On the 28th of June, a great part of the population remained in trembling expectation of the fulfilment of these predictions. The day was warm and still, the night came on close and sombre. Nine o'clock passes without an alarm, ten also; people begin to take courage, but a slight breeze springs up, and the dust creeps along the silent streets. It is eleven.-There is no sound but that of the wind, which now whistles past the corners of the houses and among the chimneys, blowing from the north-east-the opposite direction to that whence it came on the 28th of May. Halfpast eleven. The greater part of the inhabitants are sleeping in peace; even the most timid think the danger is now past. It is close on midnight; some of them go to their windows to take a last look before retiring to rest.

On the north-west part of the Upper Town stands the church of St. Patrick; the spire is very high, covered with bright tin; on the top is a large ball, surmounted by a cross, both of glittering metal. The night is very dark, and these are invisible in the gloom.

A few minutes before midnight, a slight red flickering light is seen, high in the air; for a second or two it plays about in uncertain forms, then

shines out distinctly through the darkness, a fiery cross up against the black sky. The ball, the spire are soon seen: whence is that lurid light reflected? A small flame creeps up the side of a wooden house outside the walls, in the suburb of St. John, just where the last fire ended.—The city is ON FIRE!

As the clock strikes twelve, from every tower and steeple in Quebec the bells ring out their panting peal of alarm. With the suddenness of an explosion, the bright broad flame bursts out simultaneously through three or four roofs, and the wind, now risen to a storm, bears it away on its mission of destruction. In a few minutes the streets are crowded, thousands rush out of the city gates, to stare at the devastation which no human power can avert. Fire !-Fire!-Fire! shouted by crowds wild with terror-the quick, jerking church bells, the rattling of the engines over the streetssoon waken to this night of desolation the people of Quebec.

The gallant soldiers are again at work, vigorously, but in vain. The now furious gale sweeps over everything to leeward with its fiery breath, bearing with it the black pall of smoke, followed by a stream of flame. The terrified inhabitants make

no attempt to stop the destruction: they seize their sick and feeble, and the few things of value they can carry, and hasten up to the glacis of the citadel, and the suburbs of St. Louis. But, in the mean time, the houses are so close and the streets so narrow, that the fire spreads up the hill, even across the wind; here at least it may be stopped.

The artillerymen are ready with their powderbarrels; one is placed in a large wooden house at the corner of a street; by blowing it up, a gap may be made, to cut off the communication. The retreat is sounded, and the people cleared away as well as the confusion will admit; the flames rapidly approach the building; some straw on the floor has taken fire. The gunners steadily trample it out round the powder barrel. Then a strange delay arises-they can get no fire to light the fuse! For half a mile square, the blaze spreads before them, and they can get no fire! They cannot approach the flame and live; the wind whirls the smoke and sparks densely on its skirts, and the heat is insufferable. One gunner throws his great coat over his head and rushes through the smoke, thrusting the portfire which he bears in his hand at the fire, to light it; but he fails, and staggers back half suffocated, his coat and hair singed and

scorched. In the mean time the house is in a blaze; the officer and his men stand still by their dangerous charge, waiting with steady discipline till their duty is done. At length an eddy of wind carries some burning shingles to their feet, the sergeant seizes one, the fusee is lighted, and now they run for their lives up the deserted street. Through the roar of the wind and flames comes the crash of the bursting walls, and the roof is blown to pieces in the air.

At this point the fire is conquered, but further down it spreads widely. More powder is brought, more houses blown up, some uselessly, for at the same time falling sparks have fired buildings far behind them. At length, by twelve successive explosions, a line of gaps is made at some distance from the fire: by this the communication with the suburb of St. Louis is cut off. In firing one of the charges, a man who had been repeatedly warned to stand clear, was killed from neglecting the caution. Every now and then through the night, the loud roar of these explosions rose above all the clamour. At eight o'clock in the morning the fire was got under, but not till it had exhausted itself to leeward, having consumed everything that it encountered, The sunrise that day had a strange and dismal

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effect; the light over the distant hills appeared pale and livid, scarcely seen indeed in the blaze from the ruins of Quebec.

Soon after day-break, a heavy rain began to fall, drenching the groups of unfortunates who were lying on the glacis and in the fields near the town, shelterless and exhausted. Many of these had been burnt out the month before, and had since been living in the sheds and outhouses of the suburb of St. John, till the fire of last night deprived them of even that resource. A few had still on the gay dresses they had worn in some social circle when the alarm began, now wet and torn, tender women who perhaps had never known what hardship was before; men accustomed to ease and comfort: the sun which set on their prosperity rose upon their ruin.

Then was the open hand of charity held out: every remaining house became a hospital; clothes, food, and shelter, seemed almost common property. Once again, those who had least suffered came forward with a generosity only limited by the power to give. Provisions and clothes were again distributed by the authorities; two hundred tents were pitched; one of the barracks and several other public buildings were thrown open. Some