A Journal of the Plague Year

D >> Daniel Defoe >> A Journal of the Plague Year


If I may be allowed to give my opinion, by what I saw with my eyes and
heard from other people that were eye-witnesses, I do verily believe the
same, viz., that there died at least 100,000 of the plague only, besides
other distempers and besides those which died in the fields and highways
and secret Places out of the compass of the communication, as it was
called, and who were not put down in the bills though they really
belonged to the body of the inhabitants. It was known to us all that
abundance of poor despairing creatures who had the distemper upon them,
and were grown stupid or melancholy by their misery, as many were,
wandered away into the fields and Woods, and into secret uncouth places
almost anywhere, to creep into a bush or hedge and die.

The inhabitants of the villages adjacent would, in pity, carry them food
and set it at a distance, that they might fetch it, if they were able;
and sometimes they were not able, and the next time they went they
should find the poor wretches lie dead and the food untouched. The
number of these miserable objects were many, and I know so many that
perished thus, and so exactly where, that I believe I could go to the
very place and dig their bones up still; for the country people would
go and dig a hole at a distance from them, and then with long poles,
and hooks at the end of them, drag the bodies into these pits, and then
throw the earth in from as far as they could cast it, to cover them,
taking notice how the wind blew, and so coming on that side which the
seamen call to windward, that the scent of the bodies might blow from
them; and thus great numbers went out of the world who were never known,
or any account of them taken, as well within the bills of mortality as
without.

This, indeed, I had in the main only from the relation of others, for I
seldom walked into the fields, except towards Bethnal Green and Hackney,
or as hereafter. But when I did walk, I always saw a great many poor
wanderers at a distance; but I could know little of their cases, for
whether it were in the street or in the fields, if we had seen anybody
coming, it was a general method to walk away; yet I believe the account
is exactly true.

As this puts me upon mentioning my walking the streets and fields, I
cannot omit taking notice what a desolate place the city was at that
time. The great street I lived in (which is known to be one of the
broadest of all the streets of London, I mean of the suburbs as well as
the liberties) all the side where the butchers lived, especially without
the bars, was more like a green field than a paved street, and the
people generally went in the middle with the horses and carts. It is
true that the farthest end towards Whitechappel Church was not all
paved, but even the part that was paved was full of grass also; but this
need not seem strange, since the great streets within the city, such as
Leadenhall Street, Bishopsgate Street, Cornhill, and even the Exchange
itself, had grass growing in them in several places; neither cart or
coach were seen in the streets from morning to evening, except some
country carts to bring roots and beans, or peas, hay, and straw, to
the market, and those but very few compared to what was usual. As
for coaches, they were scarce used but to carry sick people to the
pest-house, and to other hospitals, and some few to carry physicians to
such places as they thought fit to venture to visit; for really coaches
were dangerous things, and people did not care to venture into them,
because they did not know who might have been carried in them last, and
sick, infected people were, as I have said, ordinarily carried in them
to the pest-houses, and sometimes people expired in them as they went
along.

It is true, when the infection came to such a height as I have now
mentioned, there were very few physicians which cared to stir abroad to
sick houses, and very many of the most eminent of the faculty were dead,
as well as the surgeons also; for now it was indeed a dismal time,
and for about a month together, not taking any notice of the bills of
mortality, I believe there did not die less than 1500 or 1700 a day, one
day with another.

One of the worst days we had in the whole time, as I thought, was in the
beginning of September, when, indeed, good people began to think that
God was resolved to make a full end of the people in this miserable
city. This was at that time when the plague was fully come into the
eastern parishes. The parish of Aldgate, if I may give my opinion,
buried above a thousand a week for two weeks, though the bills did not
say so many;--but it surrounded me at so dismal a rate that there was
not a house in twenty uninfected in the Minories, in Houndsditch, and in
those parts of Aldgate parish about the Butcher Row and the alleys
over against me. I say, in those places death reigned in every corner.
Whitechappel parish was in the same condition, and though much less than
the parish I lived in, yet buried near 600 a week by the bills, and in
my opinion near twice as many. Whole families, and indeed whole streets
of families, were swept away together; insomuch that it was frequent
for neighbours to call to the bellman to go to such-and-such houses and
fetch out the people, for that they were all dead.

