the carrying out to the fields, which for many miles were strewn with movables of all sorts, and tents erecting to shelter both people and what goods they could get away. O, the miserable and calami. tous spectacle! such as haply the world has not seen since the foundation of it, nor can be out-done till the universal conflagration thereof. All the sky was of a firey aspect, like the top of a burning oven, and the light seen above forty miles round about for many nights. God grant than mine eyes may never again behold the like; who ever saw 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 a hideous storm, and the air all about so hot and inflamed that at the last one was not able to approach it, so that they were forced to stand still and let it burn on, which they did for near ten miles in length and one in breadth. The clouds of smoke also were dismal, and reached upon computation near fifty miles in length. Thus I left it this afternoon burning, a resemblance of Sodom, or the last day. It forcibly called to my mind that passage, non enim hic habemus stabilem civitatem-the ruins resembling the picture of Troy. London was, but is no more. Sept. 4.-The burning still rages, and it is now gotten as far as the Inner Temple. All Fleet street, the Old Bailey, Ludgate Hill, Warwick Lane, Newgate, Paul's-chain, Watling street, now flaming, and most of it reduced to ashes; the stones of Paul's* flew like grenadoes, the melting lead running down the streets in a stream, and the very pavements glowing with fiery redness, so that no horse nor man was able to tread on them, the eastern wind still more impetuously driving on the flames. Nothing but the Almighty power of God able to stop them, for vain was the help of man. On the 6th, however, notwithstanding Evelyn's pious declaration that nothing but the power of God could arrest the flames, they began to blow up some houses by gunpowder, and to tear down others, to make a gap between the portion unburnt and that burning. This, Evelyn said, had been previously proposed, but had met with opposition from some Aldermen of the city, whose houses would have been sacrificed first. By these means, with the favor of an abating wind, they got the fire under check on the evening of the 5th, after it had burned three days. It is interesting to note that on the 13th of September, eight days after the *St. Paul's Cathedral. fire, Evelyn showed King Charles the survey of the ruins and the plot for a new city, "which extremely pleased the King, Queen and the Duke of York (James II)." TALK XXXIII. ON THE PROSE WRITERS OF THE 17TH CENTURY; JOHN BUNYAN AND HIS PILGRIM'S PROGRESS. THERE are not many prose works produced in the 17th century which are interesting to us of the present time. I have before spoken of one grand piece of prose-Milton's plea for a free press-whose spirited sentences ring like the blasts of a bugle calling to freedom. This is only a short tract, but is one of the noblest pieces of prose to be found in literature. I should not do justice to the prose of this century, however, if I left out the name of Isaac Walton, who wrote at least one book, about which we ought to know something. He was a shop-keeper in London, whose delight and almost sole recreation it was to go fishing whenever he could get away from business, and he has made all the little streams and rivers that flowed in and around London, in his life-time, historical waters, by their mention in his Complete Angler. The Angler is one of the quaintest, most delicious books in English. It begins with a discussion between three friends who are sportsmen-one devoted to hawking, the next to hunting and the last to fishing. In the opening chapter, each argues for the merit of his respective sport, till the fisherman's eloquence convinces the others, and the hunter concludes to follow him on his excursion. The two sportsmen wander off on their day's sport, sometimes lying along the green banks of the streams, sometimes sheltered by the shade of a honeysuckle hedge, or the branches of a spreading oak, while Piscator (the fisherman) gives his pupil instructions how to fish, enlivened with story or occasional song or ballad, and now and then a good moral lesson drawn from his rich stores of experience. At the end of the day they adjourn to the nearest inn and have their fish cooked for supper. In a succession of days like this the Complete Angler passes the time. It is one of the most delightful books to read under a tree in a summer afternoon, even if one does not carry a rod and has no taste for angling. Walton, who became a great favorite with other literary men, and had many friends among the divines, wrote a number of biographies, which are very easy and beautiful in style. Among these are the lives of John Donne and George Herbert, of whom I have already spoken. Many of the most famous pieces of prose written in this time are sermons, for this was a century which numbered many great preachers, and some of the most famous English divines flourished in the reigns of Charles I and II. South, Stillingfleet, Barrow, Tillotson, all were distinguished and learned preachers. So was Richard Baxter, who wrote those celebrated religious books, The Saints' Rest, and Call to the Unconverted; Bishop Burnet, who was not only a clergyman but an historian, and wrote a history of his own times; Thomas Fuller, the author of the Worthies of England, a series of short biographies of great men, which is full of anecdote and humor, and a charming book to read; and last and best of all is Jeremy Taylor, who has been called the "Shakspeare of divines," because his sermons have the imagery, the grandeur, and the music of a poem. All these preachers, except Baxter, were of the established church of England and all were men of learning, and high in the respect of their contemporaries. But one of the greatest books of the century was written by a dissenting minister, a man very different from these learned dignitaries of the church, a man so poor and ignorant that it is a wonder how he could ever have written such a book. His name is John Bunyan, and his great work the Pilgrim's Progress. Forget thyself to marble, till With a sad, leaden downward cast Thou fix them on the earth as fast." In contrast to mirth, whose course was begun in the joyous day by the singing of the lark, Penseroso is of the evening, and her bird is the sad nightingale, who sings in dusky twilight. The poet paints himself wandering over the smooth-shaven green, watching the moon, half hid by fleecy clouds; or later, going to his study, "Where glowing embers through the room, till finally, in his lonely tower, he lights his midnight lamp and watches out the night with his books. Plato, Homer, the great tragic poets, and our own Chaucer, all speak to him from their pages in "Sage and solemn tunes, where more is meant than meets the ear," till morning dawns again. "Thus Night, oft see me in thy pale career, Till civil suited Morn appear, Not tricked and frounced as she was wont But kerchiefed in a comely cloud While rocking winds are piping loud, Or ushered with a shower still, Where the rude axe, with heaved stroke, And the waters murmuring, With such concert as they keep, Entice the dewy-feathered sleep, And let some strange, mysterious dream, Of lively portraiture displayed And as I wake, sweet music breathe Sent by some spirits to mortals good "But let my due feet never fail And bring all Heaven before mine eyes, |