committed the replenishing of the pile and the custody of the house to
Dallison, and hastened to Saint Paul's. A great fire was burning at each
angle of the cathedral, but without pausing to notice the effect of the
flames upon the walls of the building, he passed through the door to
which he had been directed, and hastening to the spiral staircase beyond
the choir, ascended it with swift steps. He did not pause till he
reached the summit of the tower, and there, indeed, a wondrous spectacle
awaited him. The whole city seemed on fire, and girded with a flaming
belt--for piles were lighted at certain distances along the whole line
of walls. The groups of dark figures collected round the fires added to
their picturesque effect; and the course of every street could be traced
by the reflection of the flames on the walls and gables of the houses.
London Bridge was discernible from the fires burning upon it--and even
upon the river braziers were lighted on all the larger craft, which cast
a ruddy glow upon the stream.
After gazing at this extraordinary sight for some time, Leonard began to
descend. As yet he had seen nothing of Solomon Eagle, and searching for
him in vain in the belfry, he quitted the cathedral. From a knot of
persons gathered round one of the fires he learnt that the enthusiast
was addressing the crowd at the west side of the building, and
proceeding thither he perceived him standing on the edge of the
balustrade of the south-western tower, surmounting the little church of
Saint Gregory. His brazier was placed on one of the buttresses, and
threw its light on the mighty central tower of the fabric, and on a
large clock-face immediately beneath. Solomon Eagle was evidently
denouncing the city, but his words were lost in the distance. As he
proceeded, a loud clap of thunder pealed overhead.
"It comes--it comes!" cried the enthusiast, in a voice that could be
distinctly heard in the death-like stillness that followed the thunder.
"The wrath of Heaven is at hand."
As he spoke, a bright flash cut the air, and a bolt struck down, one of
the pinnacles of the great tower. Flash after flash followed in quick
succession, and the enthusiast, who seemed wrapped in flame, extended
his arms towards Heaven, as if beseeching a further display of its
vengeance. Suddenly the lightning ceased to flash and the thunder to
roll. A few heavy drops of rain fell. These were succeeded by a deluging
shower of such violence, that in less than a quarter of an hour every
fire within the city was extinguished, and all was darkness and despair.
The deepest gloom and despondency prevailed that night throughout
London. The sudden storm was regarded as a manifestation of the
displeasure of Heaven, and as an intimation that the arrows of its wrath
were not to be turned aside by any human efforts. So impressed were all
with this feeling, that when, in less than half an hour, the rain
entirely ceased, the clouds cleared off, and the stars again poured down
their lustre, no one attempted to relight the quenched embers, fearing
to provoke the Divine vengeance. Nor was a monitor wanting to enforce
the awful lesson. Solomon Eagle, with his brazier on his head, ran
through the streets, calling on the inhabitants to take to heart what
had happened, to repent, and prepare for their doom.
"The Lord will not spare you," he cried, as he stationed himself in the
open space before St. Stephen's, Walbrook. "He will visit your sins upon
you. Pray, therefore, that ye may not be destroyed, both body and soul.
Little time is allowed you for repentance. Many that hear me shall not
live till tomorrow; few shall survive the year!"
"Thou, thyself, shalt not survive the night, false prophet," cried a
voice from a neighbouring window. And immediately afterwards the barrel
of a gun was thrust forth and a shot fired at the enthusiast. But though
Solomon Eagle never altered his position, he was wholly uninjured--the
ball striking a bystander, who fell to the ground mortally wounded.
"You have shot your own son, Mr. Westwood," cried one of the spectators,
rushing up to the fallen man. "Who will henceforth doubt that Solomon
Eagle is under the care of a special providence?"
"Not I," replied another spectator. "I shall never disregard his words
in future."
Setting down his brazier, the enthusiast bent over the dead man--for
dead he was--and noted the placid smile upon his features. By this time
the unfortunate father had joined the group, and, on seeing the body of
his son, wrung his hands in a pitiable manner, and gave utterance to the
wildest expression of despair. No one attempted to seize him, till at
length Solomon Eagle, rising from his kneeling posture, laid his hand
upon his arm, and regarding him sternly, said, "What wrong have I done
you, that you should seek to slay me?"
