THE FIRE OF LONDON.
"One woe is past, another woe cometh quickly." Just a year after the
plague was at its height, the great fire of London occurred. On
Sunday, September 3d, 1666, soon after midnight, the house of Farryner
the king's baker, near London-bridge, was discovered to be in flames.
Before breakfast time no less than three hundred houses were consumed.
Such a rapid conflagration struck dismay throughout the neighborhood,
and unnerved those who, in the first instance, by prompt measures might
have stayed the mischief. Charles II., as soon as he heard of what had
happened, displayed a decision, firmness, and humanity, which relieve,
in some degree, the dark shades Of his character and life; and gave
orders to pull down the houses in the vicinity of the fire. Soon
afterwards he hastened to the scene of danger, in company with his
brother, the duke of York, using prudent measures to check the
conflagration, to help the sufferers, and inspire confidence in the
minds of the people. But the lord mayor was like one distracted,
uttering hopeless exclamations on receiving the royal message, blaming
the people for not obeying him, and leaving the scene of peril to seek
repose; while the inhabitants ran about raving in despair, and the
fire, which no proper means were employed to quench, went on its own
way, devouring house after house, and street after street. By Monday
night, the fire had reached to the west as far as the Middle Temple,
and to the east as far as Tower-street. Fleet-street, Old Bailey,
Ludgate-hill, Warwick-lane, Newgate, Paul's-chain, Watling-street,
Thames-street, and Billingsgate, were destroyed or still wrapped in
flame.
On Tuesday the fire reached the end of Fetter-lane and the entrance to
Smithfield. Around Cripplegate and the Tower, the devouring element
violently raged, but in other directions it somewhat abated. Engines
had been employed in pulling down houses, but this process was too slow
to overtake the mischief. Gunpowder was then used to blow up
buildings, so that large gaps were made, which cut off the edifices
that were burning from those still untouched. By these means, on the
afternoon of Tuesday, the devastation was curbed. The brick buildings
of the Temple also checked its progress to the west. Throughout
Wednesday the efforts of the king and duke, and some of the lords of
the council, were indefatigable. Indeed, his majesty made the round of
the fire twice a day, for many hours together, both on horseback and on
foot, giving orders to the men who were pulling down houses, and
repaying them on the spot for their toils out of a money-bag which he
carried about with him. On Thursday, the fire was thought to be quite
extinguished, but in the evening it burst out afresh near the Temple.
Renewed and vigorous efforts at that point, however, soon stayed its
ravages, and in the course of a short time it was finally extinguished.
The space covered with ruins was four hundred and thirty-six acres in
extent. The boundaries of the conflagration were Temple-bar,
Holborn-bridge, Pye-corner, Smithfield, Aldersgate, Cripplegate, near
the end of Coleman-street, at the end of Basinghall-street, by the
postern at the upper end of Bishopsgate-street, in Leadenhall-street,
by the Standard in Cornhill, at the church in Fenchurch-street, by the
Clothworkers' Hall, at the middle of Mark-lane, and at the Tower-dock.
While four hundred and thirty-six acres were covered with ruins, only
seventy-five remained with the property upon it uninjured. Four
hundred streets, thirteen thousand houses, eighty-seven parish
churches, and six chapels; St. Paul's Cathedral, the Royal Exchange and
Custom House, Guildhall and Newgate, and fifty-two halls of livery
companies, besides other public buildings, were swept away. Eleven
millions' value of property the fire consumed, but, through the mercy
of God, only eight lives were lost.
The rapid spread of the devastation may be easily accounted for in the
absence of timely means to stop it. The buildings were chiefly
constructed of timber, and covered with thatch. The materials were
rendered even more than commonly combustible by a summer intensely hot
and dry. Many of the streets were so narrow that the houses facing
each other almost touched at the top. A strong east wind steadily blew
for three days over the devoted spot, like the blast of a furnace, at
once fanning the flame and scattering firebrands beyond it. It was
like a fire kindled in an old forest, feeding on all it touched,
curling like a serpent round tree after tree, leaving ashes behind, and
darting on with the speed of lightning to seize on the timber before.
Into the origin of the calamity the strictest investigation was made.
