Old Saint Paul's: A Tale of the Plague and the Fire

One night, as Solomon Eagle, who had likewise been miraculously preserved, pursued his course through the streets, he paused before Mr. Roundel's house, and looking up at the window, at which the latter had chanced to be stationed, cried in a loud voice, "Be of good cheer. You have served God faithfully, and there shall no evil befall you, neither shall the plague come nigh your dwelling." And raising his arms, as if invoking a blessing upon the habitation, he departed.

It was now the second week in September, and as yet Mr. Bloundel had received no tidings of his daughter. At any other season he would have been seriously uneasy, but now, as has been already stated, all private grief was swallowed up in the horror of the general calamity. Satisfied that she was in a healthful situation, and that her chance of preservation from the pestilence was better than that of any other member of his family, he turned his thoughts entirely to them. Redoubling his precautions, he tried by every means to keep up the failing spirits of his household, and but rarely ventured to open his shutter, and look forth on the external world.

On the tenth of September, which was afterwards accounted the most fatal day of this fatal month, a young man of a very dejected appearance, and wearing the traces of severe suffering in his countenance, entered the west end of London, and took his way slowly towards the city. He had passed Saint Giles's without seeing a single living creature, or the sign of one in any of the houses. The broad thoroughfare was completely grown over with grass, and the habitations had the most melancholy and deserted air imaginable. Some doors and windows were wide open, discovering rooms with goods and furniture scattered about, having been left in this state by their inmates; but most part of them were closely fastened up.

As he proceeded along Holborn, the ravages of the scourge were yet more apparent. Every house, on either side of the way, had a red cross, with the fatal inscription above it, upon the door. Here and there, a watchman might be seen, looking more like a phantom than a living thing. Formerly, the dead were conveyed away at night, but now the carts went about in the daytime. On reaching Saint Andrew's, Holborn, several persons were seen wheeling hand-barrows filled with corpses, scarcely covered with clothing, and revealing the blue and white stripes of the pestilence, towards a cart which was standing near the church gates. The driver of the vehicle, a tall, cadaverous-looking man, was ringing his bell, and jesting with another person, whom the young man recognised, with a shudder, as Chowles. The coffin-maker also recognised him at the same moment, and called to him, but the other paid no attention to the summons and passed on.

Crossing Holborn Bridge, he toiled faintly up the opposite hill, for he was evidently suffering from extreme debility, and on gaining the summit was obliged to support himself against a wall for a few minutes, before he could proceed. The same frightful evidences of the ravages of the pestilence were observable here, as elsewhere. The houses were all marked with the fatal cross, and shut up. Another dead-cart was heard rumbling along, accompanied by the harsh cries of the driver, and the doleful ringing of the bell. The next moment the loathly vehicle was seen coming along the Old Bailey. It paused before a house, from which four bodies were brought, and then passed on towards Smithfield. Watching its progress with fearful curiosity, the young man noted how often it paused to increase its load. His thoughts, coloured by the scene, were of the saddest and dreariest complexion. All around wore the aspect of death. The few figures in sight seemed staggering towards the grave, and the houses appeared to be plague-stricken like the inhabitants. The heat was intolerably oppressive, and the air tainted with noisome exhalations. Ever and anon, a window would be opened, and a ghastly face thrust from it, while a piercing shriek, or lamentable cry, was uttered. No business seemed going on—there were no passengers—no vehicles in the streets. The mighty city was completely laid prostrate.

After a short rest, the young man shaped his course towards Saint Paul's, and on reaching its western precincts, gazed for some time at the reverend structure, as if its contemplation called up many and painful recollections. Tears started to his eyes, and he was about to turn away, when he perceived the figure of Solomon Eagle stationed near the cross at the western extremity of the roof. The enthusiast caught sight of him at the same moment, and motioned him to come nearer. "What has happened?" he demanded, as the other approached the steps of the portico.

The young man shook his head mournfully. "It is a sad tale," he said, "and cannot be told now."

"I can conjecture what it is," replied Solomon Eagle. "But come to the small door near the northern entrance of the cathedral at midnight. I will meet you there."

"I will not fail," replied the young man.