"What wrong?" rejoined Westwood--"such wrong as can never be repaired.
Your fearful prophecies and denunciations so terrified my daughter, that
she died distracted. My brokenhearted wife was not long in following
her; and now you have made me the murderer of my son. Complete the
tragedy, and take my life."
"I have no desire to do so," replied Solomon Eagle, in a tone of
commiseration. "My wish is to save your soul, and the souls of all who
listen to me. I wonder not that your anger was at first stirred against
me; but if your heart had been properly directed, indignation would have
soon given way to better feelings. My mission is not to terrify, but to
warn. Why will ye thus continue impenitent when ye are spoken to, not by
my voice alone, but by a thousand others?--by the thunder--by the
rain--by the pestilence!--and ye shall be spoken to, if ye continue
senseless, by fire and by famine. Look at these quenched embers--at
these flooded streets--they are types of your vain struggle with a
superior power. Now, mark me what you must do to free the city from
contagion. You must utterly and for ever abandon your evil courses. You
must pray incessantly for remission of your sins. You must resign
yourselves without repining to such chastisement as you have provoked,
and must put your whole trust and confidence in God. Do this, and do it
heartily; it is possible that His wrath may be averted."
"I feel the force of your words," faltered Westwood--"would I had felt
it sooner!"
"Repentance never comes too late," rejoined the enthusiast. "Let this be
an example to you all."
And snatching up his brazier, he continued his course at the same
lightning speed as before. The unfortunate father was taken into his own
dwelling, whither likewise the body of his son was conveyed. A strict
watch was kept over him during the night, and in the morning he was
removed to Newgate, where he perished, in less than a week, of the
distemper.
The aspect of the streets on the following day was deplorable enough.
Not that the weather was unfavourable. On the contrary, it was bright
and sunny, while the heated atmosphere, cooled, by the showers, felt no
longer oppressive. But the sight of the half-burnt fires struck a chill
into every bosom, and it was not until the heaps were removed, that the
more timorous ventured forth at all. The result, too, of the experiment
was singularly unfortunate. Whether it was from the extraordinary heat
occasioned by the lighting of so many fires, or that the smoke did not
ascend, and so kept down the pestilential effluvia, or that the number
of persons who met together spread the contagion, certain it was that
the pestilence was more widely extended than before, and the mortality
fearfully increased.
On the commencement of the storm, Leonard Holt hurried back to
Wood-street, and reached his master's dwelling just as the rain began to
descend in torrents. Mr. Bloundel was at the window, and a few words
only passed between him and the apprentice when the latter was compelled
to take refuge in the hutch. Here he found Dallison the watchman, and
they listened in awe-struck silence to the heavy showers, and to the
hissing of the blazing embers in their struggle against the hostile
element. By-and-by the latter sound ceased. Not a light could be seen
throughout the whole length of the street, nor was there any red
reflection of the innumerable fires as heretofore in the sky. It was
evident all were extinguished; and the pitiless pelting of the rain, the
roar of the water-spouts, and the rush of the over-filled kennels, now
converted into rivulets, could alone be heard. After awhile the storm
cleared off, and Leonard and his companion issued from their retreat,
and gazed in silence at the drenched heap before them. While thus
occupied, the window above them opened, and the grocer appeared at it.
"This is, indeed, a sad and striking lesson," he said, "and I hope will
not be lost upon those who have witnessed it. It shows the utter
impotency of a struggle against the Divine will, and that when a man
relies upon himself for preservation, he depends upon a broken reed. If
I did not place myself under Heaven's protection, I should be sure that
all my own precautions were unavailing. I am now about to call up my
family to prayer. You can join us in our supplications, and I trust they
will not be unheard."
Closing the window, the grocer retired, and Leonard returned to the
hutch, where he fell upon his knees, and as soon as he supposed the
family were gathered together, commenced his own prayers. He pictured
the whole group assembled--the fervour of the grocer excited to an
unwonted pitch by what had just occurred--the earnest countenances of
his wife and the younger children--and the exalted looks of Amabel. He
could not see her--neither could he hear her voice--but he fancied how
she looked, and in what terms she prayed--and it was no slight
satisfaction to him to think that his own voice ascended to Heaven
coupled with hers.
