“You look pale and gaze,
And put on fear and cast yourself in wonder,
To see the strange impatience of the heavens:
But if you would consider the true cause
Why all these fires, why all these gliding ghosts,
Why all these things change, from their ordinance,
Their nature, and pre-formed faculties
To monstrous quality, why, you shall find
That Heaven hath infused them with these spirits
To make them instruments of fear, and warning
Unto some monstrous state.”
JULIUS CÆSAR.
They had at last entered London; it was a genial May day, warm and
balmy, and the sun was beginning to descend the western sky. As they
approached the city, numberless little companies, carefully avoiding
contact with each other, met them on the road, leaving the vicinity of
the pestilence; on foot, on horseback, and in carriages, with heavy
wagons loaded with household stores and furniture, citizens, nobles,
clergymen, and laborers, were alike flying for their lives.
But in the quaint outskirts of the town there was still little
difference perceptible. Men went about plying their ordinary business;
shops were open; the stream of traffic had not yet received its final
check. Only various features of change, singular and ominous, presented
themselves here and there. Apothecaries’ booths abounded on every side,
full of all manner of nostrums--remedies, and preventives for the fatal
disease, before whose acknowledged presence London trembled. Almost as
plentiful at street-corners and ends of alleys, were the brazen symbols
of the astrologer, the mysterious signs of fortune-tellers, and other
spiritual quacks, vending their perilous stuff for the relief of that
craving, coward appetite of fear, at once foolhardy and timorous, which
seeks to investigate the hidden fate of its own selfish future.
Sometimes the twin empiricisms united in one person, were signified in
signboard, or notice, at some much-frequented door. The singular
excitement of the time was evident every where.
Passengers warily walking in the middle of the street--sudden shrinking
and confusion here and there, when some invalid, with bandaged throat
and pale face, was descried limping among the common stream--struck
Edith with an indefinite pang as they rode slowly onward. They had
parted with their fellow-traveler a short time before, having themselves
made a considerable circuit, in order to visit the family of an ejected
minister in Surrey. Sir Philip had gone on without delay to his mother’s
house, in Westminster, and Caleb Field and his daughter, with as much
speed as their wearied horse would permit them, were pursuing their way
to the residence of an old parishioner, on the Hampstead Road, who had
offered to receive them.
The first church they passed was open; from its doors poured a stream of
people, newly dismissed from one of the many solemn services of that
fear-stricken time. The preacher, a dark, grave man, wearing over his
black dress the Geneva band, was last of all. He was passing on, without
lifting his eyes, eagerly conversing with a youth who walked beside him.
“Master Vincent,” said Field, as he passed by, “does the work prosper
with you in this evil time?”
“Ah! is it thou, good brother Field?” cried the preacher, greeting him
cordially; “thou art welcome to a troublous place. Doth the work
prosper, say you? Alas! brother, where is it that we can do other than
echo that lamentation of the prophet: ‘Who hath believed my report?’”
“Nay, but let us hope for better things,” said the stouter-hearted
Puritan; “surely we may look that many brands shall be plucked from this
burning. The people are earnest, as I hear, in seeking the Word and
prayer, and I wot well these have been blessed symptoms, brother
Vincent, since it was said of Saul, the persecutor in old times, ‘Behold
he prayeth.’”
“Fear--fear, only fear,” answered Vincent, despondingly, with a nervous
twitching of his mouth; “fear--not of the Lord, brother, but of the
Plague.”
“And who shall say when the twain may join?” said Field. “Ah! brother,
think’st thou it is the _death_ they fear, and not the after judgment,
and yonder wondrous life beyond? An it were not for these, trust me, the
material grave would lose its terrors.”
“And thou hast ventured thy child in this doomed city?” said Vincent,
hurriedly. “I will not bid thee welcome, gentle Mistress Edith, for this
is no place for thee. Know’st thou the very air is heavy with the
pestilence? I marvel, Master Field, that thou broughtest thy daughter
into this peril.”
“It is her own wayward will, not mine,” was the answer. “Now there is no
way of amending it, we must have the issue with our Master in heaven.
What do men say of the pestilence? Does it diminish or increase?”
“Diminish! think’st thou God’s judgment on iniquity passeth away so
lightly? Nay, it increases hour by hour. It begins to advance eastward,
as they tell me. Citizens are flying from the wealthiest houses in the
city; the magistrates are concerting severe means of prevention, binding
the flame with flaxen band. Men talk fearfully of some plan for shutting
up the infected houses; yet who can tell? What are such precautions as
these against the fierce flame of the Almighty’s anger?”
“Yet it is right to use all means,” said Field, mildly “and Edith and I
are scarce taking the best for our own comfort after our journey, and we
keep you from your companion, Master Vincent.”