"One of the terrible judgments which I predicted would befall this devoted city has come to pass," cried Solomon Eagle. "Another yet remains—the judgment by fire—and if its surviving inhabitants repent not, of which there is as yet no sign, it will assuredly follow."

"Heaven avert it!" groaned the other, turning away.

Proceeding along Cheapside, he entered Wood-street, and took his way towards the grocer's dwelling. When at a little distance from it, he paused, and some minutes elapsed before he could muster strength to go forward. Here, as elsewhere, there were abundant indications of the havoc occasioned by the fell disease. Not far from the grocer's shop, and in the middle of the street, lay the body of a man, with the face turned upwards, while crouching in an angle of the wall sat a young woman watching it. As the young man drew nearer, he recognised in the dead man the principal of the Brotherhood of Saint Michael, and in the poor mourner one of his profligate female associates. "What has become of your unhappy companions?" he demanded of the woman.

"The last of them lies there," she rejoined mournfully. "All the rest died long ago. My lover was true to his vow; and instead of deploring their fate, lived with me and three other women in mirth and revelry till yesterday, when the three women died, and he fell sick. He did not, however, give in, but continued carousing until an hour before his death."

Too much shocked to make any reply, the young man proceeded towards the hutch. Beneath a doorway, at a little distance from it, sat a watchman with a halberd on his shoulder, guarding the house; but it was evident he would be of little further use. His face was covered with his hands, and his groans proclaimed that he himself was attacked by the pestilence. Entering the hutch, the young man pulled the cord of the bell, and the summons was soon after answered by the grocer, who appeared at the window. "What, Leonard Holt!" he exclaimed, in surprise, on seeing the young man—"is it you?—what ails you?—you look frightfully ill."

"I have been attacked a second time by the plague," replied the apprentice, "and am only just recovered from it."

"What of my child?" cried the grocer eagerly—"what of her?"

"Alas! alas!" exclaimed the apprentice.

"Do not keep me in suspense," rejoined the grocer. "Is she dead?"

"No, not dead," replied the apprentice, "but—"

"But what?" ejaculated the grocer. "In Heaven's name, speak!"

"These letters will tell you all," replied the apprentice, producing a packet. "I had prepared them to send to you in case of my death. I am not equal to further explanation now."

With trembling eagerness the grocer lowered the rope, and Leonard having tied the packet to it, it was instantly drawn up. Notwithstanding his anxiety to ascertain the fate of Amabel, Mr. Bloundel would not touch the packet until he had guarded against the possibility of being infected by it. Seizing it with a pair of tongs, he plunged it into a pan containing a strong solution of vinegar and sulphur, which he had always in readiness in the chamber, and when thoroughly saturated, laid it in the sun to dry. On first opening the shutter to answer Leonard's summons, he had flashed off a pistol, and he now thought to expel the external air by setting fire to a ball composed of quick brimstone, saltpetre, and yellow amber, which being placed on an iron plate, speedily filled the room with a thick vapour, and prevented the entrance of any obnoxious particles. These precautions taken, he again addressed himself, while the packet was drying, to Leonard, whom he found gazing anxiously at the window, and informed him that all his family had hitherto escaped contagion.

"A special providence must have watched over you, sir," replied the apprentice, "and I believe yours is the only family in the whole city that has been so spared. I have reason to be grateful for my own extraordinary preservation, and yet I would rather it had pleased Heaven to take me away than leave me to my present misery."

"You keep me in a frightful state of suspense, Leonard," rejoined the grocer, regarding the packet wistfully, "for I dare not open your letters till they are thoroughly fumigated. You assure me my child is living. Has she been attacked by the plague?"

"Would she had!" groaned Leonard.

"Is she still at Ashdown?" pursued the grocer. "Ah! you shake your head. I see!—I must be beside myself not to have thought of it before. She is in the power of the Earl of Rochester."

"She is," cried Leonard, catching at the angle of the shed for support.

"And I am here!" exclaimed Mr. Bloundel, forgetting his caution, and thrusting himself far out of the window, as if with the intention of letting himself down by the rope—"I am here, when I ought to be near her!"