And, indeed, the work of removing the dead bodies by carts was now grown
so very odious and dangerous that it was complained of that the bearers
did not take care to dear such houses where all the inhabitants were
dead, but that sometimes the bodies lay several days unburied, till the
neighbouring families were offended with the stench, and consequently
infected; and this neglect of the officers was such that the
churchwardens and constables were summoned to look after it, and even
the justices of the Hamlets were obliged to venture their lives among
them to quicken and encourage them, for innumerable of the bearers died
of the distemper, infected by the bodies they were obliged to come so
near. And had it not been that the number of poor people who wanted
employment and wanted bread (as I have said before) was so great that
necessity drove them to undertake anything and venture anything, they
would never have found people to be employed. And then the bodies of
the dead would have lain above ground, and have perished and rotted in a
dreadful manner.

But the magistrates cannot be enough commended in this, that they kept
such good order for the burying of the dead, that as fast as any of
these they employed to carry off and bury the dead fell sick or died,
as was many times the case, they immediately supplied the places with
others, which, by reason of the great number of poor that was left
out of business, as above, was not hard to do. This occasioned, that
notwithstanding the infinite number of people which died and were sick,
almost all together, yet they were always cleared away and carried off
every night, so that it was never to be said of London that the living
were not able to bury the dead.

As the desolation was greater during those terrible times, so the
amazement of the people increased, and a thousand unaccountable things
they would do in the violence of their fright, as others did the same in
the agonies of their distemper, and this part was very affecting. Some
went roaring and crying and wringing their hands along the street; some
would go praying and lifting up their hands to heaven, calling upon
God for mercy. I cannot say, indeed, whether this was not in their
distraction, but, be it so, it was still an indication of a more serious
mind, when they had the use of their senses, and was much better, even
as it was, than the frightful yellings and cryings that every day, and
especially in the evenings, were heard in some streets. I suppose the
world has heard of the famous Solomon Eagle, an enthusiast. He, though
not infected at all but in his head, went about denouncing of judgement
upon the city in a frightful manner, sometimes quite naked, and with a
pan of burning charcoal on his head. What he said, or pretended, indeed
I could not learn.

I will not say whether that clergyman was distracted or not, or whether
he did it in pure zeal for the poor people, who went every evening
through the streets of Whitechappel, and, with his hands lifted up,
repeated that part of the Liturgy of the Church continually, 'Spare
us, good Lord; spare Thy people, whom Thou has redeemed with Thy most
precious blood.' I say, I cannot speak positively of these things,
because these were only the dismal objects which represented themselves
to me as I looked through my chamber windows (for I seldom opened
the casements), while I confined myself within doors during that most
violent raging of the pestilence; when, indeed, as I have said, many
began to think, and even to say, that there would none escape; and
indeed I began to think so too, and therefore kept within doors for
about a fortnight and never stirred out. But I could not hold it.
Besides, there were some people who, notwithstanding the danger, did not
omit publicly to attend the worship of God, even in the most dangerous
times; and though it is true that a great many clergymen did shut up
their churches, and fled, as other people did, for the safety of their
lives, yet all did not do so. Some ventured to officiate and to keep up
the assemblies of the people by constant prayers, and sometimes sermons
or brief exhortations to repentance and reformation, and this as long as
any would come to hear them. And Dissenters did the like also, and even
in the very churches where the parish ministers were either dead or
fled; nor was there any room for making difference at such a time as
this was.

It was indeed a lamentable thing to hear the miserable lamentations of
poor dying creatures calling out for ministers to comfort them and pray
with them, to counsel them and to direct them, calling out to God for
pardon and mercy, and confessing aloud their past sins. It would make
the stoutest heart bleed to hear how many warnings were then given by
dying penitents to others not to put off and delay their repentance to
the day of distress; that such a time of calamity as this was no time
for repentance, was no time to call upon God. I wish I could repeat the
very sound of those groans and of those exclamations that I heard
from some poor dying creatures when in the height of their agonies and
distress, and that I could make him that reads this hear, as I imagine I
now hear them, for the sound seems still to ring in my ears.

If I could but tell this part in such moving accents as should alarm the
very soul of the reader, I should rejoice that I recorded those things,
however short and imperfect.

