great flakes of stone scale and peel off strangely from the side of the walls: the conqueror having got this high fort, darts its flames round about; now Paternoster-row, Newgate-street, the Old Bailey, and Ludgate-hill, have submitted themselves to the devouring fire, which, with wonderful speed rush down the hill, into Fleet-street. Now Cheapside, fire marcheth along Ironmonger-lane, Old-jury, Laurence-lane, Milk-street, Wood-street, Gutter-lane, Foster-lane; now it comes along Lothbury, Cateaton-street, &c. From Newgate-street it assaults Christ church, conquers that great building, and burns through St. Martins-le-grand toward Aldersgate; and all so furiously as it would not leave a house standing.

Terrible flakes of fire mount up to the sky, and the yellow smoke of London ascendeth up towards heaven like the smoke of a great furnace; a smoke so great as darkeneth the sun at noon-day; if at any time the sun peeped forth it looked red like blood: the cloud of smoke was so great, that travellers did ride at noon-day some miles together in the shadow thereof, though there were no other clouds beside to be seen in the sky.

If Monday night was dreadful, Tuesday night was much more so, when far the greatest part of the city was consumed: many thousands, who, on Saturday had houses convenient in the city, both for themselves and to entertain others, have not where to lay their heads; and the fields are the only receptacle they can find for themselves and their few remaining goods: most of the late inhabitants lie all night in the open air, with no other canopy over them but that of the heavens. The fire is still making toward them, and threatening the suburbs. It was amazing to see how it had spread itself several miles in compass: among other things that night, the sight of Guildhall was a fearful spectacle, which stood the whole body of it together in view, for several hours after the fire had taken it, without flames (possibly because the timber was such solid oak) in a bright shining coal, as if it had been a palace of gold, or a great building of burnished brass.

On Wednesday morning, when people expected the suburbs would be burnt as well as the city, and with speed were preparing their flight, as well as they could with their luggage, into the countries and neighbouring villages; then the Lord had pity upon poor London: the wind is hushed; the commission of the fire is withdrawing, and it burns so gently, even when it meets with no opposition, that it was not hard to be quenched, in many places, with a few hands; an angel came which had power over fire.[1] The citizens began to gather a little heart and encouragement in their endeavours to quench the fire. A check it had in Leadenhall by that great building: it had a stop in Bishopsgate-street, Fenchurch-street, Lime-street, Mark-lane, and toward the Tower; one means (under God) was the blowing up houses with gunpowder. It is stayed in Lothbury, Broad-street, and Coleman-street; toward the gates it burnt, but not with any great violence; at the Temple also it staid, and in Holborn, where it had got no great footing; and when once the fire was got under, it was kept under: and on Thursday, the flames were extinguished.

Few could take much sleep for divers nights together, when the fire was burning in the streets, and burning down the houses, lest their persons should have been consumed with their substance and habitations. But on Wednesday night, when the people, late of London, now of the fields, hoped to get a little rest on the ground where they had spread their beds, a more dreadful fear falls upon them than they had before, through a rumour that the French were coming armed against them to cut their throats, and spoil them of what they had saved out of the fire: they were now naked, weak, and in ill condition to defend themselves; and the hearts, especially of the females, do quake and tremble, and are ready to die within them; yet many citizens having lost their houses, and almost all they had, are fired with rage and fury; and they began to stir up themselves like lions, or bears bereaved of their whelps. Now, arm! arm! arm! doth resound through the fields and suburbs with a great noise. We may guess the distress and perplexity of the people this night; but it was somewhat alleviated when the falseness of the alarm was discovered.

Thus fell great London, that ancient and populous city! London! which was the queen city of the land; and as famous as most cities in the world! and yet how is London departed like smoke, and her glory laid in the dust! How is her destruction come, which no man thought of, and her desolation in a moment! How do the nations about gaze and wonder! How doth the whole land tremble at her fall! How do her citizens droop and hang down their heads, her women and virgins weep, and sit in the dust! Oh! the paleness that now sits upon the cheeks! the astonishment and confusion that covers the face, the dismal apprehensions that arise in the minds of most, concerning the dreadful consequences which are likely to be of this fall of London! How is the pride of London stained, her beauty spoiled; her arm broken, and her strength departed! her riches almost gone, and her treasures so much consumed!—every one is sensible of the stroke. Never was England in greater danger of being made a prey to a foreign power, than after the firing and fall of the city, which had the strength and treasure of the nation in it. How is London ceased, that rich, that joyous city! One corner, indeed, is left; but more than as many houses as were within the walls, are turned into ashes.

The merchants now have left the Royal Exchange; the buyers and sellers have now forsaken the streets: Gracechurch-street, Cornhill, Cheapside, Newgate-market, and the like places, which used to have throngs of traffickers, now are become empty of inhabitants; and instead of the stately houses which stood there last summer, they lie this winter in ruinous heaps. The glory of London is fled away like a bird; the trade of London is shattered and broken to pieces: her delights also are vanished, and pleasant things laid waste: now there is no chanting to the sound of the viol, nor dancing to the sweet music of instruments; no drinking wine in bowls, and stretching upon beds of lust; no excess of wine and banqueting; no feasts in halls; no amorous looks and wanton dalliances; no rustling silks and costly dresses; these things at that place are at an end. The houses for God's worship (which formerly were bulwarks against fire, partly through the walls about them, partly through the fervent prayers within them) now are devoured by the flames; the habitations of many who truly feared God have not escaped: the fire makes no discrimination between the houses of the godly and the houses of the ungodly; they are all made of the same combustible matter, and are kindled, as bodies are infected, by one another.

London was laid in ashes, and made a ruinous heap: it was a byword and a proverb, a gazing stock and an hissing and astonishment to all that passed by; it caused the ears of all to tingle that heard the rumour and report of what the righteous hand of God had brought upon her. A mighty city turned into ashes and rubbish, comparatively in a few hours; made a place fit for Zim and Okim to take up their abode in; the merciless element where it raged scarcely leaving a lintel for a cormorant or bittern to lodge in, or the remainder of a scorched window to sing in. A sad and terrible face was there in the ruinous parts of London: in the places where God had been served, nettles growing, owls screeching, thieves and cut-throats lurking. The voice of the Lord hath been crying, yea, roaring, in the city, of the dreadful judgments of plague and fire.

There was suddenly and unexpectedly seen, a glorious city laid waste; the habitations turned into rubbish; estates destroyed; the