"Calm yourself, I beseech you, sir," cried Leonard; "a moment's rashness will undo all you have done."

"True!" replied the grocer, checking himself. "I must think of others as well as of her. But where is she? Hide nothing from me."

"I have reason to believe she is in London," replied the apprentice. "I traced her hither, and should not have desisted from my search if I had not been checked by the plague, which attacked me on the night of my arrival. I was taken to the pesthouse near Westbourne Green, where I have been for the last three weeks."

"If she was brought to London, as you state," rejoined the grocer, "I cannot doubt but she has fallen a victim to the scourge."

"It may be," replied Leonard, moodily, "and I would almost hope it is so. When you peruse my letters, you will learn that she was carried off by the earl from the residence of a lady at Kingston Lisle, whither she had been removed for safety; and after being taken from place to place, was at last conveyed to an old hall in the neighbourhood of Oxford, where she was concealed for nearly a month."

"Answer me, Leonard," cried the grocer, "and do not attempt to deceive me. Has she preserved her honour?"

"Up to the time of quitting Oxford she had preserved it," replied the apprentice. "She herself assured me she had resisted all the earl's importunities, and would die rather than yield to him. But I will tell you how I obtained an interview with her. After a long search, I discovered the place of her concealment, the old hall I have just mentioned, and climbed in the night, and at the hazard of my life, to the window of the chamber where she was confined. I saw and spoke with her; and having arranged a plan by which I hoped to accomplish her deliverance on the following night, descended. Whether our brief conference was overheard, and communicated to the earl, I know not; but it would seem so, for he secretly departed with her the next morning, taking the road, as I subsequently learnt, to London. I instantly started in pursuit, and had reached Paddington, when I fell ill, as I have related."

"What you tell me in some measure eases my mind," replied Mr. Bloundel, after a pause; "for I feel that my daughter, if alive, will be able to resist her persecutor. What has become of your companions?"

"Nizza Macascree has met with the same fate as Amabel," replied Leonard. "She was unfortunate enough to attract the king's attention, when he visited Ashdown Lodge in company of the Earl of Rochester, and was conveyed to Oxford, where the court is now held, and must speedily have fallen a victim to her royal lover if she had not disappeared, having been carried off, it was supposed, by Sir Paul Parravicin. But the villain was frustrated in his infamous design. The king's suspicion falling upon him, he was instantly arrested; and though he denied all knowledge of Nizza's retreat, and was afterwards liberated, his movements were so strictly watched, that he had no opportunity of visiting her."

"You do not mention Blaize," said Mr. Bloundel. "No ill, I trust, has befallen him?"

"I grieve to say he has been attacked by the distemper he so much dreaded," replied Leonard. "He accompanied me to London, but quitted me when I fell sick, and took refuge with a farmer named Wingfield, residing near Kensal Green. I accidentally met Wingfield this morning, and he informed me that Blaize was taken ill the day before yesterday, and removed to the pest-house in Finsbury Fields. I will go thither presently, and see what has become of him. Is Doctor Hodges still among the living?"

"I trust so," replied Mr. Bloundel, "though I have not seen him for the last ten days."

He then disappeared for a few minutes, and on his return lowered a small basket containing a flask of canary, a loaf which he himself had baked, and a piece of cold boiled beef. The apprentice thankfully received the provisions, and retiring to the hutch, began to discuss them, fortifying himself with a copious draught of canary. Having concluded his repast, he issued forth, and acquainting Mr. Bloundel, who had at length ventured to commence reading the contents of the packet by the aid of powerful glasses, that he was about to proceed to Dr. Hodges's residence, to inquire after him, set off in that direction.

