of this
architecture may still be seen in those districts which were not reached
by the great fire. That fire had, in a few days, covered a space of
little less shall a square mile with the ruins of eighty-nine churches
and of thirteen thousand houses. But the City had risen again with a
celerity which had excited the admiration of neighbouring countries.
Unfortunately, the old lines of the streets had been to a great extent
preserved; and those lines, originally traced in an age when even
princesses performed their journeys on horseback, were often too narrow
to allow wheeled carriages to pass each other with ease, and were
therefore ill adapted for the residence of wealthy persons in an age
when a coach and six was a fashionable luxury. The style of building
was, however, far superior to that of the City which had perished. The
ordinary material was brick, of much better quality than had formerly
been used. On the sites of the ancient parish churches had arisen a
multitude of new domes, towers, and spires which bore the mark of the
fertile genius of Wren. In every place save one the traces of the great
devastation had been completely effaced. But the crowds of workmen, the
scaffolds, and the masses of hewn stone were still to be seen where the
noblest of Protestant temples was slowly rising on the ruins of the Old
Cathedral of Saint Paul. [107]

The whole character of the City has, since that time, undergone a
complete change. At present the bankers, the merchants, and the chief
shopkeepers repair thither on six mornings of every week for the
transaction of business; but they reside in other quarters of the
metropolis, or at suburban country seats surrounded by shrubberies
and flower gardens. This revolution in private habits has produced
a political revolution of no small importance. The City is no longer
regarded by the wealthiest traders with that attachment which every man
naturally feels for his home. It is no longer associated in their minds
with domestic affections and endearments. The fireside, the nursery,
the social table, the quiet bed are not there. Lombard Street and
Threadneedle Street are merely places where men toil and accumulate.
They go elsewhere to enjoy and to expend. On a Sunday, or in an evening
after the hours of business, some courts and alleys, which a few hours
before had been alive with hurrying feet and anxious faces, are as
silent as the glades of a forest. The chiefs of the mercantile in