A cry of fire by night.--Fright and confusion.--The lord mayor is
unmanned.--Spread of the flames.--Condition of the streets.--Distressful
scenes.--Destruction of the Royal Exchange.--Efforts of the king and
Duke of York.--Strange rumours and alarms.--St. Paul's is doomed.--The
flames checked.--A ruined city as seen by day and night.--Wretched state
of the people.--Investigation into the origin of the fire.--A new city
arises.
Scarcely had the city of London recovered from the dire effects of
the plague, ere a vast fire laid it waste. It happened on the 2nd of
September, 1666, that at two o'clock in the morning, the day being
Sunday, smoke and flames were seen issuing from the shop of a baker
named Faryner, residing in Pudding Lane, close by Fish Street, in the
lower part of the city. The house being built of wood, and coated with
pitch, as were likewise those surrounding it, and moreover containing
faggots, dried logs, and other combustible materials, the fire spread
with great rapidity: so that in a short time not only the baker's
premises, but the homesteads which stood next it on either side were in
flames.
Accordingly, the watchman's lusty cry of "Fire, fire, fire!" which had
roused the baker and his family in good time to save their lives, was
now shouted down the streets with consternation, startling sleepers from
their dreams, and awaking them to a sense of peril. Thereon they rose
promptly from their beds, and hastily throwing on some clothes, rushed
out to rescue their neighbours' property from destruction, and subdue
the threatening conflagration.
And speedily was heard the tramp of many feet hurrying to the scene, and
the shouting of anxious voices crying for help; and presently the
bells of St. Margaret's church close by, ringing with wild uneven peals
through the darkness, aroused all far and near to knowledge of the
disaster. For already the flames, fanned by a high easterly wind, and
fed by the dry timber of the picturesque old dwellings huddled close
together, had spread in four directions.
One of these being Thames Street, the consequence was terrible, for
the shops and warehouses of this thoroughfare containing inflammable
materials, required for the shipping trade, such as oil, pitch, tar, and
rosin, the houses at one side the street were immediately wrapped, from
basement to garret, in sheets of angry flame. And now flaunting its
yellow light skywards, as if exulting in its strength, and triumphing
in its mastery over men's efforts, the fire rushed to the church of St.
Magnus, a dark solid edifice standing at the foot of London Bridge. The
frightened citizens concluded the conflagration must surely end here; or
at least that whilst it endeavoured to consume a dense structure such
as this, they might succeed in subduing its force; but their hopes were
vain. At first the flames shot upwards to the tower of the building,
but not gaining hold, retreated as if to obtain fresh strength for new
efforts; and presently darting forward again, they seized the woodwork
of the belfry windows. A few minutes later the church blazed at every
point, and was in itself a colossal conflagration.
From this the fire darted to the bridge, burning the wooden houses built
upon it, and the water machines underneath, and likewise creeping up
Thames Street, on that side which was yet undemolished. By this time
the bells of many churches rang out in sudden fright, as if appealing to
heaven for mercy on behalf of the people; and the whole east end of
the town rose up in alarm. The entire city seemed threatened with
destruction, for the weather having long been dry and warm, prepared the
homesteads for their fate; and it was noted some of them, when scorched
by the approaching fire, ignited before the flames had time to reach
them.
Sir Thomas Bludworth, the lord mayor, now arrived in great haste, but so
amazed was he at the sight he beheld, and so bewildered by importunities
of those who surrounded him, that he was powerless to act. Indeed, his
incapacity to direct, and inability to command, as well as his lack of
moral courage, have been heavily and frequently blamed. Bring a weak
man, fearful of outstepping his authority, he at first forebore pulling
down houses standing in the pathway of the flames, as suggested to him,
a means that would assuredly have prevented their progress; but when
urged to this measure would reply, he "durst not, without the consent of
the owners." And when at last, after great destruction had taken place,
word was brought him from the king to "spare no house, but pull them
down everywhere before the fire," he cried out "like a fainting woman,"
as Pepys recounts, "Lord! what can I do? I am spent; people will not
obey me."
Meanwhile, great bodies of the citizens of all classes had been at work;
some upon the cumbrous engines, others carrying water, others levelling
houses, but all their endeavours seemed powerless to quell the raging
flames. And it was notable when first the pipes in the streets were
opened, no water could be found, whereon a messenger was sent to the
works at Islington, in order to turn on the cocks, so that much time was
lost in this manner. All through Sunday morning the flames extended far
and wide, and in a few hours three hundred houses were reduced to ashes.
