in her husband’s arms, in the 27th year of her age. Her monument is now
in Eyam church-yard, protected by iron rails, and with the inscription
distinct. Her great grand-daughter’s pious visit to the tomb of her
excellent ancestress, when I was at Eyam with my father in my 16th year,
proved the commencement of a friendship between that very accomplished
lady and myself, which I think will cease only with the life of one of
us.[7]
Upon the first appearance of the pestilence in Eyam, Mr Mompesson wrote
to the then Earl of Devonshire, residing at Chatsworth, to say, that he
believed it possible to prevail upon his parishioners to confine
themselves within the limits of the village, provided his grace would
exert himself to induce the country round to supply them with
necessaries, leaving such provisions as might be requested, in appointed
places, and at appointed hours, upon the neighbouring hills.
The proposal was punctually complied with; and it is most remarkable,
that when the pestilence became beyond conception terrible, not a single
inhabitant attempted to pass the deathful bounds of the village, though
a regiment of soldiers could not, in that rocky and open country, have
detained them against their will; much less could any watch, which might
have been set by the neighbourhood, have effected that infinitely
important purpose.
By the influence of this exemplary man, the result of his pious and
affectionate virtue, the rest of the county of Derby escaped the plague;
not one of the very nearly neighbouring towns, hamlets, or even a single
house, being infected beyond the limits of Eyam village, though the
distemper remained there more than seven months.
Dr Mead, in the last edition of his book on poisons, has recorded the
prudence of Mr Mompesson’s conduct in the care he took to prevent, as
much as possible, the contagion from spreading, and by his exertions to
procure the most approved medicines from the faculty in London, for the
use of his infected parishioners.
Some years afterwards, Mr Mompesson obtained the prebend of York and
Southwell, and the rectory of Eakring, in Nottinghamshire. He married
his second wife in 1679, Mrs Nuby, widow of Charles Nuby, Esq. by whom
he had two daughters. She was a remarkably ingenious woman. The deanery
of Lincoln was offered to him, but he declined it in favour of his
friend, Dr Fuller, to whom he had promised his interest, and by which
interest the doctor obtained that deanery. Thus were piety, fortitude,
honour, and generosity, blended in his character. He died in the year
1708. His memory ought never to die; it should be immortal as the spirit
which made it worthy to live.
Your heart will expand over this faithful picture of elevated worth,
“Of courage, that outshines, in its white hue,
The sanguine colour of the soldier’s daring.”
In the summer 1757, five labouring men, inhabitants of Eyam, were
digging amongst the plague-graves on the heathy mountain above the
village, to make potatoe-ground for a cottage which had been built
there. They came to something which had the appearance of having once
been linen. Conscious of its situation, they instantly buried it again;
but, in a few days, they all sickened of a putrid fever, and three out
of the five died. It was so contagious, that the sick could procure no
attendance out of their own family. The disease proved mortal to seventy
persons of Eyam.
My father, who had two years before been appointed canon of Lichfield,
was residing with his family in that city, at the period when the
subtle, unextinguished, though much abated power of this superlatively
dreadful disease awakened from the dust, in which it had slumbered
ninety-one years.
All is silence from Shrewsbury. Mr S---- is gone to Bath, which surely
he would not have done, if his daughter’s health had seemed in an
alarming state. But O! why is she silent?--she said she would write to
me. Adieu! adieu!
LICHFIELD, FEB. 25, 1765.
No wish shall be disappointed which you can form, and I can gratify.
This packet brings you the requested copies of Mr Mompesson’s letters.
You will find them pious, affectionate, mournful, and pathetic, though
without the grace of elegant style: we often meet in them a stiff and
quaint phraseology. At that period, English prose had not attained the
easy flow which adorns it without diminishing its strength; and which,
from the habit of graceful expression and harmonious period, clothes the
rising ideas in spontaneous eloquence.
I grow more and more alarmed about Nanette, from her yet continued and
portentous silence. O! I hope she will not swell the instances of the
ambition of Death,
“To call his victims from the fairest fold,
And sheath his shafts in all the pride of life.”
[From the Rev. William Mompesson, Rector of Eyam, in Derbyshire, to
his children, George and Elizabeth Mompesson. Written during the
time of the plague being in that village.]