It pleased God that I was still spared, and very hearty and sound in
health, but very impatient of being pent up within doors without air,
as I had been for fourteen days or thereabouts; and I could not
restrain myself, but I would go to carry a letter for my brother to the
post-house. Then it was indeed that I observed a profound silence in the
streets. When I came to the post-house, as I went to put in my letter
I saw a man stand in one corner of the yard and talking to another at
a window, and a third had opened a door belonging to the office. In the
middle of the yard lay a small leather purse with two keys hanging at
it, with money in it, but nobody would meddle with it. I asked how long
it had lain there; the man at the window said it had lain almost an
hour, but that they had not meddled with it, because they did not know
but the person who dropped it might come back to look for it. I had no
such need of money, nor was the sum so big that I had any inclination to
meddle with it, or to get the money at the hazard it might be attended
with; so I seemed to go away, when the man who had opened the door
said he would take it up, but so that if the right owner came for it he
should be sure to have it. So he went in and fetched a pail of water and
set it down hard by the purse, then went again and fetch some gunpowder,
and cast a good deal of powder upon the purse, and then made a train
from that which he had thrown loose upon the purse. The train reached
about two yards. After this he goes in a third time and fetches out a
pair of tongs red hot, and which he had prepared, I suppose, on purpose;
and first setting fire to the train of powder, that singed the purse and
also smoked the air sufficiently. But he was not content with that, but
he then takes up the purse with the tongs, holding it so long till the
tongs burnt through the purse, and then he shook the money out into the
pail of water, so he carried it in. The money, as I remember, was about
thirteen shilling and some smooth groats and brass farthings.

There might perhaps have been several poor people, as I have observed
above, that would have been hardy enough to have ventured for the sake
of the money; but you may easily see by what I have observed that the
few people who were spared were very careful of themselves at that time
when the distress was so exceeding great.

Much about the same time I walked out into the fields towards Bow; for
I had a great mind to see how things were managed in the river and among
the ships; and as I had some concern in shipping, I had a notion that it
had been one of the best ways of securing one's self from the infection
to have retired into a ship; and musing how to satisfy my curiosity in
that point, I turned away over the fields from Bow to Bromley, and down
to Blackwall to the stairs which are there for landing or taking water.

Here I saw a poor man walking on the bank, or sea-wall, as they call it,
by himself. I walked a while also about, seeing the houses all shut up.
At last I fell into some talk, at a distance, with this poor man; first
I asked him how people did thereabouts. 'Alas, sir!' says he, 'almost
desolate; all dead or sick. Here are very few families in this part, or
in that village' (pointing at Poplar), 'where half of them are not dead
already, and the rest sick.' Then he pointing to one house, 'There they
are all dead', said he, 'and the house stands open; nobody dares go into
it. A poor thief', says he, 'ventured in to steal something, but he
paid dear for his theft, for he was carried to the churchyard too last
night.' Then he pointed to several other houses. 'There', says he, 'they
are all dead, the man and his wife, and five children. There', says
he, 'they are shut up; you see a watchman at the door'; and so of other
houses. 'Why,' says I, 'what do you here all alone?' 'Why,' says he, 'I
am a poor, desolate man; it has pleased God I am not yet visited, though
my family is, and one of my children dead.' 'How do you mean, then,'
said I, 'that you are not visited?' 'Why,' says he, 'that's my house'
(pointing to a very little, low-boarded house), 'and there my poor wife
and two children live,' said he, 'if they may be said to live, for my
wife and one of the children are visited, but I do not come at them.'
And with that word I saw the tears run very plentifully down his face;
and so they did down mine too, I assure you.

'But,' said I, 'why do you not come at them? How can you abandon your
own flesh and blood?' 'Oh, sir,' says he, 'the Lord forbid! I do not
abandon them; I work for them as much as I am able; and, blessed be the
Lord, I keep them from want'; and with that I observed he lifted up his
eyes to heaven, with a countenance that presently told me I had happened
on a man that was no hypocrite, but a serious, religious, good man,
and his ejaculation was an expression of thankfulness that, in such
a condition as he was in, he should be able to say his family did not
want. 'Well,' says I, 'honest man, that is a great mercy as things go
now with the poor. But how do you live, then, and how are you kept from
the dreadful calamity that is now upon us all?' 'Why, sir,' says he, 'I
am a waterman, and there's my boat,' says he, 'and the boat serves me
for a house. I work in it in the day, and I sleep in it in the night;
and what I get I lay down upon that stone,' says he, showing me a broad
stone on the other side of the street, a good way from his house; 'and
then,' says he, 'I halloo, and call to them till I make them hear; and
they come and fetch it.'

