before the incendiary fire reaches
them. There is a dense smoke close to St. Sulpice, and now flame rises
amid the smoke, and the two towers of the church are illuminated as no
electric light could illuminate them. Some large building is on fire
there. Every one asks which it is; but no one can approach that Quarter
to put the matter beyond doubt. Burnt leaves of books are flying towards
us, and the prevailing opinion is that the Sorbonne and its Library are
being consumed. There are a dozen other fires between that and the
river. No one doubts that the Palais de Justice is sharing the fate of
the Tuileries and the Louvres. The Chateau of the Tuileries has all but
disappeared. The centre cupola has fallen in, and so has the roof along
the entire length of the building. Some of the lower stories yet burn,
for fire and smoke are rushing fiercely from the openings where up to
this morning there were window-frames and windows.

The Louvre is not yet wholly gone, and perhaps the fire will not reach
all its Courts. As well as we can make out through the flame and smoke
rushing across the gardens of the Tuileries, the fire has reached the
Palais Royal. Every one is now crying out, "The Palais Royal burns!" and
we ascertain that it does. We cannot see Notre Dame or the Hotel Dieu.
It is probable that both are fast becoming ashes. Not an instant passes
without an explosion. Stones and timber and iron are flying high into
the air, and falling to the earth with horrible crashes. The very trees
are on fire. They are crackling, and their leaves and branches are like
tinder. The buildings in the Place de la Concorde reflect the flames,
and every stone in them is like bright gold. Montmartre is still outside
the circle of the flames; but the little wind that is blowing carries
the smoke up to it, and in the clear heavens it rises black as Milton's
Pandemonium. The New Opera House is as yet uninjured; but the smoke
enci