Not at midday, nor yet at night, did they give promise of abatement. The
strong easterly wind continuing to blow, the conflagration worked its
way to Cannon Street, from thence gradually encompassing the dwellings
which lay between that thoroughfare and the Thames, till the whole
seemed one vast plain of raging fire.
The streets now presented a scene of the uttermost confusion and
distress. The affrighted citizens, whose dwellings were momentarily
threatened with destruction, hurried to and fro, striving to save those
of their families who by reason of infancy, age or illness were unable
to help themselves. Women on the eve of child-birth were carried from
their beds; mothers with infants clinging to their naked breasts fled
from homes which would shelter them no more; the decrepit were borne
away on the shoulders of the strong. The narrow thoroughfares were
moreover obstructed by furniture dragged from houses, or lowered from
windows with a reckless speed that oftentimes destroyed what it sought
to preserve. Carts, drays, and horses laden with merchandise jostled
each other in their hurried way towards the fields outside the city
walls. Men young and vigorous crushed forward with beds or trunks upon
their backs; children laboured under the weight of bundles, or rolled
barrels of oil, wine, or spirits before them. And the air, rendered
suffocating by smoke and flame, was moreover confused by the crackling
of consuming timber, the thunder of falling walls, the crushing of
glass, the shrieks of women, and the imprecations of men.
And those who lived near the waterside, or in houses on the bridges,
hurried their goods and chattels into boats, barges, and lighters,
in which they likewise took refuge. For the destruction of wharfs and
warehouses, containing stores of most inflammable nature, was brief and
desperate. The Thames, now blood-red from reflection of the fierce sky,
was covered with craft of all imaginable shape and size. Showers of
sparks blown by the high wind fell into the water with hissing sounds,
or on the clothes and faces of the people with disastrous and painful
effects; and the smoke and heat were hard to bear. And it was remarked
that flocks of pigeons, which for generations had found shelter in the
eaves and roofs of wooden houses by the riverside, were loath to leave
their habitations; and probably fearing to venture afar by reason of
the unwonted aspect of the angry sky, lingered on the balconies and
abutments of deserted houses, until in some cases, the flames enwrapping
them, they fell dead into the waters below.
On Sunday evening Gracechurch Street was on fire; and the flames spread
onwards till they reached, and in their fury consumed, the Three Cranes
in the Vintry. Night came, but darkness had fled from the city; and
for forty miles round all was luminous. And there were many who in the
crimson hue of the heavens, beheld an evidence of God's wrath at the
sins of the nation, which it was now acknowledged were many and great.
Throughout Sunday night the fire grew apace, and those who, in the
morning had carried their belongings to parts of the city which they
believed would by distance ensure safety, were now obliged to move
them afresh, the devastation extending for miles. Therefore many were
compelled to renew their labours, thereby suffering further fatigue; and
they now trusted to no protection for their property save that which
the open fields afforded. Monday morning came and found the flames yet
raging. Not only Gracechurch Street, but Lombard Street, and part of
Fenchurch street, were on fire. Stately mansions, comfortable homes,
warehouses of great name, banks of vast wealth, were reduced to charred
and blackened walls or heaps of smoking ruins. Buildings had been pulled
down, but now too late to render service; for the insatiable fire, yet
fed by a high wind, had everywhere marched over the dried woodwork and
mortar as it lay upon the ground, and communicated itself to the next
block of buildings; so that its circumvention was regarded as almost an
impossibility.
During Monday the flames attacked Cornhill, and then commenced to
demolish the Royal Exchange. Having once made an entrance in this
stately building it revelled in triumph; climbing up the walls, roaring
along the courts and galleries, and sending through the broken windows
volleys of smoke and showers of sparks, which threatened to suffocate
and consume those who approached. Then the roof fell with a mighty
crash, which seemed for a time to subdue the powerful conflagration; the
walls cracked, parted, and fell; statues of kings and queens were flung
from their niches; and in a couple of hours this building, which had
been the pride and glory of British Merchants, was a blackened ruin.