Some ascribed it to incendiaries. Party spirit led to the accusation
of the papists, as perpetrators of the deed. One poor man was
executed, on his own confession, of having a hand in it, but under
circumstances which pretty clearly prove that he was a madman, and was
really innocent of the crime of which, through a strange, but not
incredible hallucination of mind, he feigned himself guilty. Other
persons ascribed it to what would commonly be called an accidental
circumstance--a great stock of fagots in the baker's shop being
kindled, and carelessly left to burn in close contiguity with stores of
pitch and rosin. Many considered that the providence of Almighty God,
who works out his own wonderful purposes of judgment and mercy by means
which men call accidental, overruled the circumstances out of which the
fire arose, as a source of terrific chastisement for the sins of a
wicked and godless population, who had hardened their necks against
Divine reproof administered to them in another form so shortly before.
A religious sentiment in reference to the visitation took possession of
many minds, habitually undevout; and even Charles himself was heard, we
are told by Clarendon, to "speak with great piety and devotion of the
displeasure that God was provoked to."
Eye-witnesses have left behind them graphic sketches of this spectacle
of terror. "The burning," says Vincent, in his tract called "God's
Terrible Advice to the City by Plague and Fire,"--"the burning was in
the fashion of a bow; a dreadful bow it was, such as mine eyes never
before had seen--a bow which had God's arrow in it with a flaming
point." "The cloud of smoke was so great, that travelers did ride at
noon-day some six miles together in the shadow of it, though there were
no other clouds to be seen in the sky." "The great fury of the fire
was in the broader streets in the midst of the night; it was come down
to Cornhill, and laid it in the dust, and runs along by the stocks, and
there meets with another fire, which came down Threadneedle-street, a
little farther with another which came up from Wallbrook, a little
farther with another which came up from Bucklersbury, and all these
four joining together break into one great flame, at the corner of
Cheapside, with such a dazzling light and burning heat, and roaring
noise by the fall of so many houses together, that was very amazing."
One trembles at the thought of these blazing torrents rolling along the
streets, and then uniting in a point, like the meeting of wild
waters--floods of fire dashing into a common current. Evelyn observes
that the stones of St. Paul's Cathedral flew about like granadoes, and
the melted lead ran down the pavements in a bright stream, "so that no
horse or man was able to tread on them." "I saw," he says in his
Diary, "the whole south part of the city burning, from Cheapside to the
Thames, and all along Cornhill, (for it likewise kindled back against
the wind as well as forward,) Tower-street, Fenchurch-street,
Gracechurch-street, and so along to Baynard's Castle, and was taking
hold of St. Paul's Church, to which the scaffolds contributed
exceedingly." He saw the Thames covered with goods floating, all the
barges and boats laden with such property as the inhabitants had time
and courage to save; while on land the carts were carrying out
furniture and other articles to the fields, which for many miles were
strewed with movables of all sorts, and with tents erected to shelter
the people. "All the sky," he adds, "was of a fiery aspect, like the
top of a burning oven, and the light seen for above forty miles around
for many nights; the noise and cracking of the impetuous flames, the
shrieking of women and children, the hurry of people, the fall of
towers, houses, and churches, was like a hideous storm; and the air all
about so hot and inflamed, that at last one was not able to approach
it, so that they were forced to stand still, and let the flames burn
on, which they did for nearly two miles in length and one in breadth.
The clouds also of smoke were dismal, and reached upon computation
nearly fifty miles in length."
A great fire is a most sublime, as well as appalling spectacle, and
generally presents some features of the picturesquely terrible.
Guildhall, built of oak, too solid and old to blaze, became so much
red-hot charcoal, as if it had been a palace of gold, or a building of
burnished brass. There were circumstances, too, connected with the
destruction of magnificent edifices, full of a sort of poetical
interest. The flame inwrapped St. Paul's Cathedral, and rent in pieces
the noble portico recently erected, splitting the stones into flakes,
and leaving nothing entire but the inscription on the architrave,
which, without one defaced letter, continued amidst the ruins to
proclaim the builder's name. In remarkable coincidence with this, at
the same time that the fire entered the Royal Exchange, ran round the
galleries, descended the stairs, compassed the walks, filled the
courts, and rolled down the royal statues from their niches, the figure
of the founder, Sir Thomas Gresham, was left unharmed, as if calmly
surveying the destruction of his own munificent donation to the old
city, and anticipating the certainty of the re-edification of that
monument of his fame, as well as the revival of that commerce, in the
history of which his own is involved. As we think of this, we call to
mind another interesting incident, which occurred when the building was
burned down a second time in 1838. Some readers, perhaps, will
remember, that the bells in the tower rang out their last chime to the
tune of "There's na' luck about the house," just as they were on the
point of coming down with a tremendous crash; as though uttering
swanlike notes in death.
