Newgate, in particular, where the distemper broke out at the beginning
of June, it raged with such violence that in less than a week, more than
half the prisoners were swept off, and it appeared probable, that,
unless its fury abated, not a soul would be left alive within it. At all
times, this crowded and ill-kept prison was infested by the gaol-fever
and other pestilential disorders, but these were mild in comparison with
the present terrible visitation. The atmosphere was noisome and
malignant; the wards were never cleansed; and many poor wretches, who
died in their cells, were left there till the attendants on the
dead-cart chose to drag them forth. No restraint being placed upon the
sick, and the rules of the prison allowing them the free use of any
strong liquors they could purchase, the scenes that occurred were too
dreadful and revolting for description, and could only be paralleled by
the orgies of a pandemonium. Many reckless beings, conscious that they
were attacked by a fatal disorder, drank as long as they could raise
the' cup to their lips, and after committing the wildest and most
shocking extravagances, died in a state of frenzy.
Newgate became thus, as it were, the very focus of infection, where the
plague assumed its worst aspect, and where its victims perished far more
expeditiously than elsewhere. Two of the turnkeys had already died of
the distemper, and such was the alarm entertained, that no persons could
be found to supply their places. To penetrate the recesses of the
prison, was almost to insure destruction, and none but the attendants of
the dead-cart and the nurses attempted it. Among the latter was Judith.
Employed as a nurse on the first outburst of the plague, she willingly
and fearlessly undertook the office. The worse the disease became the
better pleased she appeared; and she was so utterly without
apprehension, that when no one would approach the cell where some
wretched sufferer lay expiring, she unhesitatingly entered it. But it
was not to render aid, but to plunder, that she thus exercised her
functions. She administered no medicine, dressed no tumours, and did not
contribute in the slightest degree to the comfort of the miserable
wretches committed to her charge. All she desired was to obtain whatever
valuables they possessed, or to wring from them any secret that might
afterwards be turned to account. Foreseeing that Newgate must ere long
be depopulated, and having no fears for herself, she knew that she must
then be liberated, and be able once more to renew her mischievous
practices upon mankind. Her marvellous preservation throughout all the
dangers to which she was exposed seemed almost to warrant the
supposition that she had entered into a compact with the pestilence, to
extend its ravages by every means in her power, on the condition of
being spared herself.
Soon after the outbreak of the plague in Newgate, all the debtors were
liberated, and if the keepers had had their own way, the common felons
would have been likewise released. But this could not be, and they were
kept to perish as before described. Matters, however, grew so serious,
that it became a question whether the few miserable wretches left alive
ought to be longer detained, and at last the turnkeys refusing to act
any longer, and delivering their keys to the governor, the whole of the
prisoners were set free.
On the night of their liberation, Chowles and Judith proceeded to the
vaults of Saint Faith's, to deposit within them the plunder they had
obtained in the prison. They found them entirely deserted. Neither
verger, sexton, nor any other person, was to be seen, and they took up
their quarters in the crypt. Having brought a basket of provisions and a
few bottles of wine with them, they determined to pass the night in
revelry; and, accordingly, having lighted a fire with the fragments of
old coffins brought from the charnel, they sat down to their meal.
Having done full justice to it, and disposed of the first flask, they
were about to abandon themselves to unrestrained enjoyment, when their
glee was all at once interrupted by a strange and unaccountable noise in
the adjoining church. Chowles, who had just commenced chanting one of
his wild melodies, suddenly stopped, and Judith set down the glass she
had raised to her lips untested. What could it mean? Neither of them
could tell. It seemed like strains of unearthly music, mixed with
shrieks and groans as of tortured spirits, accompanied by peals of such
laughter as might be supposed to proceed, from demons.
"The dead are burst forth from their tombs," cried Chowles, in a
quavering voice, "and are attended by a legion of evil spirits."
"It would seem so," replied Judith, rising. "I should like to behold the
sight. Come with me."
"Not for the world!" rejoined Chowles, shuddering, "and I would
recommend you to stay where you are. You may behold your dead husband
among them."
"Do you think so?" rejoined Judith, halting.
