"13,200 houses, eighty-seven churches, St. Paul's Cathedral, the Guildhall and fifty-two livery company halls had been destroyed" (Ross and Clark 112), all in the span of four days. Imagine watching your home, your city, everything that is familiar to you, burn to the ground. Imagine watching all of it crumble as you watch helplessly, frantically. Imagine the chaos. Imagine the fear. Imagine the destitute. Everything is gone. Imagine having a roof over your head one day, and roaming the streets the next. How is an entire culture, an entire city of people, supposed to respond to this mass destruction? It ought to be in compassion. It ought to be that the people who still have a little share with those who have nothing left. It ought to be that those who still have roofs over their heads be willing to provide for those who do not. London's response was delayed in stopping the fires, which only led to more destruction than may have been necessary. Many viewed the Great Fire as an act of God, a punishment for the sins of London. In desperation, I would imagine that many would turn their attention to God. In desperation, I would imagine some sort of spiritual revival. How could this event not still remain "in the consciousness of Londoners ever since" (Ross and Clark 112)? London's glory had been laid to dust and had to be rebuilt and reconstructed almost entirely, as eighty percent of the City of London had been reduced to blackened ruins.