Sept. 3. The fire continuing, after dinner I took coach with my wife and sonn, and went to the Bankside in Southwark, where we beheld that dismal spectacle, the whole citty in dreadful flames neare the water side; all the houses from the bridge, all Thames-street, and upwards towards Cheapeside downe to the Three Cranes, were now consum’d.
The fire having continu’d all this night (if I may call that night which was as light as day for ten miles round about, after a dreadful manner,) when conspiring with a fierce eastern wind in a very drie season: I went on foote to the same place, and saw the whole south part of the citty burning from Cheapeside to the Thames, and all along Cornehill, (for it kindl’d back against the wind as well as forward,) Tower-streete, Fenchurch-streete, Gracious-streete, and so along to Bainard’s-castle, and was now taking hold of St. Paule’s church, to which the scaffolds contributed exceedingly. The conflagration was so universal, and the people so astonish’d, that from the beginning, I know not by what despondency or fate, they hardly stirr’d to quench it, so that there was nothing heard or seene but crying out and lamentation, running about like distracted creatures, without at all attempting to save even their goods, such a strange consternation there was upon them, so as it burned both in breadth and length, the churches, publiq halls, exchange, hospitals, monuments, and ornaments, leaping after a prodigious manner from house to house and streete to streete, at greate distances one from the other, for the heate with a long set of faire and warme weather, had even ignited the air, and prepar’d the materials to conceive the fire which devour’d after an incredible manner, houses, furniture, and every thing. Here we saw the Thames cover’d with goods floating, all the barges and boates laden with what some had time and courage to save, as, on the other, the carts, &c. carrying out to the fields, which for many miles were strew’d with moveables of all sorts, and tents erecting to shelter both people and what goods they could get away. Oh, the miserable and calamitous spectacle! such as haply the world had not seene the like since the foundation of it, nor to be outdone till the universal conflagration. All the skie was of a fiery aspect, like the top of a burning oven, the light seene above forty miles round about for many nights. God grant my eyes may never behold the like, now seeing above 10,000 houses all in one flame; the noise and cracking and thunder of the impetuous flames, the shrieking of women and children, the hurry of people, the fall of towers, houses, and churches, was like an hideous storme, and the aire all about so hot and inflam’d that at last one was not able to approach it, so that they were forc’d to stand still and let the flames burn on, which they did for neere two miles in length and one in breadth. The clouds of smoke were dismall, and reach’d upon computation neer fifty miles in length. Thus I left it this afternoone burning, a resemblance of Sodom, or the last day. London was, but is no more!
Sept. 4. The burning still rages, and it was now gotten as far as the Inner Temple, all Fleete-streete, the Old Bailey, Ludgate-hill, Warwick-lane, Newgate, Paul’s Chain, Watling-streete, now flaming, and most of it reduc’d to ashes; the stones of Paules flew like granados, the melting lead running downe the streetes in a streame, and the very pavements glowing with fiery rednesse, so as no horse nor man was able to tread on them, and the demolition had stopp’d all the passages, so that no help could be applied. The eastern wind still more impetuously drove the flames forward. Nothing but the Almighty power of God was able to stop them, for vaine was the help of man.
Sept. 5. It crossed towards Whitehall; Oh, the confusion there was then at that court! it pleased his majesty to command me among the rest to looke after the quenching of Fetter-lane end, to preserve if possible that part of Holborn, while the rest of the gentlemen tooke their several posts (for now they began to bestir themselves, and not till now, who hitherto had stood as men intoxicated, with their hands acrosse), and began to consider that nothing was likely to put a stop but the blowing up of so many houses as might make a wider gap than any had yet ben made by the ordinary method of pulling them down with engines; this some stout seamen propos’d early enough to have sav’d neare the whole citty, but this some tenacious and avaritious men, aldermen, &c. would not permit, because their houses must have been of the first. It was therefore now commanded to be practic’d, and my concern being particularly for the hospital of St. Bartholomew neere Smithfield, where I had many wounded and sick men, made me the more diligent to promote it, nor was my care for the Savoy lesse. It now pleas’d God by abating the wind, and by the industry of the people, infusing a new spirit into them, that the fury of it began sensibly to abate about noone, so as it came no farther than the Temple westward, nor than the entrance of Smithfield north; but continu’d all this day and night so impetuous towards Cripplegate and the Tower, as made us all despaire: it also broke out againe in the Temple, but the courage of the multitude persisting, and many houses being blown up, such gaps and desolations were soone made, as with the former three days’ consumption, the back fire did not so vehemently urge upon the rest as formerly. There was yet no standing neere the burning and glowing ruines by neere a furlong’s space.
The poore inhabitants were dispers’d about St. George’s Fields, and Moorefields, as far as Highgate, and severall miles in circle, some under tents, some under miserable huts and hovells, many without a rag or any necessary utensills, bed or board, who from delicatenesse, riches, and easy accommodations in stately and well furnish’d houses, were now reduc’d to extreamest misery and poverty.
In this calamitous condition I return’d with a sad heart to my house, blessing and adoring the mercy of God to me and mine, who in the midst of all this ruine was like Lot, in my little Zoar, Safe and sound.
