Old Saint Paul's: A Tale of the Plague and the Fire

by William Harrison Ainsworth

"I told you," he cried, "that the extortioners and usurers who resorted to that building, and made gold their god, would be driven forth, and their temple destroyed. And my words have come to pass. It burns—it burns—and so shall they, if they turn not from their ways."

Hearing this wild speech, and beholding the extraordinary figure of the enthusiast, whose scorched locks and smoke-begrimed limbs gave him almost the appearance of an infernal spirit, the king inquired, with some trepidation, from his attendants, who or what he was, and being informed, ordered them to seize him. But the enthusiast set their attempts at naught. Springing with wonderful agility from fragment to fragment of the ruins, and continuing his vociferations, he at last plunged through the flame into the Exchange itself, rendering further pursuit, of course, impossible, unless those who desired to capture him, were determined to share his fate, which now seemed inevitable. To the astonishment of all, however, he appeared a few minutes afterwards on the roof of the blazing pile, and continued his denunciations till driven away by the flames. He seemed, indeed, to bear a charmed life, for it was rumoured—though the report was scarcely credited—that he had escaped from the burning building, and made good his retreat to Saint Paul's. Soon after this, the Exchange was one mass of flame. Having gained an entrance to the galleries, the fire ran round them with inconceivable swiftness, as was the case in the conflagration of this later structure, and filling every chamber, gushed out of the windows, and poured down upon the courts and walks below. Fearful and prodigious was the ruin that ensued. The stone walls cracked with the intense heat—tottered and fell—the pillars shivered and broke asunder, the statues dropped from their niches, and were destroyed, one only surviving the wreck—that of the illustrious founder, Sir Thomas Gresham.

Deploring the fate of the Royal Exchange, the king and his attendants proceeded to Guildhall. But here they were too late, nor could they even rescue a tithe of the plate and valuables lodged within it for security. The effects of the fire as displayed in this structure, were singularly grand and surprising. The greater part of the ancient fabric being composed of oak of the hardest kind, it emitted little flame, but became after a time red hot, and remained in this glowing state till night, when it resembled, as an eye-witness describes, "a mighty palace of gold, or a great building of burnished brass."

The greatest fury of the conflagration was displayed at the Poultry, where five distinct fires met, and united their forces—one which came roaring down Cornhill from the Royal Exchange—a second down Threadneedle-street—a third up Walbrook—a fourth along Bucklersbury—and a fifth that marched against the wind up Cheapside, all these uniting, as at a focus, a whirl of flame, an intensity of heat, and a thundering roar were produced, such as were nowhere else experienced.

To return to the party on the central tower of the cathedral:—Stunned and half stifled by the roar and smoke, Leonard and his companions descended from their lofty post, and returned to the body of the fane. They were about to issue forth, when Leonard, glancing down the northern aisle, perceived the Earl of Rochester and Lord Argentine standing together at the lower end of it. Their gestures showed that it was not an amicable meeting, and mindful of what had passed at Whitehall, Leonard resolved to abide the result. Presently, he saw Lord Argentine turn sharply round, and strike his companion in the face with his glove. The clash of swords instantly succeeded, and Leonard and Wingfield started forward to separate the combatants. Blaize, followed, but more cautiously, contenting himself with screaming at the top of his voice, "Murder! murder! sacrilege! a duel! a duel!"

Wingfield was the first to arrive at the scene of strife, but just as he reached the combatants, who were too much blinded by passion to notice his approach, Lord Argentine struck his adversary's weapon from his grasp, and would have followed up the advantage if the farmer had not withheld his arm. Enraged at the interference, Argentine turned his fury against the newcomer, and strove to use his sword against him—but in the terrible struggle that ensued, and at the close of which they fell together, the weapon, as if directed by the hand of an avenging fate, passed through his own breast, inflicting a mortal wound.

"Susan Wingfield is avenged!" said the farmer, as he arose, drenched in the blood of his opponent.

"Susan Wingfield!" exclaimed the wounded man—"what was she to you?"

"Much," replied the farmer. "She was my daughter."

"Ah!" exclaimed Argentine, with an expression of unutterable anguish. "Let me have your forgiveness," he groaned.