On quitting the hutch, he found Dallison conversing with Doctor Hodges.
The physician expressed great surprise at seeing him, and inquired how
he came to have left his master's house. Leonard related all that had
happened, and besought his assistance in Nizza's behalf.
"I will do all I can for her," replied Hodges, "for I feel greatly
interested about her. But who is this Sir Paul Parravicin? I never heard
of him."
"I know nothing more of him than what I have told you, sir," replied
Leonard. "He is a friend of the Earl of Rochester."
"It must be a feigned name," rejoined Hodges; "but I will speedily find
him out. You must lodge at my house tonight. It will be better for you
than sleeping in that damp shed. But, first, I must have a word or two
with your master. I have been abroad all night, and came hither to
ascertain what he thought of this plan of the fires, and what he had
done. How do you give the signal to him?"
"There is a cord within the hutch by which you can sound a bell within
his chamber," returned Leonard; "I will ring it."
Accordingly, he did so, and the summons was almost instantly answered by
the grocer. A kindly greeting passed between the latter and Hodges, who
inquired whether all was going on satisfactorily within, and whether
anything could be done for the family.
"I would not have disturbed you at this unseasonable hour," he said,
"but chancing to be in your neighbourhood, and thinking it likely you
would be on the watch, I called to have a word with you. Though I could
not foresee what would happen, I entirely disapproved of these fires as
likely to increase rather than check the pestilence."
"The hand of Heaven has extinguished them because they were lighted in
opposition to its decrees," replied Bloundel; "but you have asked me
whether all is going on well within. I should answer readily in the
affirmative, but that my wife expresses much anxiety respecting Amabel.
We have no longer any apprehension of misconduct. She is all we could
desire--serious and devout. But we have fears for her health. The
confinement may be too much for her. What would you recommend?"
"I must see her to be able to speak confidently," replied Hodges.
"I know not how that can be accomplished, unless you choose to ascend by
a basket attached to the pulley," replied the grocer, with some
hesitation, "and it is against my plan to admit you."
"But your daughter's life, my good friend," rejoined Hodges; "think of
that. If I choose to risk life and limb to visit her, you may surely
risk the chance of contagion to admit me. But you need have no fear.
Sprinkle your room with spirits of sulphur, and place a phial of vinegar
so that I can use it on my first entrance into the house, and I will
answer for the safety of your family."
These preparations made, Mr. Bloundel lowered the basket, into which
Hodges got, and grasping the rope, not without some misgiving on his
part, he was drawn up. Leonard witnessed his ascent with a beating
heart, and could scarcely repress a feeling of envy when he saw him pass
through the window, and knew that he would soon be in the presence of
Amabel. But this feeling quickly changed into one of deep anxiety
concerning her. Her father's account of her had increased the uneasiness
he previously felt, and he was as anxious to know the doctor's opinion
of her, as if his own fate had depended upon it. He was kept in this
painful state of suspense for nearly an hour, when voices were heard at
the window, and presently afterwards Hodges was carefully let down.
Bidding the grocer farewell, he desired Leonard to follow him, and led
the way towards Cheapside. They proceeded a short distance in silence,
when the latter ventured to remark, "You say nothing about Amabel, sir?
I fear you found her seriously indisposed."
"Do not question me about her just now," rejoined the doctor, in a
subdued emotion. "I would rather not discuss the subject."
Nothing more was said; for though the apprentice would willingly have
continued the conversation, his companion's evident disinclination to
pursue it compelled him to desist. In this way, they reached the
doctor's residence, where Leonard was immediately shown to a comfortable
bed.
It was late when he awoke next day, and as the doctor was gone forth, he
partook of a plentiful breakfast which was placed before him, and
repaired to Wood-street, but his master having no commissions for him to
execute, he went back again. By this time, Doctor Hodges had returned,
and calling him into his library told him he wished to speak with him.