“A singular youth,” said the preacher, hurriedly, the twitching of his
upper lip giving him, while he spoke, an unusual expression of
melancholy earnestness, as he glanced at the young man, who stood
respectfully out of hearing behind; “the enemy trieth him with strong
delusions, persuading him that he hath committed the sin unto death. I
have made him my special charge. He is like that young ruler whom the
Lord loved; I hope well of the lad. I ask thee not to my lodging,
brother Field, for the pestilence is near me. Good even, and peace and
our Father’s presence be with you. I will see you again ere long.”
They passed on. Along the street, thrusting the very few passengers on
the footpath aside in his precipitous career, a man thinly clad, with
horror in his pale face and wild eyes, came dashing forward. They heard
his cry indistinctly before he approached.
“What is it, father, what is it?” whispered Edith, fearfully. She
thought him some unhappy lunatic escaped from confinement.
But the passers-by showed no signs of terror; they looked at him with
compassionate eyes; they uttered ejaculations of prayer, strange to hear
in that public place and time. The unhappy wanderer rushed on, uttering
his sharp, monotonous cry: “Oh! the great and terrible God!” and men
looked on in solemn quietness, not marveling. The healthful blood ran
cold in the young veins of Edith Field. What cries were these for the
streets of a mighty city!
They proceeded on--so many deserted houses frowning dark with their
closed doors and windows upon the life around--so many signs of panic
and terror, from wild apprehensions of God’s wondrous vengeance, like
that of the maniac who had passed them, to the helpless, tremulous
anxiety of those serving maids and laboring men who crowded about the
apothecary’s door--combined to throw a cold blight of despondency upon
the strangers. Up in the clear sky before them, Edith’s eye had been
caught by the glorious golden hue of a singular cloud. The heavens were
flooded with the light of the setting sun; in beautiful relief against
the blue sky, the cloud turned forth its mellow roundness to the gentle
summer breeze, gliding onward stately and slow, as you may see a full
sail sometimes on the verge of the far horizon, with the sunshine in
its bosom. As Edith observed it, they came up to a knot of people
gathered in the middle of the street.
“Lo!” exclaimed a female voice, “how he stretches forth his sword, and
his eyes like fire gazing over the city--and his face terrible, and yet
so fair--and his garments like a wondrous mist, with the sunshine below!
Ah! sirs, do ye not see him? Lo! now he bends to the east and to the
west, with his sword gleaming like a diamond stone, awful to see! Can ye
not see him?--can ye not see him? or hath his glory blinded your eyes?”
She was gazing up with passionate earnestness at the cloud as it floated
above.
“Yea, yea, yonder is the flashing of his sword over St. Paul’s!” cried a
man beside her.
“I see him! I see him!” said another; “what a glorious creature he is!”
A thin, mild, contemplative man, on whose lip a habitual smile of gentle
pensiveness seemed to hover, stood on the outskirts of the crowd,
looking up with serene blue eyes, toward this wondrous object in the
heavens.
“Dost see him, sir?” exclaimed the first speaker, jealous, as it seemed,
of the gentle smile. “Dost see the angel?”
“Nay, truly, good neighbor,” said the meditative man, “I see but a
singular fair cloud.”
“Out, thou profane mocker!” cried another; “Dost not see how the Lord
sends forth his signs and wonders upon us? Woe’s me for us--a doomed
people! Woe’s me! woe’s me!” and the speaker wrung his hands.
“Master Defoe,”[A] said Caleb Field, addressing this bystander, who
seemed in some danger of suffering from his gentle and mild expression
of skepticism, “may I beg a word with you? You remember Caleb Field?”
[Note A: There are certain ugly dates which thrust themselves in the
way of this encounter; but without doubt so good and honest a citizen as
he who wrote the “History of the Plague,” may be permitted to give
evidence as to his own state and dwelling-place in a time so remarkable,
as well as those troublesome chronologists with whom the parish register
is supreme authority.]
“Most pleasantly, Master Field,” said the famous dreamer, whose wondrous
island solitude, so many youthful souls have dwelt in since those times,
“though I can scarce say I have pleasure in welcoming thee back to
London. If thou wert safe in a healthful place, good friend, why put
thyself in needless peril?”
“And if you question me thus,” said Master Field, “may I not turn upon
yourself? When so many fly, why does Master Defoe remain within the
fated bounds of London?”
“Truly, for what men would call fantastic reasons,” said the author,
with his thoughtful smile: because there were various guidings of me, in
my humble way, that pointed, as I thought, to my tarrying. In the Lord’s
hands is the issue; but you, Master Field, and this youthful
gentlewoman, whom I hold to be the fair little maiden, your daughter,
whose countenance I remember long ago--good even, Mistress Edith--I
marvel to see you here in this perilous place, where men must tremble
lest the very air we breathe be poison.