The citizens were now in a state of despair. Upwards of ten thousand
houses were in a blaze, the fire extending, according to Evelyn, two
miles in length and one in breadth, and the smoke reaching near fifty
miles in length. Mansions, churches, hospitals, halls, and schools
crumbled into dust as if at blighting touch of some most potent and
diabolical magician. Quite hopeless now of quenching the flames,
bewildered by loss, and overcome by terror, the citizens, abandoning
themselves to despair, made no further effort to conquer this
inappeasable fire; but crying aloud in their distraction, behaved as
those who had lost their wits. The king and the Duke of York, who on
Sunday had viewed the conflagration from the Thames, now alarmed at
prospect of the whole capital being laid waste, rode into the city,
and by their presence, coolness and example roused the people to fresh
exertions. Accordingly, citizens and soldiers worked with renewed energy
and courage; whilst his majesty and his brother, the courtiers and the
lord mayor, mixed freely with the crowd, commanding and directing them
in their labours.
But now a new terror rose up amongst the citizens, for news spread that
the Dutch and French--with whom England was then at war--and moreover
the papists, whom the people then abhorred, had conspired to destroy
the capital. And the suddenness with which the flames had appeared in
various places, and the rapidity with which they spread, leading the
distracted inhabitants to favour this report, a strong desire for
immediate revenge took possession of their hearts.
Accordingly all foreigners were laid hold of, kicked, beaten, and abused
by infuriated mobs, from which they were rescued only to be flung into
prison. And this conduct was speedily extended to the catholics, even
when such were known to be faithful and well-approved good citizens.
For though at first it spread as a rumour, it was now received as a
certainty that they, in obedience to the wily and most wicked Jesuits,
had determined to lay waste an heretical city. Nor were there wanting
many ready to bear witness they had seen these dreaded papists fling
fire-balls into houses of honest citizens, and depart triumphing in
their fiendish deeds. So that when they ventured abroad they were beset
by great multitudes, and their lives were imperilled. And news of this
distraction, which so forcibly swayed the people, reaching the king, he
speedily despatched the members of his privy council to several quarters
of the city, that in person they might guard such of his subjects as
stood in danger.
Lord Hollis and Lord Ashley were assigned Newgate Market and the streets
that lie around, as parts where they were to station themselves. And
it happened that riding near the former place they saw a vast number of
people gathered together, shouting with great violence, and badly using
one who stood in their midst. Whereon they hastened towards the spot and
found the ill-treated man to be of foreign aspect. Neither had he hat,
cloak, nor sword; his face was covered with blood, his jerkin was torn
in pieces, and his person was bedaubed by mud. And on examination it
was found he was unable to speak the English tongue; but Lord Hollis,
entering into conversation with him in the French language, ascertained
that he was a servant of the Portuguese ambassador, and knew not of what
he was accused, or why he had been maltreated.
Hereon a citizen of good standing pressed forward and alleged he had
truly seen this man put his hand in his pocket and throw a fire-ball
into a shop, upon which the house immediately took flame; whereon, being
on the other side of the street, he called aloud that the people might
stop this abominable villain. Then the citizens had seized upon him,
taking away his sword, and used him according to their will. My Lord
Hollis explaining this to the foreigner, he was overcome by amazement
at the charge; and when asked what he had thrown into the house, made
answer he had not flung anything. But he remembered well, whilst walking
in the street, he saw a piece of bread upon the ground, which he, as was
the custom in his country took up. Afterwards he laid it upon a shelf in
a neighbouring house, which being close by, my Lords Hollis and Ashley,
followed by a dense crowd, conducted him thither, and found the bread
laid upon a board as he had stated. It was noted the next house but one
was on fire, and on inquiry it was ascertained that the worthy citizen,
seeing a foreigner place something inside a shop without tarrying, and
immediately after perceiving a dwelling in flames, which in his haste he
took to be the same, he had charged the man with commission of this
foul deed. But even though many were convinced of his innocence, my Lord
Hollis concluded the stranger's life would be in safer keeping if he
were committed to prison, which was accordingly done.
Meanwhile the fire continued; and on Monday night and Tuesday raged with
increasing violence. The very heart of the city was now eaten into by
this insatiable monster: Soper Lane, Bread Street, Friday Street, Old
Change, and Cheapside being in one blaze. It was indeed a spectacle to
fill all beholding it with consternation; but that which followed
was yet more terrible, for already St. Paul's Cathedral was doomed to
destruction.
Threatened on one side by the flames devastating Cheapside, and on the
other from those creeping steadily up from Blackfriars to this great
centre, it was now impossible to save the venerable church, which Evelyn
terms "one of the most ancient pieces of early Christian piety in the
world." Seen by this fierce light, and overhung by a crimson sky, every
curve of its dark outline, every stone of its pillars and abutments,
every column of its incomparable portico, stood clearly defined, so that
never had it looked so stately and magnificent, so vast and majestic, as
now when beheld for the last time.