The area devastated by the fire may be estimated, if we fancy a line
drawn from Temple Bar to the bottom of Holborn-hill, then through
Smithfield across Aldersgate-street to the end of Coleman-street, then
sweeping round by the end of Bishopsgate and Leadenhall-streets, and
taking a curve till it touches the Tower, the river forming the
southern boundary of this large space. Within these limits, after the
fire, there arose a new London, of nobler aspect, and formed for
grander destinies than the old one, relieved by that very fire, under
the blessing of Divine Providence, from liability to the recurrence of
the dreadful plague, which had from time to time recruited its
death-dealing energy from the filth of old crowded streets, with all
their noxious exhalations. If a panic seized the citizens when the
first alarm of the conflagration spread among them, they redeemed their
character by the self-possession and activity which they evinced in
repairing the desolation. Not desponding, but inspired with the hope
of the future prosperity of their venerable city, they concurred with
king and parliament in the zeal and diligence requisite for the
emergency. Scarcely were the flames extinguished, when they set to
work planning the restoration. "Everybody," observes Evelyn, "brings
in his idea; amidst the rest, I presented his majesty my own
conceptions, with a discourse annexed. It was the second that was seen
within two days after the conflagration, but Dr. Wren had got the start
of me." This Dr. Wren had been spoken of by the same writer, fourteen
years before, as a miracle of a youth. Having made wonderful
attainments in science, he had devoted himself with enthusiasm to the
study of architecture, and now, in the wide space in which at once a
full-grown city was to appear, a field presented itself worthy of the
exercise of the greatest powers of art--a field, indeed, which could
rarely in the world's history be looked for. Doubtless Wren's mind was
all on fire with the grand occasion, and put forth all its marvelous
ability to meet so unparalleled a crisis. Before the architect's
imagination there rose the view of a city, built with scientific
proportions, with a broad street running in a perfect line from a
magnificent piazza, placed where St. Dunstan's church stands, to
another piazza on Tower-hill, with an intermediate piazza corresponding
with these, from each of which streets should radiate. Then, on the
top of Ludgate-hill, over which the broad highway was to run, the new
cathedral was to rise, in the midst of a wide open space, displaying to
advantage its colossal form; and on its northern side there was to
branch out, at a narrow angle with the other main thoroughfare, an
avenue of like dimensions, leading to the Royal Exchange--the site, in
fact, (but intended to cover a wider space,) of our present Cheapside.
The Royal Exchange was to be an additional grand centre, adorned with
piazzas, whence a third vast thoroughfare was to sweep along to
Holborn. All acute angles were to be avoided. The great openings were
to exhibit graceful curves, parochial edifices were to be conspicuous
and insulated, the halls of the twelve great companies were to be
ranged round Guildhall, and architecture was to do the utmost possible
in every street. A like vision dawned on the fancy of Sir John Evelyn,
who in this respect was no unworthy compeer of Wren. But, though the
architect showed the practicability of the scheme, without any loss of
the property, or infringement of the rights of the citizens, their
obstinacy in not allowing the old foundations to be altered, and their
determination not to give up the ground to commissioners for making out
the new streets and sites of buildings, defeated the scheme; "and
thus," writes Wren, (with a deep sigh one thinks he penned the words
while his darling dream melted away,) "the opportunity, in a great
degree, was lost, of making the new city the most magnificent, as well
as commodious for health and trade, of any upon earth." Sir
Christopher Wren could do nothing as he wished. The Monument was not
what he meant it to be. The churches were not placed as he would have
had them, so as to exhibit to advantage their architectural character.
Even St. Paul's was shorn of the glory with which it was enriched in
the architect's mind. It was narrowed and altered by incompetent
judges, especially the Duke of York, who wished to preserve in it
arrangements convenient for a popish cathedral, which he wildly hoped
it would ultimately become. When Wren was compelled to give way, he
even shed tears in the bitterness of his disappointment and grief. He
finally had to do on a large scale, what common minds are ever doing in
their little way--sacrifice some fondly cherished ideal to a stern
necessity.
