Fast and furious fell the instruments of destruction into every street and alley that throbbed with human life—­smashing tables and delfware, ripping up floors, and spreading alarm abroad in the land.  The Public Library was the recipient of a missile that played havoc with a hoary tome.  Public buildings and churches were peppered indiscriminately.  Saint Cyprian’s—­ventilated before in the same accidental fashion—­was holed again.  All Saints’ fared little better.  The Catholic Cathedral was slightly damaged.  Saint Augustine’s was hit; and, judging by its battered walls, the Dutch Reformed Church went nearer to demolition than any other.  No structure with any pretensions to size escaped.  The Town Hall was subjected to a fierce assault; for into the Market Square, to the right and left of the hall, in front and in rear, the shells fell in abundance.  But the solid walls of the building were not tested, which was strange in view of its exposed position and the large area it covered.  Inside, the busy officials were hard at work, pandering to the needs of the hungry throng who sought dispensations from starvation, and who dared not venture out again lest they should die hungry withal.  The Town Hall towered impregnable—­impervious to the myriad battering-rams that yearned to lay it low.  As if it had occurred to them that the chances rather favoured finding the Mayor at home, the Boer gunners subsequently launched through the roof of his store in Jones’ Street a shower of shrapnel which riddled the occupants of a compartment in the upper storey.  The Mayor, fortunately, was not one of these; when the smoke cleared away it was found that the injured consisted of some handsome wax figures.  At Beaconsfield a youth was struck, and another projectile went so near to putting a poor old woman, who lay upon a sick bed, beyond the borders of eternity that her feeble limbs were deprived of the couch’s solace.  An Indian subject of the Queen had his bungalow shattered.  Not even the hallowed sanctuary of the “Law’s” guardians was held sacred, for a missile telescoped a policeman’s helmet—­which, happily, was off its head at the moment.

All day long existence was made well-nigh unendurable.  None knew the moment when an account of one’s individual stewardship might be demanded.  It is in trials of this kind that mankind is most vividly impressed with the reality of being in life and death simultaneously.  That these trials surpassed any that had hitherto ruffled the noiseless tenor of our way was a truism.  But coming at a moment when our nerves were sufficiently unstrung by the dearth of tonics, they were doubly enervating.  Stomachal grievances were forgotten, and few ventured to desert the imaginary security of their homes to face the risks the redress of grievances would entail.  Thus did the hours creep on until darkness with its interregnum of peace had fallen on the city.