the appearance of tortured human flesh.  But in its essence, and in its splendid outlines, the building remains—­apparently unconquerable.  The towers are particularly serene and impressive.  The deterioration is, of course, tremendously severe.  Scores, if not hundreds, of statues, each of which was a masterpiece, are spoilt; great quantities of carving are defaced; quite half the glass is irremediably broken; the whole of the interior non-structural decoration is destroyed.  But the massiveness of the Cathedral has withstood German shrapnel.  The place will never be the same again, or nearly the same.  Nevertheless, Rheims Cathedral triumphantly exists.

The Germans use it as a vent for their irritation.  When things go wrong for them at other parts of the front, they shell Rheims Cathedral.  It has absolutely no military interest, but it is beloved by civilised mankind, and therefore is a means of offence.  The French tried to remove some of the glass, utilising an old scaffolding.  At once the German shells came.  Nothing was to be saved that shrapnel could destroy.  Shrapnel is futile against the body of the Cathedral, as is proved by the fact that 3,000 shells have fallen on or near it in a day and a night.  If the Germans used high-explosive, one might believe that they had some deep religious aim necessitating the non-existence of the Cathedral.  But they do not use high-explosive here.  Shrapnel merely and uselessly torments.

When I first saw the Cathedral I was told that there had been calm for several days.  I know that German agents in neutral countries constantly deny that the Cathedral is now shelled.  When I saw the Cathedral again the next morning, five shells had just been aimed at it.  I inspected the hole excavated by a 155-mm. shell at the foot of the eastern extremity, close to the walls.  This hole was certainly not there when I made the circuit of the Cathedral on the previous evening.  It came into existence at 6.40 a.m., and I inspected it at 8.20 a.m., and a newspaper boy offered me that morning’s paper on the very edge of it.  A fragment of shell, picked up warm by the architect in charge of the Cathedral and given to me, is now in my pocket.

We had a luncheon party at Rheims, in a certain hotel.  This hotel had been closed for a time, but the landlady had taken heart again.  The personnel appeared to consist solely of the landlady and a relative.  Both women were in mourning.  They served us themselves, and the meal was excellent, though one could get neither soda-water nor cigars.  Shells had greeted the city a few hours earlier, but their effect had been only material; they are entirely ignored by the steadfast inhabitants, who do their primitive business in the desolated, paralysed organism with an indifference which is as resigned as it is stoic.  Those ladies might well have been blown to bits as they crossed the courtyard bearing a dish of cherries or a bottle of wine.  The sun shone steadily on the rich foliage