The fire has destroyed Mrs. Lyons's "old curiosity shop,"--an establishment known far and near as a place where everything, from a needle to an anchor, might be got. Mrs. Lyons is an old inhabitant, and for years was a constant attendant at every auction sale, and her judgment has more than once influenced and controlled the bidding. She bought everything, and, what is more curious still, she managed to sell it afterwards at a fair profit. Old books, old pictures, cheap prints, crockery, bedding, carpets, furniture; all had a home in that asylum for decayed rubbish. It was a pleasant place in which to while away an odd hour or two. The things were, at least, worth looking at; and one could sometimes turn over a good book or two, or dip into the pages of an old magazine and find a bit of poetry here and there, or a pleasant essay that was worth glancing over. Of course, nothing out of this stock could be saved, and the curious and out-of-the-way knick-nacks of the people were swept away in a very short time. Mrs. Lyons is a very heavy loser by the calamity, and narrowly escaped with her life. Indeed she was reported missing at one stage of the fire. Mr. Notman's beautiful studio with its gems of neat things in art, and its hundreds of elegant picture frames, went next. The premises had only recently been opened, and the reception room was a perfect gallery of beautifully arranged pictures and chromos, and India ink copies. A number of oil paintings, some of them of considerable value, a good many choice bits in water colour, some decidedly clever engravings together with pieces of statuary, and a bronze or two perished in an instant. Not a negative was saved, and the fine picture of Mr. John Melick's handsome boy, which was so artistically finished in India ink by Mr. James Notman, shared a like fate. The studio was full of handsome work, and lovers of the æsthetic whenever they had a spare minute or two always wandered into Notman's and inspected the new things he had there. It was a place of resort for the cultivated mind, and the eye always rested on something pleasing and charming. This building went so rapidly that the occupants barely escaped with their clothes. The fire crossed the street on both sides, and after sweeping down Mr. Edward Sears's house on the corner, and carrying with it Mr. Tremaine Gard's jewelry establishment, it rushed along levelling all before it, till Horsfield Street was reached. On this corner the Mother of Methodism was situated--the old Germain Street Methodist Church--called in olden times "The Chapel." This structure was located a few feet off the street, and when the fire caught and hugged it in its grasp the concourse of people beheld a sight not easily effaced from their memory. The flames shot up, and for awhile nothing but an avalanche of fire was to be seen. The hot, thick volume roared out and crackled as timber after timber went down before the