'Well, friend,' says I, 'but how can you get any money as a waterman?
Does any body go by water these times?' 'Yes, sir,' says he, 'in the way
I am employed there does. Do you see there,' says he, 'five ships lie at
anchor' (pointing down the river a good way below the town), 'and do you
see', says he, 'eight or ten ships lie at the chain there, and at anchor
yonder?' (pointing above the town). 'All those ships have families on
board, of their merchants and owners, and such-like, who have locked
themselves up and live on board, close shut in, for fear of the
infection; and I tend on them to fetch things for them, carry letters,
and do what is absolutely necessary, that they may not be obliged to
come on shore; and every night I fasten my boat on board one of the
ship's boats, and there I sleep by myself, and, blessed be God, I am
preserved hitherto.'

'Well,' said I, 'friend, but will they let you come on board after you
have been on shore here, when this is such a terrible place, and so
infected as it is?'

'Why, as to that,' said he, 'I very seldom go up the ship-side, but
deliver what I bring to their boat, or lie by the side, and they hoist
it on board. If I did, I think they are in no danger from me, for I
never go into any house on shore, or touch anybody, no, not of my own
family; but I fetch provisions for them.'

'Nay,' says I, 'but that may be worse, for you must have those
provisions of somebody or other; and since all this part of the town is
so infected, it is dangerous so much as to speak with anybody, for the
village', said I, 'is, as it were, the beginning of London, though it be
at some distance from it.'

'That is true,' added he; 'but you do not understand me right; I do not
buy provisions for them here. I row up to Greenwich and buy fresh meat
there, and sometimes I row down the river to Woolwich and buy there;
then I go to single farm-houses on the Kentish side, where I am known,
and buy fowls and eggs and butter, and bring to the ships, as they
direct me, sometimes one, sometimes the other. I seldom come on shore
here, and I came now only to call on my wife and hear how my family do,
and give them a little money, which I received last night.'

'Poor man!' said I; 'and how much hast thou gotten for them?'

'I have gotten four shillings,' said he, 'which is a great sum, as
things go now with poor men; but they have given me a bag of bread too,
and a salt fish and some flesh; so all helps out.' 'Well,' said I, 'and
have you given it them yet?'

'No,' said he; 'but I have called, and my wife has answered that she
cannot come out yet, but in half-an-hour she hopes to come, and I am
waiting for her. Poor woman!' says he, 'she is brought sadly down. She
has a swelling, and it is broke, and I hope she will recover; but I fear
the child will die, but it is the Lord--'

Here he stopped, and wept very much.

'Well, honest friend,' said I, 'thou hast a sure Comforter, if thou hast
brought thyself to be resigned to the will of God; He is dealing with us
all in judgement.'

'Oh, sir!' says he, 'it is infinite mercy if any of us are spared, and
who am I to repine!'

'Sayest thou so?' said I, 'and how much less is my faith than thine?'
And here my heart smote me, suggesting how much better this poor man's
foundation was on which he stayed in the danger than mine; that he had
nowhere to fly; that he had a family to bind him to attendance, which
I had not; and mine was mere presumption, his a true dependence and a
courage resting on God; and yet that he used all possible caution for
his safety.

I turned a little way from the man while these thoughts engaged me, for,
indeed, I could no more refrain from tears than he.

At length, after some further talk, the poor woman opened the door and
called, 'Robert, Robert'. He answered, and bid her stay a few moments
and he would come; so he ran down the common stairs to his boat and
fetched up a sack, in which was the provisions he had brought from the
ships; and when he returned he hallooed again. Then he went to the
great stone which he showed me and emptied the sack, and laid all out,
everything by themselves, and then retired; and his wife came with a
little boy to fetch them away, and called and said such a captain had
sent such a thing, and such a captain such a thing, and at the end adds,
'God has sent it all; give thanks to Him.' When the poor woman had taken
up all, she was so weak she could not carry it at once in, though the
weight was not much neither; so she left the biscuit, which was in a
little bag, and left a little boy to watch it till she came again.