EYAM, AUGUST, 1666.
DEAR HEARTS,
This brings you the doleful news of your dearest mother’s death; the
greatest loss that could befall you. I am deprived of a kind and loving
consort, and you are bereaved of the most indulgent mother that ever
poor little children had. But we must comfort ourselves in God, with
this consideration,--the loss is only ours; our sorrow is her gain,
which should sustain our drooping spirits. I assure myself that her
rewards and her joys are unutterable. Dear children, your blessed mother
lived an holy life, and made a comfortable end, though by means of the
sore pestilence, and she is now invested with a crown of righteousness.
My children, I think it may be useful to you to have a narrative of your
dear mother’s virtues, that the knowledge thereof may teach you to
imitate her excellent qualities. In the first place, let me recommend to
you her piety and devotion, which were according to the exact principles
of the church of England. In the next place, I can assure you, she was
composed of modesty and humility, which virtues did possess her dear
soul in a most exemplary manner. Her discourse was ever grave and meek,
yet pleasant also; a vaunting and immodest word was never heard to come
out of her mouth. Again, I can set out in her two other virtues, with no
little confidence, viz. charity and frugality. She never valued any
thing she had, when the necessities of a poor neighbour did require it,
but had a bountiful spirit towards all distressed and indigent
persons;--yet she was never lavish or profuse, but carefully,
constantly, and commendably frugal. She never liked the company of
tattling women, and abhorred the wandering custom of going from house to
house, that wastefully spending of precious time, for she was ever
busied in useful occupations. Yet, though thus prudent, she was always
kind and affable; for, while she avoided those whose company could not
instruct or benefit her, and would not unbosom herself to any such, she
dismissed and avoided them with civility.
I do believe, my dear hearts, upon sufficient grounds, that she was the
kindest wife in the world, and think, from my soul, that she loved me
ten times better than she did herself; for she not only resisted my
earnest entreaties, that she would fly with you, dear children, from
this place of death, but, some few days before it pleased God to visit
my house, she perceived a green matter to come from the issue in my leg,
which she fancied a symptom that the distemper, raging amongst us, had
gotten a vent that way, from whence she assured herself that I was
passed the malignity of the disease, whereat she rejoiced exceedingly,
amidst all the danger with which her near approach to me was attended,
whom she believed to be infected.
Now I will tell you my thoughts of this business. I think she was
mistaken in the nature of that discharge which she saw; certainly it was
the salve that made it look so green; yet her rejoicing on that account
was a strong testimony of her love to me; for it is clear she cared not
for her own peril, so I were safe.
Farther, I can assure you, my sweet babes, that her love to you was
little inferior to that which she felt for me; since, why should she
thus ardently desire my longer continuance in this world of sorrows, but
that you might have the protection and comfort of my life?
You little imagine with what delight she used to talk of you both, and
the pains that she took when you sucked your milk from her breasts, is
almost incredible. She gave a strong testimony of her love for you, when
she lay upon her death-bed. A few hours before she expired, I brought
her some cordials, which she told me plainly she was not able to take. I
entreated she would take them, for your dear sakes. At the mention of
your names, she, with difficulty, lifted herself up and took them, which
was to let me understand, that, while she had any strength left, she
would embrace an opportunity of testifying her affection to you.
Now I will give you an exact account of the manner of her death. It is
certain she had, for some time, had symptoms of a consumption, and her
flesh was considerably wasted thereby. However, being surrounded with
infected families, she doubtless got the distemper from them. Her
natural strength being impaired, she could not struggle with the
disease, which made her illness so very short. Upon being seized, she
shewed much contrition for the errors of her life, and often cried
out,--“One drop of my Saviour’s blood, to save my soul!”
At the beginning of her sickness, she earnestly desired me not to come
near her, lest I should receive harm thereby; but I can assure you I did
not desert her, but, thank God, stood to my resolution not to leave her
in her sickness, who had been so tender a nurse to me in her health.
Blessed be God, that he enabled me to be so helpful and consoling to
her, for which she was not a little thankful.