“Ah! good friend, give you the preachers of the gospel so little
credit,” said the Puritan, “that what men can dare for their goods and
traffic, ye think we would shrink from, for the name of our King? Trust
me, Master Defoe, it is far otherwise. He who supplanted me in my charge
has fled, and can I leave them in their extremity, without counsel, and
without instruction? Nay, nay, it is not the shepherd who should flee!”
“It is a righteous errand,” said Defoe; “and howsoever we differ in our
bright times, it joys me, that in the face of this peril we are all
brethren, which shows us happily what it shall be when we have suffered
the passage of death, and are met in the fair land beyond, as we know
not, truly, how soon we shall be. You see the singular frenzy of this
people, and how their vehement fancy, hath skill to make visions for
them. I know not any thing more noticeable than even this; for methinks
it is less terror for than certainty of God’s judgment.”
“And it is not suddenly sprung up, but hath risen slowly and universally
as I hear,” said the minister.
“Since the first notice of that hapless Frenchman’s decease,” said
Defoe, “in the close of the by-gone year--he who died in the parish of
St. Giles--the sword has been hanging over our heads ever since, waving
hither and thither as yonder woman described the angel’s of her fancy.
Saw’st thou aught in the heavens, Mistress Edith, like what she said?”
“I saw a beautiful golden cloud,” said Edith, on whose mind the
description of the angel had made a deep impression, “and I know
not--perchance, it might have a clearer form to her.”
The author turned to her smilingly.
“It was a beautiful thought; and a young soul sees not superstition in
so fair garments.”
“Nay, nay,” said Edith, with diffidence, “but, the Word says not
certainly, that such visions shall not be.”
“Yea, Edith,” said her father, “the sword of the Spirit is quick and
powerful. The Lord has given us a sufficient weapon in giving us his
Word--and this is not the age of miracles.”
“Yet it is a wondrous time,” said Defoe, “much sin provoking this
terrible judgment, and withal, though we look for this judgment so
certainly, so great continuance in sin. There is need of you, Master
Field; there is need of all faithful men who will speak the truth in
boldness; and I pray God you be preserved to see the ending of this
visitation.”
The house of Master Field’s parishioner upon the quiet road to
Hampstead, was an antique building of wood, with picturesque gables and
low-roofed, angled rooms. It had a considerable garden round it, and was
bright with the fresh suburban look, trim and well-cared for, which
strikes the eye so pleasantly in contrast with crowded streets, and
noise and bustle. The inmates were a brother and sister, ancient,
lonely, widowed people. John Goodman was childless, and had been
faithful all his lifetime to the memory of a girlish wife whom he had
buried, long years ago. His sister, Dame Rogers, was a widow, having one
sole daughter, who bore the gracious name of Mercy, a simple girl of
sixteen years. John Goodman was a gardener, supplying with his vegetable
stores, the chief dealers in one of the large city markets, and was able
to sustain himself and his family comfortably. It was a religious,
godly house, simply pure, and observant of the worship and ordinances of
God.
In a little fresh bed-chamber, with budding honeysuckle and young roses
looking in at its small lattice, Edith took grateful rest, the first
night after their arrival.
“Has it come near you yet?” she asked, as Dame Rogers and the bashful
Mercy attended her into her apartment, on a little pallet in which Mercy
herself was to sleep.
“Nay, thank goodness, it hasn’t come thus far,” said Dame Rogers, “but
forsooth, Mistress Edith, it comes further every day, and one can’t
reckon on an hour. ’Twas but yesternight that Alice Saffron, the
laundry-woman’s daughter came in, as white as that sheet, to tell us how
her mother had gone to carry home the clean linen to Master Gregory’s,
the great silk mercer in Eastcheap. There were ten of a fair family,
besides apprentices and porters, and such like; and all were as
life-like as you or I (save us, we know not when it may be our turn)
when she went with the great basket for the things a week afore. And
look you, Mistress Edith, when Dame Saffron came to the house
yestermorning, they were all gone; every one of the fair children, and
the mother, dead of the plague; and Master Gregory himself, poor man,
wandered out raving into the fields, mayhap to die there by himself as
like as any thing; and the serving people fled. Lord bless us! it makes
one’s blood freeze to hear such tales; and they say ’tis but beginning
yet.”
“And the people are all afraid?” said Edith.
“Afraid! bless you, Mistress Edith, that’s but a quiet word for it. The
folk are clean out of their wits with the panic that’s upon them; and
seeking to false helps, lackaday! in their darkness, when there is but
One that can deliver. Tell Mistress Edith, Mercy, of yonder evil place
that Alice Saffron beguiled you to, when you were last at market. The
Almighty keep us! I know not if there will be any market ere long, and
what will become of us then?”