But, crippled as his genius was by the untoward position in which he
was placed, he accomplished marvelous works of art in the churches so
numerous and varied, built from his designs, and especially in the
grand cathedral, which rises above the rich group of towers, domes,
steeples, and spires, with a lordly air. It is related, in connection
with the building of St. Dunstan's church in the east, the steeple of
which is constructed upon quadrangular columns, that so anxious was he
respecting the result, that he placed himself on London-bridge,
watching through a lens the effect of removing the temporary
supporters, by the aid of which the building was reared. The ascent of
a rocket proclaimed the stability of the structure, and Sir Christopher
smiled at the thought of his having for a moment hesitated to trust to
the certainty of mathematical calculations. Informed one night
afterwards, that a hurricane had damaged all the steeples in London, he
remarked, "Not St. Dunstan's, I am quite sure." St. Stephen's,
Wallbrook, is generally considered the _chef-d'oeuvre_ of Sir
Christopher Wren. "Had the materials and volume," to quote the opinion
of two celebrated architects, "been so durable and extensive as those
of St. Paul's Cathedral, he had consummated a much more efficient
monument to his well-earned fame than that fabric affords." But the
beauty of the edifice is in the interior. "Never was so sweet a kernel
in so rough a shell--so rich a jewel in so poor a setting." The cost
of the fabric was only L7,652. 13_s._ (Cunninghame's Handbook of
London.)
The first stone of St. Paul's was laid on the 21st of June, 1675, by
the architect; and he notices in his Parentalia a little circumstance
connected with the preparations, which was construed by those present
into a favorable omen, and which evidently interested and pleased his
own mind. When the centre of the dimensions of the great dome was
fixed upon, a man was ordered to bring a flat stone from the heap of
rubbish, to be laid as a mark for the masons. The piece he happened to
take up for the purpose was the fragment of a grave-stone, with nothing
of the inscription left but the words, "_Resurgam_," "I shall rise
again." And, true enough, St. Paul's did rise again, with a splendor
which posterity has ever admired. It is, undoubtedly, the second
church in Christendom of that style of architecture, St. Peter's at
Rome being the first. Inferior in point of dimensions, and sadly
begrimed with smoke, in contrast with St. Peter's comparatively
untarnished freshness--destitute, too, of its marble linings, gilded
arches, and splendid mosaics'--it is, on the whole, as Eustace, a
critic prejudiced on the side of Rome, acknowledged, a most extensive
and stately edifice: "It fixes the eye of the spectator as he passes
by, and challenges his admiration, and, even next to the Vatican,
though by a long interval, it claims superiority over all the
transalpine churches, and furnishes a just subject of national pride
and exultation." It was not until 1710 that the building was complete,
when the architect's son laid the topmost stone on the lantern of the
cupola.
In the prospectus published by Evelyn for the rebuilding of London, he
observed, that if the citizens were permitted to gratify their own
fancies, "it might possibly become, indeed, a new, but a very ugly
city, when all was done." The citizens were permitted to have their
own way, and the result was very much what he anticipated. The old
sites of streets and public buildings were, to a great extent, adopted.
The former remained narrow, winding, inconvenient--indeed, more
inconvenient than ever; for what might be borne with when even ladies
of quality traveled on horseback, became scarcely endurable when
lumbering coaches were all the fashion. Churches and other edifices of
importance were planted in inappropriate situations, and were blocked
up by houses and shops. In Chamberlayne's _Angliae Notitia_ for 1692,
he laments that within the city the spacious houses of noblemen, rich
merchants, the halls of companies, and the fair taverns, were hidden
from strangers, the room towards the street being reserved for
tradesmen's shops; but from his account and that of others, it appears
plain enough that the men of that day felt that London, as rebuilt
after the fire, was far superior to what it had been in the times of
their fathers. The old wooden lath and plaster dwellings gave place to
more substantial habitations of brick and stone, and the public
structures appeared to those who were contemporary with their erection,
proud trophies of skill, art, and wealth. "Notwithstanding," exclaims
the author just noticed, "all these huge losses by fire,
notwithstanding the most devouring pestilence in the year immediately
foregoing, and the then very chargeable war against three potent
neighbors, the citizens, recovering in a few months their native
courage, have since so cheerfully and unanimously set themselves to
rebuild the city, that, (not to mention whole streets built and now
building by others in the suburbs,) within the space of four years,
they erected in the same streets ten thousand houses, and laid out
three millions sterling. Besides several large hospitals, divers very
stately halls, nineteen fair solid stone churches were all at the same
time erecting, and soon afterwards finished, and now, in the year 1691,
above twenty churches more, of various beautiful and solid architecture
are rebuilt. Moreover, as if the late fire had only purged the city,
the buildings are becoming infinitely more beautiful." The author
speaks with immense satisfaction of the new houses, churches, and
halls, richly-adorned shops, chambers, balconies, and portals, carved
work in stone and wood, with pictures and wainscot, not only of fir and
oak, but some with sweet-smelling cedar, the streets paved with stone
and guarded with posts; and ends by observing, that though the king
might not say he found London of brick and left it of marble, he could
say, "I found it wood and left it brick."