Arrived in Great Knightrider-street, he was greatly shocked at finding the door of the doctor's habitation fastened, nor could he make any one hear, though he knocked loudly and repeatedly against it. The shutters of the lower windows were closed, and the place looked completely deserted. All the adjoining houses were shut up, and not a living being could be discerned in the street from whom information could be obtained relative to the physician. Here, as elsewhere, the pavement was overgrown with grass, and the very houses had a strange and melancholy look, as if sharing in the general desolation. On looking down a narrow street leading to the river, Leonard perceived a flock of poultry scratching among the staves in search of food, and instinctively calling them, they flew towards him, as if delighted at the unwonted sound of a human voice. These, and a half-starved cat, were the only things living that he could perceive. At the further end of the street he caught sight of the river, speeding in its course towards the bridge, and scarcely knowing whither he was going, sauntered to its edge. The tide had just turned, and the stream was sparkling in the sunshine, but no craft could be discovered upon its bosom; and except a few barges moored to its sides, all vestiges of the numberless vessels with which it was once crowded were gone. Its quays were completely deserted. Boxes and bales of goods lay untouched on the wharves; the cheering cries with which the workmen formerly animated their labour were hushed. There was no sound of creaking cords, no rattle of heavy chains—none of the busy hum ordinarily attending the discharge of freight from a vessel, or the packing of goods and stores on board. All traffic was at an end; and this scene, usually one of the liveliest possible, was now forlorn and desolate. On the opposite shore of the river it appeared to be the same—indeed, the borough of Southwark was now suffering the utmost rigour of the scourge, and except for the rows of houses on its banks, and the noble bridge by which it was spanned, the Thames appeared as undisturbed as it must have been before the great city was built upon its banks.

The apprentice viewed this scene with a singular kind of interest. He had become so accustomed to melancholy sights, that his feelings had lost their acuteness, and the contemplation of the deserted buildings and neglected wharves around him harmonized with his own gloomy thoughts. Pursuing his walk along the side of the river, he was checked by a horrible smell, and looking downward, he perceived a carcass in the last stage of decomposition lying in the mud. It had been washed ashore by the tide, and a large bird of prey was contending for the possession of it with a legion of water-rats. Sickened by the sight, he turned up a narrow thoroughfare near Baynard's Castle, and crossing Thames-street, was about to ascend Addle-hill, when he perceived a man wheeling a hand-barrow, containing a couple of corpses, in the direction of the river, with the intention, doubtless, of throwing them into it, as the readiest means of disposing of them. Both bodies were stripped of their clothing, and the blue tint of the nails, as well as the blotches with which they were covered, left no doubt as to the disease of which they had died. Averting his gaze from the spectacle, Leonard turned off on the right along Carter-lane, and threading a short passage, approached the southern boundary of the cathedral; and proceeding towards the great door opposite him, passed through it. The mighty lazar-house was less crowded than he expected to find it, but its terrible condition far exceeded his worst conceptions. Not more than half the pallets were occupied; but as the sick were in a great measure left to themselves, the utmost disorder prevailed. A troop of lazars, with sheets folded around them, glided, like phantoms, along Paul's Walk, and mimicked in a ghastly manner the air and deportment of the gallants who had formerly thronged the place. No attempt being made to maintain silence, the noise was perfectly stunning; some of the sick were shrieking—some laughing in a wild unearthly manner—some praying—some uttering loud execrations—others groaning and lamenting. The holy building seemed to have become the abode of evil and tormented spirits. Many dead were lying in the beds—the few attendants who were present not caring to remove them; and Leonard had little doubt, that before another sun went down the whole of the ghastly assemblage before him would share their fate. If the habitations he had recently gazed upon had appeared plague-stricken, the sacred structure in which he was now standing seemed yet more horribly contaminated. Ill-kept and ill-ventilated, the air was loaded with noxious effluvia, while the various abominations that met the eye at every turn would have been sufficient to produce the distemper in any one who had come in contact with them. They were, however, utterly disregarded by the miserable sufferers and their attendants. The magnificent painted windows were dimmed by a thick clammy steam, which could scarcely be washed off—while the carved oak screens, the sculptured tombs, the pillars, the walls, and the flagged floors were covered with impurities.