"I am sure of it," cried Chowles, eagerly. "Stay where you are--stay
where you are."
As he spoke, there was another peal of infernal laughter, and the
strains of music grew louder each moment.
"Come what may, I will see what it is," said Judith, emptying her glass,
as if seeking courage from the draught. "Surely," she added, in a
taunting tone, "you will come with me."
"I am afraid of nothing earthly," rejoined Chowles--"but I do not like
to face beings of another world."
"Then I will go alone," rejoined Judith.
"Nay, that shall never be," replied Chowles, tottering after her.
As they opened the door and crossed the charnel, such an extraordinary
combination of sounds burst upon their ears that they again paused, and
looked anxiously at each other. Chowles laid his hand on his companion's
arm, and strove to detain her, but she would not be stayed, and he was
forced to proceed. Setting down the lamp on the stone floor, Judith
passed into the subterranean church, where she beheld a sight that
almost petrified her. In the midst of the nave, which was illumined by a
blue glimmering light, whence proceeding it was impossible to determine,
stood a number of grotesque figures, apparelled in fantastic garbs, and
each attended by a skeleton. Some of the latter grisly shapes were
playing on tambours, others on psalteries, others on rebecs--every
instrument producing the strangest sound imaginable. Viewed through the
massive pillars, beneath that dark and ponderous roof, and by the mystic
light before described, this strange company had a supernatural
appearance, and neither Chowles nor Judith doubted for a moment that
they beheld before them a congregation of phantoms. An irresistible
feeling of curiosity prompted them to advance. On drawing nearer, they
found the assemblage comprehended all ranks of society. There was a pope
in his tiara and pontifical dress; a cardinal in his cap and robes; a
monarch with a sceptre in his hand, and arrayed in the habiliments of
royalty; a crowned queen; a bishop wearing his mitre, and carrying his
crosier; an abbot, likewise in his mitre, and bearing a crosier; a duke
in his robes of state; a grave canon of the church; a knight sheathed in
armour; a judge, an advocate, and a magistrate, all in their robes; a
mendicant friar and a nun; and the list was completed by a physician, an
astrologer, a miser, a merchant, a duchess, a pedler, a soldier, a
gamester, an idiot, a robber, a blind man, and a beggar--each
distinguishable by his apparel.
By-and-by, with a wild and gibbering laugh that chilled the beholders'
blood, one of the tallest and grisliest of the skeletons sprang forward,
and beating his drum, the whole ghostly company formed, two and two,
into a line--a skeleton placing itself on the right of every mortal. In
this order, the fantastic procession marched between the pillars, the
unearthly music playing all the while, and disappeared at the further
extremity of the church. With the last of the group, the mysterious
light vanished, and Chowles and his companion were left in profound
darkness.
"What can it mean?" cried Judith, as soon as she recovered her speech.
"Are they human, or spirits?"
"Human beings don't generally amuse themselves in this way," returned
Chowles. "But hark!--I still hear the music.--They are above--in Saint
Paul's."
"Then I will join them," said Judith. "I am resolved to see the end of
it."
"Don't leave me behind," returned Chowles, following her. "I would
rather keep company with Beelzebub and all his imps than be alone."
Both were too well acquainted with the way to need any light. Ascending
the broad stone steps, they presently emerged into the cathedral, which
they found illumined by the same glimmering light as the lower church,
and they perceived the ghostly assemblage gathered into an immense ring,
and dancing round the tall skeleton, who continued beating his drum, and
uttering a strange gibbering sound, which was echoed by the others. Each
moment the dancers increased the swiftness of their pace, until at last
it grew to a giddy whirl, and then, all at once, with a shriek of
laughter, the whole company fell to the ground.
Chowles and Judith, then, for the first time, understood, from the
confusion that ensued, and the exclamations uttered, that they were no
spirits they had to deal with, but beings of the same mould as
themselves. Accordingly, they approached the party of masquers, for such
they proved, and found on inquiry that they were a party of young
gallants, who, headed by the Earl of Rochester--the representative of
the tall skeleton--had determined to realize the Dance of Death, as once
depicted on the walls of an ancient cloister at the north of the
cathedral, called Pardon-churchyard, on the walls of which, says Stowe,
were "artificially and richly painted the Dance of Macabre, or Dance of
Death, commonly called the Dance of Paul's, the like whereof was painted
about Saint Innocent's, at Paris. The metres, or poesy of this dance,"
proceeds the same authority, "were translated out of French into English
by John Lydgate, monk of Bury, and, with the picture of Death leading
all estates, painted about the cloister, at the special request and
expense of Jenkin Carpenter, in the reign of Henry the Sixth."