'Well, but', says I to him, 'did you leave her the four shillings too,
which you said was your week's pay?'

'Yes, yes,' says he; 'you shall hear her own it.' So he calls again,
'Rachel, Rachel,' which it seems was her name, 'did you take up the
money?' 'Yes,' said she. 'How much was it?' said he. 'Four shillings and
a groat,' said she. 'Well, well,' says he, 'the Lord keep you all'; and
so he turned to go away.

As I could not refrain contributing tears to this man's story, so
neither could I refrain my charity for his assistance. So I called him,
'Hark thee, friend,' said I, 'come hither, for I believe thou art in
health, that I may venture thee'; so I pulled out my hand, which was in
my pocket before, 'Here,' says I, 'go and call thy Rachel once more, and
give her a little more comfort from me. God will never forsake a family
that trust in Him as thou dost.' So I gave him four other shillings, and
bid him go lay them on the stone and call his wife.

I have not words to express the poor man's thankfulness, neither could
he express it himself but by tears running down his face. He called his
wife, and told her God had moved the heart of a stranger, upon hearing
their condition, to give them all that money, and a great deal more
such as that he said to her. The woman, too, made signs of the like
thankfulness, as well to Heaven as to me, and joyfully picked it up; and
I parted with no money all that year that I thought better bestowed.

I then asked the poor man if the distemper had not reached to Greenwich.
He said it had not till about a fortnight before; but that then he
feared it had, but that it was only at that end of the town which lay
south towards Deptford Bridge; that he went only to a butcher's shop and
a grocer's, where he generally bought such things as they sent him for,
but was very careful.

I asked him then how it came to pass that those people who had so shut
themselves up in the ships had not laid in sufficient stores of all
things necessary. He said some of them had--but, on the other hand, some
did not come on board till they were frighted into it and till it was
too dangerous for them to go to the proper people to lay in quantities
of things, and that he waited on two ships, which he showed me, that had
laid in little or nothing but biscuit bread and ship beer, and that he
had bought everything else almost for them. I asked him if there was any
more ships that had separated themselves as those had done. He told me
yes, all the way up from the point, right against Greenwich, to within
the shore of Limehouse and Redriff, all the ships that could have room
rid two and two in the middle of the stream, and that some of them had
several families on board. I asked him if the distemper had not reached
them. He said he believed it had not, except two or three ships whose
people had not been so watchful to keep the seamen from going on shore
as others had been, and he said it was a very fine sight to see how the
ships lay up the Pool.

When he said he was going over to Greenwich as soon as the tide began to
come in, I asked if he would let me go with him and bring me back, for
that I had a great mind to see how the ships were ranged, as he had told
me. He told me, if I would assure him on the word of a Christian and of
an honest man that I had not the distemper, he would. I assured him
that I had not; that it had pleased God to preserve me; that I lived in
Whitechappel, but was too impatient of being so long within doors, and
that I had ventured out so far for the refreshment of a little air, but
that none in my house had so much as been touched with it.

Well, sir,' says he, 'as your charity has been moved to pity me and my
poor family, sure you cannot have so little pity left as to put yourself
into my boat if you were not sound in health which would be nothing less
than killing me and ruining my whole family.' The poor man troubled me
so much when he spoke of his family with such a sensible concern and in
such an affectionate manner, that I could not satisfy myself at first
to go at all. I told him I would lay aside my curiosity rather than make
him uneasy, though I was sure, and very thankful for it, that I had
no more distemper upon me than the freshest man in the world. Well, he
would not have me put it off neither, but to let me see how confident
he was that I was just to him, now importuned me to go; so when the tide
came up to his boat I went in, and he carried me to Greenwich. While he
bought the things which he had in his charge to buy, I walked up to the
top of the hill under which the town stands, and on the east side of the
town, to get a prospect of the river. But it was a surprising sight to
see the number of ships which lay in rows, two and two, and some places
two or three such lines in the breadth of the river, and this not only
up quite to the town, between the houses which we call Ratcliff and
Redriff, which they name the Pool, but even down the whole river as far
as the head of Long Reach, which is as far as the hills give us leave to
see it.