The great fire, for we must distinguish it by that title, since in vastness it overpowers all other similar calamities which have befallen St. John, originated in the late Joseph Fairweather's building, York Point, Portland, at half past two on Wednesday afternoon, 20th June. The writer and Mr. Frederick R. Fairweather were walking down King Street at the time of the alarm, and, in company with hundreds of others, visited the scene of what promised at the time to be a very small affair indeed. When the place was reached, McLaughlin's boiler shop was in flames and all efforts of the firemen to put out the fire were checkmated at every turn by the fierce north-west wind which was blowing a perfect gale. In a few minutes the fire spread with alarming rapidity, and houses went down as if a mine of powder had exploded and razed them. The wind lifted from the roofs immense brands and sparks, and by three o'clock the city was in flames at a dozen points. Lower Cove was on fire, and the dryness of the houses rendered them as useless to withstand the blaze as bits of paper would have been. The huge blazing brands were carried along in the air for miles around, and where-ever they dropped a house went down. The engines were powerless, and the firemen, though they worked like heroes, availed but little. The wild, mad flames, now in sheets, now with a million tongues of angry fork-like columns, dashed against the wharves, levelling them to the water's edge, ripping up the pavements of the streets, and crushing houses out of existence in a single swoop. Nothing could be done. The leaping demon swept all before him. Hare's Wharf with its buildings bowed before the destroyer, and with a roar which thrilled every heart, and unnerved every man who stood there, the whole force of the fire dashed into Smyth Street and shattered every building in it. J. W. Nicholson's wine vaults, Harrison's flour warehouse, Logan & Lindsay's storehouse, Robertson Place, which exceeded in value half a million of dollars, were snapped up in a second. The flames spread into Drury Lane and Mill Street, and soon both sides of Dock Street were in the common ruin. But while this was going on, the rear of the London House, in Market Square, was threatened and the old barracks in Lower Cove were on fire. A reinforcement from Carleton and Portland fire departments came to the assistance of the firemen at this juncture, and every man worked with a will. The hose was directed with admirable expertness but the high wind baffled the efforts of all who stood before it. It could rise higher than the water, and it could travel faster than man. A mass of flames at the end of Smyth Street and Drury Lane burned close to an engine, but the dauntless firemen, holding boards over their heads to protect their faces and eyes from the heat, gave battle to the relentless foe. It was a fight of water and human endurance against fire, and fire prevailed in the end. The unequal