No worldly business was, during her illness, any disturbance to her; for
she only minded making her call and election sure; and she asked pardon
of her maid-servant for having sometimes given her an angry word.
I gave her several sweating antidotes, which had no kind operation, but
rather scalded and inflamed her more, whereupon her dear head was
distempered, which put her upon many incoherencies. I was much troubled
thereat, and propounded to her several questions in divinity, as by
whom, and upon what account, she expected salvation, and what assurances
she had of the certainty thereof. Though in all other things she talked
at random, yet, to these religious questions, she gave me as rational
and welcome answers as I could desire; and, at those times, I bade her
repeat after me certain prayers and ejaculations, which she always did
with much devotion, which was no little comfort and admiration to me,
that God should be so good and gracious to her.
A little before her dear soul departed, she desired me to pray with her
again. I went to her, and asked her how she did? Her answer was, that
she was but looking when the good hour should come. Thereupon we went to
prayers, and she made her responses from the common prayer-book as
perfectly as if she had been in perfect health, and an amen to every
pathetic expression. When we had ended our prayers for the visitation of
the sick, we made use of those out of the Whole Duty of Man; and when I
heard her say nothing, I urged,--My dear, dost thou mind? She answered,
“Yes,” and it was the last word she spoke.
I question not, my dear hearts, that the reading of this account will
cause many a salt tear to spring from your eyes; yet let this comfort
you,--your dear mother is a saint in heaven.
I could have told you of many more of her excellent virtues; but I hope
you will not in the least question my testimony, if, in a few words, I
tell you that she was pious and upright in all her conversation.
Now, to that most blessed God, who bestowed upon her all these graces,
be ascribed all honour, glory, and dominion, the just tribute of all
created beings, for evermore! Amen!
WILLIAM MOMPESSON.[8]
_Eyam, August 31, 1666._
[From the Rev. William Mompesson, Rector of Eyam, in Derbyshire, to
his patron, Sir George Saville, afterwards Lord Halifax. Written
when the plague was in that village.]
EYAM, SEPT. 1, 1666.
HONOURED AND DEAR SIR,
This letter brings you the saddest tidings that ever my pen could write.
The “destroying angel” has been in my habitation;--my dearest wife was
stricken, and is gone to her everlasting rest, invested, as I trust,
with a crown of glory, having made a most pious and happy end.
Indeed, had she loved herself as well as she loved me, she had fled, at
my entreaty, with her sweet babes, from the pit of destruction; but she
was resolved to die a martyr to my interest. My drooping spirits are
much refreshed with her joys, which, I assure myself, are unutterable.
This paper, sir, is to bid you an hearty farewell for ever, and to bring
you my thanks for all your noble favours; and I hope you will believe a
dying man, that I have as much love as honour for you;--that I bend my
feeble knees to the God of Heaven, that you, my dear lady, her children,
and their children, may be blessed with happiness external, internal,
and eternal; and that the same blessings may fall upon my Lady
Sunderland and her family.
Dear sir, let your dying chaplain recommend this truth to you and
yours,--that no happiness or solid comfort can be secured in this vale
of tears, but from living a pious life. I pray you, dear sir, to retain
this rule--Never to do that thing upon which you dare not first ask the
blessing of God upon the success thereof.
Sir, I have made bold with your name in my will for an executor; and I
hope you will not take it ill. Others are joined with you, that will
take from you all the trouble. Your favourable aspect will, I know, be a
great comfort to my distressed orphans. I am not desirous that they
should be great, but good; and it is my earnest request, that they may
be brought up in the fear and admonition of the Lord. Sir, I thank God
that I am willing to shake hands, in peace, with all the world; and I
have comfortable assurances that he will accept me for the sake of his
Son, and I find God more good than ever I imagined, and wish that his
goodness were not so much abused and contemned.
I desire you would be pleased to make choice of an humble, pious man to
succeed me in this parsonage. Could I see your face before I depart
hence, I would inform you which way I think he may live comfortably
among these people, which would be a satisfaction to me before I die.
Dear sir, I beg your prayers, and those of your family, that I may not
be daunted or appalled by the powers of hell; that I may have dying
graces, and be found in a dying posture; and, with tears, I entreat,
that when you are praying for fatherless and motherless infants, you
would then remember my two pretty babes.
