3 o THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY. 



journal of Pepys. " June 7th," says this writer, " was the hottest that 

 ever I felt in my life. This day, much against my will, did I see in 

 Drury Lane two or three houses marked witli a red cross upon the 

 doors, and ' Lord, have mercy upon us ! ' writ there a sad sight to 

 me, being the first of the kind I ever saw." Again, on the 17th of the 

 same month, he says: "It struck me very deep this afternoon, going 

 with a hackney coach down Holborn, from the Lord Treasurer's, I 

 found the coachman to drive easily and easily, and the coach stood 

 still. He told me that he was suddenly struck very sick and almost 

 blind. I took another coach, with a sad heart for the poor man, and 

 fearing for myself also, lest he should have been struck with the 

 plague." 



As the calamity increased, shojjs were closed, dwellings were left 

 empty, and the public thoroughfares were deserted. The markets 

 were removed beyond the city-walls, coaches were seldom seen, except 

 when people were fleeing from .the city ; a solemn stillness prevailed 

 in many districts, and grass grew in the streets. People might 

 be heard crying out of the windows for help, but the cry returned 

 echoless. Some went mad ; some rushed into the river, and ended 

 their tortures by suicide. On a single night in the month of Septem- 

 ber 10,000 people died. 



Many incidents of this terrible visitation are preserved, the best 

 known being from the pen of Defoe. Rev. Thomas Vincent describes 

 some touching scenes, of w T hich he himself was a witness. " Among 

 other spectacles," he says, " two, methought, were very affecting ; one 

 of a woman coming alone and weeping by the door where I lived, 

 with a little coffin under her arm, carrying it to the new church-yard. 

 I did judge that it was the mother of the child, and that all the fam- 

 ily besides were dead." 



An old writer thus describes an impressive scene in London during 

 the reign of the plague : 



" O unrejoicing Sabbath ! not of yore 

 Did thy sweet evenings die along the Thames 

 Thus silently. Now, every sail is furled, 

 The oar hath dropped from out the rower's hand, 

 And on thou flowest in lifeless majesty, 

 River of a desert lately filled with joy ! 

 O'er all the mighty wilderness of stone 

 The air is clear and cloudless, as the sea 

 Above the gliding ship. All fires are dead, 

 And not one single wreath of smoke ascends 

 Above the stillness of the towers and spires. 

 How idly hangs that arch magnificent 

 Across the idle river! Not a speck 

 Is seen to move along it. There it hangs 

 Still as a rainbow in the pathless sky." 



John WiUon. 