Too speedily the fire advanced, watched by sorrowful eyes; but even
before it had reached the scaffolding now surrounding the building,
the vaulted roof, ignited by showers of sparks, burst into flames. Then
followed a scene unspeakably grand, yet melancholy beyond all telling.
In a few moments a pale yellow light had crept along the parapets,
sending faint clouds of smoke upwards, as if more forcibly marking the
course of destruction. Then came the crackling, hissing sounds of timber
yielding to the fire, and soon a great sheet of lead which covered the
roof, and was said to measure six acres, melting by degrees, down came
on every side a terrible rain of liquid fire that seamed and burned the
ground, and carried destruction with it in its swift course towards the
Thames.
And now, by reason of the fearful heat, great projections of Portland
stone, cornices, and capitals of columns, flew off before the fire had
time to reach them. Windows melted in their frames, pillars fell to the
ground, ironwork bent as wax; nay, the very pavements around glowed
so that neither man nor horse dared tread upon them. And the flames,
gradually gaining ground, danced fantastically up and down the
scaffolding, and covered the edifice as with one blaze; whilst inside
transom beams were snapped asunder, rafters fell with destruction, and
the fire roaring through chapels and aisles as in a great furnace, could
be heard afar. And that which had been a Christian shrine was now, a
smoking ruin.
Raging onward in their fierce career, the flames darted towards such
buildings in the neighbourhood as had been previously untouched, so that
Paternoster Row, Newgate Street, the Old Bailey and Ludgate Hill
were soon in course of destruction. And from the latter spot the
conflagration, urged by the wind, rapidly rushed onwards towards Fleet
Street. On the other hand, it extended from Cheapside to Ironmongers'
Lane, Old Jewry, Lawrence Lane, Milk Street, Wood Street, Gutter Lane,
and Foster Lane; and again spreading from Newgate Street, it surrounded
and destroyed Christ Church, burned through St. Martin's-le-Grand
towards Aldgate, and threatened to continue its triumphant march to the
suburbs.
For several miles nothing but raging fire and smoking ruins was visible,
for desolation had descended on the city. It was now feared the flames
would reach the Palace of Whitehall, and extend towards Westminster
Abbey, a consideration which caused much alarm to his majesty, who
prized the sacred fane exceedingly. And now the king was determined the
orders he had already issued should be obeyed, and that houses standing
in direct path of the fire should be demolished by gunpowder; so that,
a greater gap being effected than any previously made by pulling them
down, the conflagration might have no further material wherewith to
strengthen and feed its further progress.
This plan, Evelyn states, had been proposed by some stout seamen early
enough to have saved nearly the whole city; "but this some tenacious and
avaricious men, aldermen, etc., would not permit, because their houses
would have been the first." Now, however, this remedy was tried, and
with greater despatch, because the fire threatened the Tower and the
powder magazine it contained. And if the flames once reached this,
London Bridge would assuredly be destroyed, the vessels in the river
torn and sunk, and incalculable damage to life and property effected.
Accordingly Tower Street, which had already become ignited, was, under
supervision of the king, blown up in part, and the fire happily brought
to an end by this means in that part of the town. Moreover, on Wednesday
morning the east wind, which had continued high from Sunday night, now
subsided, so that the flames lost much of their vehemence, and by means
of explosions were more easily mastered at Leadenhall and in Holborn,
and likewise at the Temple, to which places they had spread during
Wednesday and Thursday.
During these latter days, the king and the Duke of York betrayed great
vigilance, and laboured with vast activity; the latter especially,
riding from post to post, by his example inciting those whose courage
had deserted them, and by his determination overcoming destruction. On
Thursday the dread conflagration, after raging for five consecutive days
and nights, was at length conquered.
On Friday morning the sun rose like a ball of crimson fire above a scene
of blackness, ruin, and desolation. Whole streets were levelled to the
ground, piles of charred stones marked where stately churches had stood,
smoke rose in clouds from smouldering embers. With sorrowful hearts
many citizens traversed the scene of desolation that day; amongst others
Pepys and Evelyn. The latter recounts that "the ground and air, smoke
and fiery vapour, continu'd so intense, that my haire was almost sing'd,
and my feete unsuffurably surbated. The people who now walk'd about ye
ruines appear'd like men in some dismal desert, or rather in some greate
citty laid waste by a cruel enemy; to which was added that stench that
came from some poore creatures' bodies, beds, and other combustible
goods."