Satisfied with a brief survey of this frightful scene, Leonard turned to depart, and was passing the entrance to Saint Faith's, which stood open, when he caught sight of Judith standing at the foot of the broad stone steps, and holding a lamp in her hand. She was conversing with a tall richly-dressed man, whose features he fancied he had seen before, though he could not at the moment call them to mind. After a brief conversation, they moved off into the depths of the vault, and he lost sight of them. All at once it occurred to Leonard that Judith's companion was the unfortunate stranger whose child he had interred, and who had been so strangely affected at the sight of Nizza Macascree. Determined to ascertain the point, he hurried down the steps and plunged into the vault. It was buried in profound darkness, and he had not proceeded far when he stumbled over something lying in his path, and found from the groan that followed that it was a plague-patient. Before he could regain his feet, the unfortunate sufferer whom he had thus disturbed implored him, in piteous accents, which, with a shudder, he recognised as those of Blaize, to remove him. Leonard immediately gave the poor porter to understand that he was near him, and would render him every aid in his power.

"Your assistance comes too late, Leonard," groaned Blaize—"it's all over with me now, but I don't like to breathe my last in this dismal vault, without medicine or food, both of which I am denied by that infernal hag Mother Malmayns, who calls herself a nurse, but who is in reality a robber and murderess. Oh! the frightful scenes I have witnessed since I have been brought here! I told you I should not escape the plague. I shall die of it—I am sure I shall."

"I thought you were at the pest-house in Finsbury Fields," said Leonard.

"I was taken there," replied Blaize; "but the place was full, and they would not admit me, so I was sent to Saint Paul's, where there was plenty of room. Yesterday I did pretty well, for I was in the great ward above, and one of the attendants obeyed my directions implicitly, and I am certain if they had been fully carried out, I should have got well. I will tell you what I did. As soon as I was placed on a pallet, and covered with blankets, I ordered a drink to be prepared of the inner bark of an ash-tree, green walnuts, scabious vervain, and saffron, boiled in two quarts of the strongest vinegar. Of this mixture I drank plentifully, and it soon produced a plentiful perspiration. I next had a hen—a live one, of course—stripped of the feathers, and brought to me. Its bill was held to the large blotch under my arm, and kept there till the fowl died from the noxious matter it drew forth. I next repeated the experiment with a pigeon, and derived the greatest benefit from it. The tumour had nearly subsided, and if I had been properly treated afterwards, I should now be in a fair way of recovery. But instead of nice strengthening chicken-broth, flavoured with succory and marigolds; or water-gruel, mixed with rosemary and winter-savory; or a panado, seasoned with verjuice or wood-sorrel; instead of swallowing large draughts of warm beer; or water boiled with carduus seeds; or a posset drink, made with sorrel, bugloss, and borage;—instead of these remedies, or any other, I was carried to this horrible place when I was asleep, and strapped to my pallet, as you perceive. Unloose me, if you can do nothing else."

"That I will readily do," replied Leonard; "but I must first procure a light." With this, he groped his way among the close ranks of ponderous pillars, but though he proceeded with the utmost caution, he could not avoid coming in contact with the beds of some of the other patients, and disturbing them. At length he descried a glimmer of light issuing from a door which he knew to be that of the vestry, and which was standing slightly ajar. Opening it, he perceived a lamp burning on the table, and without stopping to look around him, seized it, and hurried back to the porter. Poor Blaize presented a lamentable, and yet grotesque appearance. His plump person was greatly reduced in bulk, and his round cheeks had become hollow and cadaverous. He was strapped, as he had stated, to the pallet, which in its turn was fastened to the adjoining pillar. A blanket was tightly swathed around him, and a large cloth was bound round his head in lieu of a nightcap. Leonard instantly set about releasing him, and had just unfastened the straps when he heard footsteps approaching, and looking up, perceived the stranger and Judith Malmayns advancing towards him.

II.

THE SECOND PLAGUE-PIT

Judith, being a little in advance of her companion, took Leonard in the first instance for a chirurgeon's assistant, and called to him, in a harsh and menacing voice, to let her charge alone. On drawing near, however, she perceived her mistake, and recognising the apprentice, halted with a disconcerted look. By this time, the stranger had come up, and remarking her embarrassment, inquired the cause of it.

"Look there," cried Judith, pointing towards the apprentice. "Yonder stands the very man you seek."

"What! Leonard Holt," cried the other, in astonishment.

"Ay, Leonard Holt," rejoined Judith. "You can now put any questions to him you think proper."