Pardon-churchyard was pulled down by the Protector Somerset, in the
reign of Edward the Sixth, and the materials employed in the erection of
his own palace in the Strand. It was the discussion of these singular
paintings, and of the designs on the same subject ascribed to Holbein,
that led the Earl of Rochester and his companions to propose the
fantastic spectacle above described. With the disposition which this
reckless nobleman possessed to turn the most solemn and appalling
subjects to jest, he thought no season so fitting for such an
entertainment as the present--just as in our own time the lively
Parisians made the cholera, while raging in their city, the subject of a
carnival pastime. The exhibition witnessed by Chowles and Judith was a
rehearsal of the masque intended to be represented in the cathedral on
the following night.
Again marshalling his band, the Earl of Rochester beat his drum, and
skipping before them, led the way towards the south door of the
cathedral, which was thrown open by an unseen hand, and the procession
glided through it like a troop of spectres. Chowles, whose appearance
was not unlike that of an animated skeleton, was seized with a strange
desire to join in what was going forward, and taking off his doublet,
and baring his bony arms and legs, he followed the others, dancing round
Judith in the same manner that the other skeletons danced round their
partners.
On reaching the Convocation House, a door was opened, and the procession
entered the cloisters; and here Chowles, dragging Judith into the area
between him and the beautiful structure they surrounded, began a dance
of so extraordinary a character that the whole troop collected round to
witness it. Rochester beat his drum, and the other representatives of
mortality who were provided with musical instruments struck up a wild
kind of accompaniment, to which Chowles executed the most grotesque
flourishes. So wildly excited did he become, and such extravagances did
he commit, that even Judith stared aghast at him, and began to think his
wits were fled. Now he whirled round her--now sprang high into the
air--now twined his lean arms round her waist--now peeped over one
shoulder, now over the other--and at last griped her neck so forcibly,
that he might perhaps have strangled her, if she had not broken from
him, and dealt him a severe blow that brought him senseless to the
ground. On recovering, he found himself in the arched entrance of a
large octagonal chamber, lighted at each side by a lofty pointed window
filled with stained glass. Round this chamber ran a wide stone bench,
with a richly-carved back of the same material, on which the masquers
were seated, and opposite the entrance was a raised seat, ordinarily
allotted to the dean, but now occupied by the Earl of Rochester. A
circular oak table stood in the midst of the chamber, covered with
magnificent silver dishes, heaped with the choicest viands, which were
handed to the guests by the earl's servants, all of whom represented
skeletons, and it had a strange effect, to behold these ghastly objects
filling the cups of the revellers, bending obsequiously before some
blooming dame, or crowding round their spectral-looking lord.
At first, Chowles was so confused, that he thought he must have awakened
in another world, but by degrees he called to mind what had occurred,
and ascertained from Judith that he was in the Convocation House.
Getting up, he joined the train of grisly attendants, and acquitted
himself so well that the earl engaged him as performer in the masque. He
was furthermore informed that, in all probability, the king himself,
with many of his favourite nobles, and the chief court beauties, would
be present to witness the spectacle.
The banquet over, word was brought that chairs and coaches were without,
and the company departed, leaving behind only a few attendants, who
remained to put matters in order.
While they were thus occupied, Judith, who had fixed her greedy eyes
upon the plate, observed, in an under-tone, to Chowles, "There will be
fine plunder for us. We must manage to carry off all that plate while
they are engaged in the masque."
"You must do it yourself, then," returned Chowles, in the same
tone--"for I shall have to play a principal part in the entertainment,
and as the king himself will be present, I cannot give up such an
opportunity of distinguishing myself."
"You can have no share in the prize, if you lend no assistance," replied
Judith, with a dissatisfied look.
