The plague raged in the city of London. The destroying angel had gone

forth, and kindled with its fiery breath the awful pestilence, until all

London became one mighty lazar-house. Thousands were swept away daily;

grass grew in the streets, and the living were scarce able to bury

the dead. Business of all kinds was at an end, except that of the

coffin-makers and drivers of the pest-carte. Whole streets were shut up,

and almost every other house in the city bore the fatal red cross, and

the ominous inscription. "Lord have mercy on us." Few people, save the

watchmen, armed with halberts, keeping guard over the stricken houses,

appeared in the streets; and those who ventured there, shrank from each

other, and passed rapidly on with averted faces. Many even fell dead on

the sidewalk, and lay with their ghastly, discolored faces, upturned to

the mocking sunlight, until the dead-cart came rattling along, and

the drivers hoisted the body with their pitchforks on the top of their

dreadful load.

Few other vehicles besides those same dead-carts appeared

in the city now; and they plied their trade busily, day and night; and

the cry of the drivers echoed dismally through the deserted streets:

"Bring out your dead! bring out your dead!" All who could do so had long

ago fled from the devoted city; and London lay under the burning heat

of the June sunshine, stricken for its sins by the hand of God. The

pest-houses were full, so were the plague-pits, where the dead were

hurled in cartfuls; and no one knew who rose up in health in the morning

but that they might be lying stark and dead in a few hours. The very

churches were forsaken; their pastors fled or lying in the plague-pits;

and it was even resolved to convert the great cathedral of St. Paul into

a vast plague-hospital. Cries and lamentations echoed from one end

of the city to the other, and Death and Charles reigned over London

together.

Yet in the midst of all this, many scenes of wild orgies and debauchery

still went on within its gates--as, in our own day, when the cholera

ravaged Paris, the inhabitants of that facetious city made it a

carnival, so now, in London, they were many who, feeling they had but a

few days to live at the most, resolved to defy death, and indulge in the

revelry while they yet existed. "Eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow

you die!" was their motto; and if in the midst of the frantic dance or

debauched revel one of them dropped dead, the others only shrieked with

laughter, hurled the livid body out to the street, and the demoniac

mirth grew twice as fast and furious as before. Robbers and cut-purses

paraded the streets at noonday, entered boldly closed and deserted

houses, and bore off with impunity, whatever they pleased. Highwaymen

infested Hounslow Heath, and all the roads leading from the city,

levying a toll on all who passed, and plundering fearlessly the flying

citizens. In fact, far-famed London town, in the year of grace 1665,

would have given one a good idea of Pandemonium broke loose.




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