streets had run, where the palaces had stood, where the river had flowed. And all was silent, all an absolute stillness, where there had been such ceaseless voices, and sounds of life; the libraries were burned, the statues calcined, the museums in ashes; the mind of man, which triumphs over the body, had here been subdued by matter, and left no trace of itself. "Oh! London, London! So much talent, so much glory and beauty; such mighty hearts, such mighty works; such ages of story--all buried in one black mass! Piteous spectacle!" cried Paulett, striking his breast, and stretching forth his arms over the skeleton of what was once a sovereign in the world. He took his son by the hand, and led him over the confused masses, telling him as they went along what were the ruins by which they passed. "This great heap of building which has fallen into a square, must be the palace of our kings. It is that St James's, where they dwelt till nobler buildings rose with the improving times. See here, Charles--there is less ruin here. This opener space was park and garden; and time has been that I have heard the buzz of men filling all this place, when the sovereigns came to hold their courts in that building. I think that this dreadful fire must have taken place before life was quite extinct; for see, there are heaps of bones here, as though men had fled together to avoid it; and it either overtook them with long tongues of fire, such as a burning city would send forth, or smothered them before they could escape, with its smoke. Ha! I see almost a palace there--a wonder of modern art. It is the house I once saw, and only once, for it was built during the years of the great drought." "Who could build in those days, father?" said Charles; "I thought no one had any heart for doing more than we do, and that is but just keeping ourselves alive."