"Of course not," rejoined Chowles; "on this occasion it is all yours.
The Dance of Death is too much to my taste to be given up."
Perceiving they were noticed, Chowles and Judith then left the
Convocation House, and returned to the vault in Saint Faith's, nor did
they emerge from it until late on the following day.
Some rumour of the masque having gone abroad, towards evening a crowd,
chiefly composed of the most worthless order of society, collected under
the portico at the western entrance, and the great doors being opened by
Chowles, they entered the cathedral. Thus was this sacred building once
more invaded--once again a scene of noise, riot, and confusion--its
vaulted roofs instead of echoing the voice of prayer, or the choral
hymn, resounded with loud laughter, imprecations, and licentious
discourse. This disorder, however, was kept in some bounds by a strong
body of the royal guard, who soon afterwards arrived, and stationing
themselves in parties of three or four at each of the massive columns
flanking the aisles, maintained some show of decorum. Besides these,
there were others of the royal attendants, bearing torches, who walked
from place to place, and compelled all loiterers in dark corners to
proceed to the nave.
A little before midnight, the great doors were again thrown open, and a
large troop of richly-attired personages, all wearing masks, were
admitted. For a short time they paced to and fro between its shafted
pillars gazing at the spectators grouped around, and evidently, from
their jests and laughter, not a little entertained by the scene. As the
clock struck twelve, however, all sounds were hushed, and the courtly
party stationed themselves on the steps leading to the choir. At the
same moment, also, the torches were extinguished, and the whole of the
building buried in profound darkness. Presently after, a sound was heard
of footsteps approaching the nave, but nothing could be discerned.
Expectation was kept on the rack for some minutes, during which many a
stifled cry was heard from those whose courage failed them at this
trying juncture. All at once, a blue light illumined the nave, and
partially revealed the lofty pillars by which it was surrounded. By this
light the whole of the ghostly company could be seen drawn up near the
western door. They were arranged two and two, a skeleton standing as
before on the right of each character. The procession next marched
slowly and silently towards the choir, and drew up at the foot of the
steps, to give the royal party an opportunity of examining them. After
pausing there for a few minutes, Rochester, in the dress of the larger
skeleton, started off, and, beating his drum, was followed by the pope
and his attendant skeleton. This couple having danced together for some
minutes, to the infinite diversion of the spectators, disappeared behind
a pillar, and were succeeded by the monarch and a second skeleton.
These, in their turn, gave way to the cardinal and his companion, and so
on till the whole of the masquers had exhibited themselves, when at a
signal from the earl the party re-appeared, and formed a ring round him.
The dance was executed with great spirit, and elicited tumultuous
applause from all the beholders. The earl now retired, and Chowles took
his place. He was clothed in an elastic dress painted of a leaden and
cadaverous colour, which fitted closely to his fleshless figure, and
defined all his angularities. He carried an hour-glass in one hand and a
dart in the other, and in the course of the dance kept continually
pointing the latter at those who moved around him. His feats of the
previous evening were nothing to his present achievements. His joints
creaked, and his eyes flamed like burning coals. As he continued, his
excitement increased. He bounded higher, and his countenance assumed so
hideous an expression, that those near him recoiled in terror, crying,
"Death himself had broke loose among them." The consternation soon
became general. The masquers fled in dismay, and scampered along the
aisles scarcely knowing whither they were going. Delighted with the
alarm he occasioned, Chowles chased a large party along the northern
aisle, and was pursuing them across the transept upon which it opened,
when he was arrested in his turn by another equally formidable figure,
who suddenly placed himself in his path.
"Hold!" exclaimed Solomon Eagle--for it was the enthusiast--in a voice
of thunder, "it is time this scandalous exhibition should cease. Know
all ye who make a mockery of death, that his power will be speedily and
fearfully approved upon you. Thine not to escape the vengeance of the
Great Being whose temple you have profaned. And you, O king! who have
sanctioned these evil doings by your presence, and who by your own
dissolute life set a pernicious example to all your subjects, know that
your city shall be utterly laid waste, first by plague and then by fire.