Sir, pardon the rude style of this paper, and if my head be discomposed,
you cannot wonder at me; however, be pleased to believe that I am,
Dear Sir,
Your most obliged, most affectionate,
and grateful servant,
WILLIAM MOMPESSON.
[From the Rev. William Mompesson, Rector of Eyam, in Derbyshire, to
his uncle, John Beilby, Esq. of York.]
EYAM, NOV. 20, 1666.
DEAR SIR,
I suppose this letter will seem no less than a miracle, proving that my
habitation is _inter vivos_.--Being unwilling to affright you with a
paper from my own hands, I have gotten a friend to transcribe these
lines.
I know you are sensible of my lone condition, of my loss of the kindest
wife in the world, whose life was truly inimitable, and her end most
comfortable. She was in an excellent posture of preparation when Death
gave the summons, which fills me with assurances that she is now
invested with a crown of righteousness.
By too sad experience, I find the maxim verified, “_Bonum magis carendo
quam fruendo cemitur._” Had I been as thankful as my condition did
deserve of me, I might yet have had my dearest in my bosom. But now,
farewell all happy days! and God grant that I may repent of my great
ingratitude!
The condition of this place hath been so dreadful, that I persuade
myself it exceeded all history and example. I may truly say, our town
was become a Golgotha, the place of sculls; and, had there not been a
small remnant of us left, we had been as Sodom, and like unto Gomorah.
My ears never heard such doleful lamentations,--my nose never smelt such
noisome smells,--and my eyes never beheld such ghastly spectacles. Here
have been seventy-six families visited within my parish, out of which
died 259 persons.
Blessed be God, our fears are now over, none having died of the
infection since the 11th of October, nor is there any one under present
suspicion; and all the pest-houses have been several weeks empty.
I intend, if it please God, to spend most of this week in seeing all
woollen-clothes fumed and purified, as well for the satisfaction as for
the safety of the country. Here hath been such burying of goods, as the
like was surely never known; and, indeed, I think in this we have been
too precise. For my own part, I have hardly left myself apparel to
shelter my body from the cold, and have wasted more than need, for
example’s sake merely.
As to myself, I never was in better health than during the whole time of
this dreadful visitation; neither can I think that I have had any
certain symptom of the disease. My man-servant had the distemper. Upon
the tumour appearing, I gave him several chemical antidotes, which had a
very kind operation; and, with the blessing of God, they kept the venom
from the heart, and after the tumour broke, he was very well. My maid
hath continued in health, which was a great mercy; for, had she quailed,
I should have been ill set to have washed and got provisions for myself.
I know I have had your prayers, and question not but I have fared the
better for them; and conclude that the prayers of good people have
rescued me from the jaws of death. Certainly I had been in the dust, if
omnipotency had not been conquered by holy violence.[9]
I have largely tasted the goodness of my Creator; since, blessed be God,
the grim looks of Death did never yet affright me. I always had a firm
faith that my dear babes would do well, which made me willing to leave
this unkind and froward world. Yet I hope I shall esteem it a mercy that
my desires of being, like my dear wife, translated to a better place,
were frustrated. God grant that I may wait with patience for my change,
and make a right use of his punishments, and of his mercies; for, if the
first have been severe, so have the last been sweet and comfortable!
I perceive, by a letter from Mrs Newby, that you have much and most
kindly concerned yourself for my welfare. Indeed, I made no question of
possessing your true affection. Be assured, that, in the midst of my
great troubles, you were often in my thoughts.
Be pleased, sir, to accept the grateful presentment of my kindest
respects, imparting the same to your good wife, and to all my dear
relations.
A line from your hand would be welcome to, dearest sir,
Your sorrowful, and truly affectionate nephew,
WILLIAM MOMPESSON.
[The former series of Letters resumed.]
LICHFIELD, MARCH 27, 1764.
With a sorrowing heart, a confused brain, and a trembling hand, I take
up the pen to thank you, dearest Emma, for your kind, though mournful
letter of yesterday. It arrived a few hours after the sad tidings came
announcing the fatal period of our beloved friend’s indisposition,
which, notwithstanding a few foreboding fears, rising at intervals in my
mind, was apparently nothing more than a common cold and cough.