“Please you, Mistress Edith,” said Mercy, bashfully, “it was a dark
room, with a little fire in a brazier, and perfumes like what Dr. Newton
gave to my uncle to keep evil smells away burning in it, and the smoke
and the good scent going through the room. And there was a tall man with
a cap of black velvet upon his head, and a long robe, like what the
great ladies wear, with embroideries upon it; and he could read the
stars like the words in a book and told fortunes by them the way they
were shining in the sky. So Alice asked if the plague would be long, and
he said, ‘Yea, yea, mighty and great, such as was never seen in this
world before.’ And Alice said, would it come to Hampstead, and he made
answer, ‘It will go every where, thou fool, till it slay its thousands
in the sunshine, and its tens of thousands in the night.’ And with that
Alice began to weep, and so did I, for I was afraid; and Alice said,
‘Ah, sir, and shall we die?’ and then he told her she should be saved,
but he would say naught for me. And Alice said mayhap if I had given him
somewhat, he might have told me some good tidings, but I had naught; and
perchance if he knew I was to die, it was best not to tell me, for I
should have fallen down with fear.”
“Ah! Mercy, my sweet child, speak not so,” exclaimed Dame Rogers, as an
involuntary tear slid over Mercy’s round, smooth cheek, “an he had
known evil tidings he would have told thee to have frighted thee. Break
not thy poor mother’s heart with such a terror.”
“Nay, he knew not aught,” said Edith gently, laying her hand on the
shoulder of Mercy, who sat on a low stool beside her. “Doth God reveal
who shall die, and who shall live to man? Let us not fear, Mercy, while
all things are in His hands.”
“Well, I know not,” said Dame Rogers, after a pause; “they have their
learning from the Evil One, I wot, yet full oft it comes true; and
certain the enemy hath great power and wisdom, as I have heard thy own
worthy father say, Mistress Edith.”
“Nay, that is sure,” said Edith; “but he hath not the power to slay and
to make alive, Dame Rogers; and the Lord shows not his secret counsel to
a fallen spirit.”
“And in good sooth it is pleasant to talk to thee, lady,” said the dame;
“and thou seest, Mercy, how Mistress Edith can clear thee of those
foolish doubts of thine, for all that she hath been little longer in the
world than thine own silly self. And that is truth-like, without doubt,
for the Lord taketh counsel with no one, and with the adversary least of
all, not to say that he is the father of lies and deceitfulness. Well, I
will think no more on’t. And thou art weary, Mistress Edith, and we do
but keep thee from rest: do thou bestir thee, Mercy, and help. A fair
good even, and good rest, and peace; and if the Lord will, I will call
you early on the morrow.”
That precautionary clause, “if the Lord will,” was any thing but a form
in those days: solemn and seemly at all times, it had an especial weight
in that season of singular peril, when those who parted for the night
had before them the fatal probability that they should never receive
mortal greeting again, upon an earthly morrow.
Below, the Puritan sat with his humble host: their conversation was of
ecclesiastical matters--the silenced ministers, the persecuted
church--and, in the narrower parochial circle, of the wants and
necessities of their own especial people. Upon the morrow, which was the
Sabbath, Master Field intended to resume his place in his own pulpit,
the conforming vicar who had supplanted him having already removed to a
safer distance from the stricken city.
“No fear of any hindrance, sir,” said John Goodman, in answer to a
question from the minister; “we’ll be all but too glad to see you in the
old place again: and for the other side, no fear of them, Master Field:
for why? as many of them as could do aught in the way of shutting the
church on you have gone away, or buried themselves in their own houses,
for fear of this judgment; and for the rest, bless you! they’re in that
state of trouble and trembling, that they’d listen to any man that spoke
the Gospel to them, an’ he was but solemn and earnest enough; and,
saving them that be solemn and earnest, there’s few other remaining in
these parts to preach: the like of this terror sifts out the
faint-hearted as you would sift seed. But whatever they hold for,
they’ll be all glad to welcome you, sir, for they do all have a kind
memory of you of old.”
And the next day, a brilliant Sabbath, when May had well-nigh ripened
into June, the ejected minister again preached in his former pulpit. The
church was filled to overflowing. The air within was heavy with the
perfumes used by the worshipers; a universal awe and solemn attention
sat upon all faces; no longer a listless lounge, no longer a piece of
necessary form, but a brief space instinct with momentous businesses--a
swift crowd of weighty moments, which those earnest men and women,
looking death in the face, discovered now, were all too short for
special dedication to the wondrous interests of yon unseen eternity. The
Lord was among them--a man of war!