Tremble! my warning is as terrible and true as the handwriting on the
wall."
"Who art thou who holdest this language towards me?" demanded Charles.
"I am called Solomon Eagle," replied the enthusiast, "and am charged
with a mission from on high to warn your doomed people of their fate. Be
warned yourself, sire! Your end will be sudden. You will be snatched
away in the midst of your guilty pleasure, and with little time for
repentance. Be warned, I say again."
With this he turned to depart.
"Secure the knave," cried Charles, angrily. "He shall be soundly
scourged for his insolence."
But bursting through the guard, Solomon Eagle ran swiftly up the choir
and disappeared, nor could his pursuers discover any traces of him.
"Strange!" exclaimed the king, when he was told of the enthusiast's
escape. "Let us go to supper. This masque has given me the vapours."
"Pray Heaven it have not given us the plague," observed the fair
Stewart, who stood beside him, taking his arm.
"It is to be hoped not," rejoined Charles; "but, odds fish! it is a most
dismal affair."
"It is so, in more ways than one," replied Rochester, "for I have just
learnt that all my best plate has been carried off from the Convocation
House. I shall only be able to offer your majesty and your fair partner
a sorry supper."
IV. THE PLAGUE-PIT.
On being made acquainted by Leonard, who helped him out of the
pest-cart, with the danger he had run, the piper uttered a cry of
terror, and swooned away. The buriers, seeing how matters stood, and
that their superstitious fears were altogether groundless, now returned,
and one of them, producing a phial of vinegar, sprinkled the fainting
man with it, and speedily brought him to himself. But though so far
recovered, his terror had by no means abated, and he declared his firm
conviction that he was infected by the pestilence.
"I have been carried towards the plague-pit by mistake," he said. "I
shall soon be conveyed thither in right earnest, and not have the power
of frightening away my conductors on the road."
"Pooh! pooh!" cried one of the buriers, jestingly. "I hope you will
often ride with us, and play us many a merry tune as you go. You shall
always be welcome to a seat in the cart."
"Be of good cheer," added Leonard, "and all will be well. Come with me
to an apothecary's shop, and I will procure a cordial for you, which
shall speedily dispel your qualms."
The piper shook his head, and replied, with a deep groan, that he was
certain all was over with him.
"However, I will not reject your kindness," he added, "though I feel I
am past the help of medicine."
"With this, he whistled to Bell, who was skipping about Leonard, having
recognised him on his first approach, and they proceeded towards the
second postern in London-wall, between Moorgate and Cripplegate; while
the buriers, laughing heartily at the adventure, took their way towards
the plague-pit, and discharged their dreadful load within it. Arrived in
Basinghall-street, and looking round, Leonard soon discovered by the
links at the door, as well as by the crowd collected before it--for day
and night the apothecaries' dwellings were besieged by the sick--the
shop of which he was in search. It was long before they could obtain
admittance, and during this time the piper said he felt himself getting
rapidly worse; but, imagining he was merely labouring under the effect
of fright, Leonard paid little attention to his complaints. The
apothecary, however, no sooner set eyes upon him, than he pronounced him
infected, and, on examination, it proved that the fatal tokens had
already appeared.
"I knew it was so," cried the piper. "Take me to the pest-house--take me
to the pest-house!"
"His desire had better be complied with," observed the apothecary. "He
is able to walk thither now, but I will not answer for his being able to
do so two hours hence. It is a bad case," he added in an under-tone to
Leonard.
Feeing the apothecary, Leonard set out with the piper, and passing
through Cripplegate, they entered the open fields. Here they paused for
a moment, and the little dog ran round and round them, barking
gleefully.
"Poor Bell!" cried the piper; "what will become of thee when I am gone?"
"If you will entrust her to me, I will take care of her," replied
Leonard.
"She is yours," rejoined the piper, in a voice hoarse with emotion. "Be
kind to her for my sake, and for the sake of her unfortunate mistress."
"Since you have alluded to your daughter," returned Leonard, "I must
tell you what has become of her. I have not hitherto mentioned the
subject, fearing it might distress you."
"Have no further consideration, but speak out," rejoined the piper. "Be
it what it may, I will bear it like a man."