Sept. 7. I went this morning on foote from Whitehall as far as London Bridge, thro’ the late Fleete-streete, Ludgate-hill, by St. Paules, Cheapeside, Exchange, Bishopsgate, Aldersgate, and out to Moorefields, thence thro’ Cornehille, &c. with extraordinary difficulty, clambering over heaps of yet smoking rubbish, and frequently mistaking where I was. The ground under my feete was so hot, that it even burnt the soles of my shoes. In the mean time his majesty got to the Tower by water to demolish the houses about the graff, which being built intirely about it, had they taken fire and attack’d the White Tower where the magazine of powder lay, would undoubtedly not only have beaten downe and destroy’d all the bridge, but sunke and torne the vessells in the river, and render’d the demolition beyond all expression for several miles about the countrey.
At my return I was infinitely concern’d to find that goodly church St. Paules now a sad ruine, and that beautifull portico (for structure comparable to any in Europe, as not long before repair’d by the king,) now rent in pieces, flakes of vast stone split asunder, and nothing remaining intire but the inscription in the architrave, shewing by whom it was built, which had not one letter of it defac’d. It was astonishing to see what immense stones the heat had in a manner calcin’d, so that all the ornaments, columns, freezes, and projectures of massie Portland stone flew off, even to the very roofe, where a sheet of lead covering a great space was totally mealted; the ruines of the vaulted roofe falling broke into St. Faith’s, which being fill’d with the magazines of bookes belonging to the stationers, and carried thither for safety, they were all consum’d, burning for a weeke following. It is also observable that the lead over the altar at the east end was untouch’d, and among the divers monuments, the body of one bishop remain’d intire. Thus lay in ashes that most venerable church, one of the most antient pieces of early piety in the christian world, besides neere one hundred more. The lead, yron worke, bells, plate, &c. mealted; the exquisitely wrought Mercers’-chapell, the sumptuous Exchange, the august fabriq of Christ church, all the rest of the companies halls, sumptuous buildings, arches, all in dust; the fountaines dried up and ruin’d whilst the very waters remain’d boiling; the vorrago’s of subterranean cellars, wells, and dungeons, formerly warehouses, still burning in stench and dark clouds of smoke, so that in five or six miles traversing about I did not see one load of timber unconsum’d, nor many stones but what were calcin’d white as snow. The people who now walk’d about the ruines appear’d like men in a dismal desart, or rather in some great citty laid waste by a cruel enemy; to which was added the stench that came from some poore creatures bodies, beds, &c. Sir Tho. Gresham’s statue, tho’ fallen from its nich in the Royal Exchange, remain’d intire, when all those of the kings since the conquest were broken to pieces, also the standard in Cornehill, and Q. Elizabeth’s effigies, with some armes on Ludgate, continued with but little detriment, whilst the vast yron chaines of the cittie streetes, hinges, bars and gates of prisons, were many of them mealted and reduced to cinders by the vehement heate. I was not able to passe through any of the narrow streetes, but kept the widest, the ground and aire, smoake and fiery vapour, continu’d so intense that my haire was almost sing’d, and my feete unsufferably surheated. The bie lanes and narrower streetes were quite fill’d up with rubbish, nor could one have knowne where he was, but by the ruines of some church or hall, that had some remarkable tower or pinnacle remaining. I then went towards Islington and Highgate, where one might have seene 200,000 people of all ranks and degrees dispers’d and lying along by their heapes of what they could save from the fire, deploring their losse, and tho’ ready to perish for hunger and destitution, yet not asking one penny for relief, which to me appear’d a stranger sight than any I had yet beheld. His majesty and council indeede tooke all imaginable care for their reliefe by proclamation for the country to come in and refresh them with provisions. In the midst of all this calamity and confusion, there was, I know not how, an alarme begun, that the French and Dutch, with whom we were now in hostility, were not onely landed, but even entering the citty. There was in truth some days before greate suspicion of those two nations joyning; and now, that they had been the occasion of firing the towne. This report did so terrifie, that on a suddaine there was such an uproare and tumult that they ran from their goods, and, taking what weapons they could come at, they could not be stopp’d from falling on some of those nations whom they casually met, without sense or reason. The clamour and peril grew so excessive, that it made the whole court amaz’d, and they did with infinite paines and greate difficulty reduce and appease the people, sending troopes of soldiers and guards to cause them to retire into the fields againe, where they were watch’d all this night. I left them pretty quiet, and came home sufficiently weary and broken. Their spirits thus a little calmed, and the affright abated, they now began to repaire into the suburbs about the citty, where such as had friends or opportunity got shelter.
The essential particulars of Evelyn’s narrative being ended, it may be observed that a discontinued periodical miscellany notices at the end of “Littleton’s Dictionary,” an inscription for the monument (on Fish-street-hill), wherein this very learned scholar proposes a name for it, in a word which extends through seven degrees of longitude. It is designed to commemorate the names of the seven lord mayors of London, under whose respective mayoralties the monument was begun, continued, and completed:—