"You were right last night," he said, "in construing my silence into
alarm for Amabel. In truth, I fear she is rapidly sinking into a
decline, and nothing will arrest the progress of the insidious disease
but instant removal to the country. To this she will not consent,
neither do I know how it could be accomplished. It is pitiable to see so
lovely a creature dying, as I fear she is, of a broken heart."
Leonard covered his face with his hands, and wept aloud.
"We have not yet spoken of Nizza Macascree," said Hodges, after a pause,
tapping him kindly on the shoulder. "I think I have discovered a trace
of her."
"I am glad to hear it," replied Leonard, rousing himself. "She is
another victim of these profligates. But I will be revenged upon them
all."
"I have before enjoined you to restrain your indignation, just though it
be," returned Hodges. "I have not yet found out whither she has been
taken. But I have a clue which, unless I am mistaken, will lead me to
it. But I must now dismiss you, I have other affairs to attend to, and
must give a dangerous and difficult case, on which I have been
consulted, undisturbed consideration. Make my house your home as long as
you think proper."
Warmly thanking the doctor, Leonard then withdrew. Shortly after this,
he walked forth, and ascertaining that he was not required by his
master, determined to satisfy himself by actual observation of the
extent of the ravages of the plague.
With this view, he shaped his course along Lad-lane, and traversing
Cateaton-street, entered Lothbury. The number of houses which he here
found closed, with red crosses on the doors, and the fatal inscription
above them, convinced him that the deplorable accounts he had heard were
not exaggerated. In passing some of these habitations, he saw such
ghastly faces at the windows, and heard such lamentable cries, that he
was glad to hurry on and get out of sight and hearing. In
Throgmorton-street, nearly opposite Drapers' Hall, a poor wretch
suddenly opened a casement, and before his attendants could force him
back, threw himself from a great height to the ground, and broke his
neck. Another incident, of an equally distressing nature, occurred. A
young and richly-dressed young man issued from a tavern in Broad-street,
and with a wild and inflamed countenance, staggered along. He addressed
some insulting language to Leonard, but the latter, who desired no
quarrel, disregarded his remarks, and let him pass. The next person
encountered by the drunken man was a young female. Suddenly catching her
in his arms, he imprinted a kiss upon her lips: and then, with a
frightful laugh, shouted, "I have given you the plague! Look here!" and
tearing aside the collar of his shirt, he exhibited a large tumour. The
young woman uttered a shriek of terror and fainted, while her ruthless
assailant took to his heels, and running as long as his strength lasted,
fell down, and was taken to the pest-house, where he was joined that
same night by his victim. And this was by no means an uncommon
occurrence. The distemper acted differently on different temperaments.
Some it inflamed to an ungovernable pitch of madness, others it reduced
to the depths of despair, while in many cases it brought out and
aggravated the worst parts of the character. Wives conveyed the
infection intentionally to their husbands, husbands to their wives,
parents to their children, lovers to the objects of their affection,
while, as in the case above mentioned, many persons ran about like rabid
hounds, striving to communicate it to all they met. Greatly shocked at
what had occurred, and yet not altogether surprised at it, for his mind
had become familiarized with horrors, Leonard struck down Finch-lane,
and proceeded towards Cornhill. On the way, he noticed two dead bodies
lying at the mouth of a small alley, and hastening past, was stopped at
the entrance to Cornhill by a butcher's apprentice, who was wheeling away
the body of an old man, who had just died while purchasing meat at a
stall at Stock's Market. Filled with unutterable loathing at this
miserable spectacle, Leonard was fain to procure a glass of canary to
recruit his spirits.
Accordingly he proceeded to the Globe Tavern at the corner of
Birchin-lane. As he entered the house, a lively strain of music caught
his ear, and glancing in the direction of the sound, he found it
proceeded from the blind piper, Mike Macascree, who was playing to some
half-dozen roystering youths. Bell lay at her master's feet; and as
Leonard approached the party, she pricked up her ears, and being called
by name, instantly sprang towards him, and manifested the strongest
delight. The piper stopped playing to listen to what was going forward
but the young men urged him to proceed, and again filled his glass.
"Don't drink any more, Mike," said Leonard, "but step aside with me.
I've something to say to you--something about your daughter."