Transient only were my apprehensions, and it is certain, neither her
father, nor any of her friends at Shrewsbury, had an idea of her being
in danger, till within a few days of her setting out.--Gen. Severn
thought worse of her complaints than those who hourly beheld her, and
persuaded the family she was in, to suffer him to take her with him to
Bath, that her father, who was there, might carry her directly to
Bristol. Alas! she lived not to reach its balmy springs! On alighting
from the general’s chaise at Bath, she fainted away in her father’s
arms; and, growing instantly too ill to be removed, died at three the
ensuing morning. Alas! that father! my heart bleeds for him. O! that he
had taken her to Bristol when he went to Bath, a week or two after we
all left London! But who could foresee the sad necessity? She made so
light of her complaints! I had a letter from him yesterday. It is full
upon the sad circumstances. Blotted with his tears, the writing is
already almost effaced by mine.
Alas! dear Emma, is it so soon come to this?--Little did I imagine that
she, who so lately wept over my sister’s bier, would, ere the year came
round, press her own. But one year since, we beheld them both in the
bloom of sprightly youth,
“Without a care, a sorrow, or a fear,”
gay and smiling, the delight of all that beheld them. “But now the
spoiler is fallen upon their summer-fruits and upon their vintage.” No
sighs, however, can recall the past!--no lamentation awake them from
their deep, everlasting slumber. No! let us not say everlasting; for it
ill becomes us, the heirs of immortal hope, to use that word, fit only
for the lip of the cold despairing materialist.
Emma--if it is indeed (as surely it shall be) given us, in the world of
light and life, to know and love the companions of our mortal state, let
us think of her we have recently lost, emerging at once from the dimness
of a mortal decline, and from the bitterness of death--a merciful God
speaking pardon to all her frailties, and confirming her unalloyed and
ever-during felicity! Imagine, amidst the bright angelic host, one
gentle beatified spirit hailing the new inhabitant of heaven; imagine
that she shall discover, amidst the encircling splendours of immortal
beauty, the friend of her youth--the sweet companion of her innocent
pleasures in this world; a world which had been to them, the few hours
of preparatory sickness excepted, the pleasing, though the faint dawn
of being, now brightened into that day which shall bring no sorrow, and
which shall know no night.
How selfish then our murmurs!--Yet who, or what, can stifle the sighs of
nature? or, at once, disperse the gloom arising from the consciousness,
that, through a perhaps long course of delightless years, we shall not
behold the beloved of our hearts?--Yet let us endeavour, by the solemn
aids of reason and religion, to submit cheerfully to the doom which we
cannot reverse--and, by the soft assistance of hope and tender
imagination, to gild and irradiate even the dark mansions of the grave.
Another consolation remains to us from the early, and apparently
premature death of those we love. Observation has already taught me,
that youth, amidst all its rash hopes and giddy indiscretions, is, in
general, more amiable than middle or advanced life.--
“The world’s infections--few bring back, at eve,
Immaculate, the manners of the morn.”
Quitting this mournful subject, let me observe, that scarce any thing,
except our mutual loss, pressing forward to my pen, could thus long have
prevented my expressing how welcome the assurance you give me, that, so
soon as these March winds are over, you will come down to Lichfield, be
our guest some weeks, and remain with your aunt in this city during the
ensuing summer.
How delightful had this intelligence been, if ill health had not
suggested the scheme, and if such tidings had arrived in cheerfuller
hours! Dearly are they consoling even in these. Whatever our sorrows,
whatever our consolations, it is, at least, sweet to reflect, that we
shall share them together, as the vernal day rolls on.
“O Emma! I am sick of many griefs:”--My hopes for Mr T----’s happiness
and my own are vanished as a dream. His guardians, somewhat incredibly,
declare that the expences of his education, the purchase of his
commissions, and the port at which he has lived since he went into the
army, have reduced his original fortune to little more than half what it
was. He is not yet twenty-four--has not been an officer more than four
years--has never gamed, nor had libertine expences--and what is become
of what ought to have been the savings of so long a minority?--But there
is no redress.