000, had fled, taking with them only what they could carry in their
hands. In every house one could see broken furniture covered with dust.
In many of them gaping holes had been torn by shells, while some of the
front walls had been carried clean away. Bedsteads and wardrobes were
seen standing awry on the upper floors, ready to fall into the street.
Of other houses, reduced, one may say, to powder, only heaps of rubbish
remain, in which one can distinguish among pieces of tiles and bricks
and plaster chests of drawers, pianos, sideboards, sewing machines, and
so forth, broken and mixed with what is left of household linen and
crockery. Family portraits, as if in mockery, remain hanging in places
and contemplate the scene of ruin. The contents of the shops have been
scattered over the floors, and whatever has not been destroyed by
shells, shrapnel, and bombs, has been left to rot under the rain which
comes through the roofs and ceilings. All sorts of merchandise was lying
about in confusion on the pavements.

The church, one of the oldest Gothic monuments in the country, has been
completely demolished. The belfry tower is torn open, and one broken
bell is lying on the ground at the edge of a pit some thirty feet in
width, made by the explosion of an enormous German shell. A large wooden
crucifix by the side of the church has been torn from the ground and
lies in a ditch.

There is a layer three feet deep of pieces of wood covering the floor of
the church. This was once the roof and furniture of the old Gothic
temple.

The cemetery, furrowed by shells, contains fresh graves covered with
flowers. These are graves of officers and soldiers. On one of them are a
soldier's coat and cap; on another a small Belgian flag. The second
grave was dug only this morning, the young soldier, I was told by a
Sergeant, having arrived at 8 o'clock and having been killed by a German
shell at 10.

Only one structure in Nieuport remained intact, the Templars' Tower, a
very solid piece of masonry, five centuries old.

Groups of officers and men were moving about among the ruins of the
town. They were all young men, whose laughter and jokes contrasted
grimly with the terrible howl of the guns and the crash of the
projectiles which were still falling in the town. The French batteries
added to the noise. Nothing can describe the terrible power of the heavy
French artillery. The voice of the guns pierced my ear drums. Though
they were posted