It would have been impossible to trace the original course of the
streets, but that some gable, pinnacle, or portion of walls, of
churches, halls, or mansions, indicated where they had stood. The
narrower thoroughfares were completely blocked by rubbish; massive
iron chains, then used to prevent traffic at night in the streets, were
melted, as were likewise iron gates of prisons, and the hinges of
strong doors. Goods stored away in cellars and subterranean passages of
warehouses yet smouldered, emitting foul odours; wells were completely
choked, fountains were dried at their sources. The statues of monarchs
which had adorned the Exchange, were smashed; that of its founder, Sir
Thomas Gresham, alone remaining entire. The ruins of St. Paul's, with
its walls standing black and cheerless, presented in itself a most
melancholy spectacle. Its pillars were embedded in ashes, its cornices
irretrievably destroyed, its great bell reduced to a shapeless mass of
metal; whilst its general air of desolation was heightened by the fact
that a few monuments, which had escaped destruction, rose abruptly from
amidst the charred DEBRIS.
But if the ruins of the capital looked sad by day, their appearance was
more appalling when seen by light of the moon, which rose nightly during
the week following this great calamity. From the city gates, standing
gaunt, black, and now unguarded, to the Temple, the level waste seemed
sombre as a funeral pall; whilst the Thames, stripped of wharves and
warehouses, quaintly gabled homes, and comfortable inns--wont to cast
pleasant lights and shadows on its surface--now swept past the blackened
ruins a melancholy river of white waters.
In St. George's Fields, Moorfields, and far as Highgate for several
miles, citizens of all degrees, to the number of two hundred thousand,
had gathered: sleeping in the open fields, or under canvas tents, or in
wooden sheds which they hurriedly erected. Some there were amongst them
who had been used to comfort and luxury, but who were now without bed or
board, or aught to cover them save the clothes in which they had hastily
dressed when fleeing from the fire. And to many it seemed as if they had
only been saved from one calamity to die by another: for they had
nought wherewith to satisfy their hunger, yet had too much pride to seek
relief.
And whilst yet wildly distracted by their miserable situation, weary
from exhaustion, and nervous from lack of repose, a panic arose in their
midst which added much to their distress. For suddenly news was spread
that the French, Dutch and English papists were marching on them,
prepared to cut their throats. At which, broken-spirited as they were,
they rose up, and leaving such goods that they had saved, rushed towards
Westminster to seek protection from their imaginary foes. On this,
the king sought to prove the falsity of their alarm, and with infinite
difficulty persuaded them to return to the fields: whence he despatched
troops of soldiers, whose presence helped to calm their fears.
And the king having, moreover, tender compassion for their wants,
speedily sought to supply them. He therefore summoned a council that
it might devise means of relief; and as a result, it published a
proclamation ordering that bread and all other provisions, such as could
be furnished, should be daily and constantly brought, not only to the
markets formerly in use, but also to Clerkenwell, Islington, Finsbury
Fields, Mile End Green, and Ratcliffe, for greater convenience of
the citizens. For those who were unable to buy provisions, the king
commanded the victualler of his navy to send bread into Moorfields, and
distribute it amongst them. And as divers distressed people had saved
some of their goods, of which they knew not where to dispose, he ordered
that churches, chapels, schools, and such like places in and around
Westminster, should be free and open to receive and protect them.
He likewise directed that all cities and towns should, without
contradiction or opposition, receive the citizens and permit them
free exercise of their manual labours: he promising, when the present
exigency had passed away, to take care the said persons should be no
burden to such towns as received them.
The people were therefore speedily relieved. Many of them found refuge
with their friends and relatives in the country, and others sought homes
in the districts of Westminster and Southwark: so that in four days from
the termination of the fire, there was scarce a person remaining in the
fields, where such numbers had taken refuge.
The first hardships consequent to the calamity having passed away,
people were anxious to trace the cause of their sufferings, which they
were unwilling to consider accidental. A rumour therefore sprang up,
that the great fire resulted from a wicked plot, hatched by Jesuits,
for the destruction of an heretical city. At this the king was sorely
troubled; for though there was no evidence which led him to place faith
in the report, yet a great body of the citizens and many members of
his council held it true. Therefore, in order to appease such doubts as
arose in his mind, and likewise to satisfy the people, he appointed his
privy council to sit morning and evening to inquire into the matter, and
examine evidences set forth against those who had been charged with the
outrage and cast into prison during the conflagration.