"My daughter!" exclaimed the piper, in a half-angry, half-sorrowful
voice, while a slight moisture forced itself through his orbless lids.
"I don't want to hear anything about her, except that she is dead. She
has deserted me, and disgraced herself."
"You are mistaken," rejoined Leonard; "and if you will come with me, I
will explain the truth to you."
"I will listen to no explanation," rejoined the piper, furiously, "she
has given me pain enough already. I'm engaged with this jovial company.
Fill my glass, my masters--there, fill it again," he added, draining it
eagerly, and with the evident wish to drown all thought. "There, now you
shall have such a tune, as was never listened to by mortal ears."
A loud laugh from the young men followed this proposition, and the piper
played away so furiously, that it added to their merriment. Touched with
compassion, Leonard walked aside, hoping, when the party broke up, to be
able to have a word with the poor man. But the piper's excitement
increased. He played faster and drank harder, until it was evident he
was no longer in a condition to speak rationally. Leonard, therefore,
addressed himself to the drawer, and desired him to look after the
piper, engaging to return before midnight to see how he went on. The
drawer promising compliance, Leonard departed; and not feeling disposed
to continue his walk, returned to Wood-street.
Nothing particular occurred during the evening. Leonard did not see
Doctor Hodges, who was engaged in his professional duties; and after
keeping watch before the grocer's till nearly midnight, he again
retraced his steps to the Globe. The drawer was at the door, and about
to close the house.
"You will be sorry to learn the fate of the poor piper," he said.
"Why, what has happened to him?" cried Leonard.
"He is dead of the plague," was the reply.
"What, so suddenly!" exclaimed the apprentice. "You are jesting with
me."
"Alas! it is no jest," rejoined the drawer, in a tone that convinced the
apprentice of his sincerity. "His entertainers quitted him about two
hours ago, and in spite of my efforts to detain him, he left the house,
and sat down on those steps. Concluding he would fall asleep, I did not
disturb him, and his dog kept careful watch over him. I forgot all about
him till a short time ago, when hearing the pest-cart pass, I went
forth, and learnt that the drivers having found him dead, as they
supposed, of the pestilence, had placed their forks under his belt, and
thrown him upon the other dead bodies."
"And where is the dog?" cried Leonard.
"She would not quit her master," replied the drawer, "so the men threw
her into the cart with him, saying, they would bury her in the
plague-pit, as all dogs were ordered to be destroyed."
"This must be prevented," cried Leonard. "Which way did the dead-cart
go?"
"Towards Moorgate," replied the drawer.
Leonard heard no more; but dashing through a narrow passage opposite the
Conduit, passed Bartholomew-lane, and traversing Lothbury, soon reached
Coleman-street and the old city gate, to which he had been directed.
Here he learnt that the dead-cart had passed through it about five
minutes before, and he hurried on towards Finsbury Fields. He had not
proceeded far when he heard a sound as of a pipe at a distance,
furiously played, and accompanied by the barking of a dog. These sounds
were followed by cries of alarm, and he presently perceived two persons
running towards him, with a swiftness which only could be occasioned by
terror. One of them carried a lantern, and grasping his arm, the
apprentice detained him.
"What is the matter?" he asked.
"The devil's the matter," replied the man--"the piper's ghost has
appeared in that cart, and is playing his old tunes again."
"Ay, it's either his spirit, or he is come to life again," observed the
other man, stopping likewise. "I tossed him into the cart myself, and
will swear he was dead enough then."
"You have committed a dreadful mistake," cried Leonard. "You have tossed
a living man into the cart instead of a dead one. Do you not hear those
sounds?" And as he spoke, the notes of the pipe swelled to a louder
strain than ever.
"I tell you it is the devil--or a ghost," replied the driver; "I will
stay here no longer."
"Lend me your lantern, and I will go to the cart," rejoined Leonard.
"Take it," replied the man; "but I caution you to stay where you are.
You may receive a shock you will never survive."
Paying no attention to what was said, Leonard ran towards the cart, and
found the piper seated upon a pile of dead bodies, most of them stripped
of their covering, with Bell by his side, and playing away at a
prodigious rate.
III. THE DANCE OF DEATH.