And in order that the investigation might be conducted with greater
rigour he sent into the country for the lord chief justice, who was
dreaded by all for his unflinching severity. The lord chancellor, in his
account of these transactions, assures us many of the witnesses who gave
evidence against those indicted with firing the capital "were produced
as if their testimony would remove all doubts, but made such senseless
relations of what they had been told, without knowing the condition of
the persons who told them, or where to find them, that it was a hard
matter to forbear smiling at their declarations." Amongst those examined
was one Roger Hubert, who accused himself of having deliberately set
the city on fire. This man, then in his twenty-fifth year, was son of a
watchmaker residing in Rouen. Hubert had practised the same trade both
in that town and in London, and was believed by his fellow workmen to
be demented. When brought before the chief justice and privy council,
Hubert with great coolness stated he had set the first house on fire:
for which act he had been paid a year previously in Paris. When asked
who had hired him to accomplish this evil deed, he replied he did not
know, for he had never seen the man before: and when further questioned
regarding the sum he had received, he declared it was but one pistole,
but he had been promised five pistoles more when he should have done
his work. These ridiculous answers, together with some contradictory
statements he made, inclined many persons, amongst whom was the chief
justice, to doubt his confession. Later on in his examinations, he was
asked if he knew where the house had stood which he set on fire, to
which he replied in the affirmative, and on being taken into the city,
pointed out the spot correctly.
In the eyes of many this was regarded as proof of his guilt; though
others stated that, having lived in the city, he must necessarily become
acquainted with the position of the baker's shop. Opinion was therefore
somewhat divided regarding him. The chief justice told the king "that
all his discourse was so disjointed that he did not believe him guilty."
Yet having voluntarily accused himself of a monstrous deed, and being
determined as it seemed to rid himself of life, he was condemned to
death and speedily executed.
Lord Clarendon says: "Neither the judges nor any present at the trial
did believe him guilty; but that he was a poor distracted wretch, weary
of his life, and chose to part with it in this way. Certain it is that
upon the strictest examination that could be afterwards made by the
king's command, and then by the diligence of the House, that upon
the jealousy and rumour made a committee, that was very diligent and
solicitous to make that discovery, there was never any probable evidence
(that poor creature's only excepted) that there was any other cause of
that woful fire than the displeasure of God Almighty: the first accident
of the beginning in a baker's house, where there was so great a stock of
faggots, and the neighbourhood of such combustible matter, of pitch and
rosin, and the like, led it in an instant from house to house, through
Thames Street, with the agitation of so terrible a wind to scatter and
disperse it."
But belief that the dreaded papists had set fire to the city, lingered
in the minds of many citizens. When the city was rebuilt, this opinion
found expression in an inscription cut over the doorway of a house
opposite the spot where the fire began, which ran as follows:
"Here, by the permission of heaven, hell broke loose on this protestant
city from the malicious hearts of barbarous papists, by the hand of
their agent Hubert, who confessed, and on the ruins of this place
declared the fact, for which he was hanged. Erected in the mayoralty of
Sir Patience Ward, Knight."
The loss caused by this dreadful conflagration was estimated at ten
million sterling. According to a certificate of Jonas Moore and Ralph
Gatrix, surveyors appointed to examine the ruins, the fire overrun
373 acres within the walls, burning 13,200 houses, 89 parish churches,
numerous chapels, the Royal Exchange, Custom House, Guildhall, Blackwell
Hall, St. Paul's Cathedral, Bridewell, fifty-two halls of the city
companies, and three city gates.
As speedily as might be, the king and his parliament then sitting at
Oxford, sought to restore the city on a scale vastly superior to its
former condition. And the better to effect this object, an act of
parliament was passed that public buildings should be rebuilt with
public money, raised by a tax on coals; that the churches and the
cathedral of St. Paul's should be reconstructed from their foundations;
that bridges, gates and prisons should be built anew; the streets made
straight and regular, such as were steep made level, such as were narrow
made wide; and, moreover, that every house should be built with party
walls, such being of stone or brick, and all houses raised to equal
height in front.
And these rules being observed, a stately and magnificent city rose
phoenix-like from ruins of the old; so that there was naught to remind
the inhabitants of their great calamity save the Monument. This,
designed by Sir Christopher Wren, and built at a cost of fourteen
thousand five hundred pounds, was erected near where the fire broke out,
the better to perpetuate a memory of this catastrophe in the minds of
future generations, which purpose it fulfils unto this day.