A Journal of the Plague Year: Being Observations or Memorials of the Most Remarkable Occurrences, as Well Public as Private, Which Happened in London During the Last Great Visitation in 1665. Written by a Citizen Who Continued All the While in LondonDefoe, Daniel
History
A Journal of the Plague Year: Being Observations or Memorials of the Most Remarkable Occurrences, as Well Public as Private, Which Happened in London During the Last Great Visitation in 1665. Written by a Citizen Who Continued All the While in London
Defoe, Daniel
Great Fire, London, England, 1666 -- Fiction; Historical fiction; London (England) -- History -- 17th century -- Fiction; Plague -- Fiction
Next to these public things were the dreams of old women, or, I
should say, the interpretation of old women upon other people’s
dreams; and these put abundance of people even out of their wits.
Some heard voices warning them to be gone, for that there would
be such a plague in London, so that the living would not be able
to bury the dead. Others saw apparitions in the air; and I must
be allowed to say of both, I hope without breach of charity, that
they heard voices that never spake, and saw sights that never
appeared; but the imagination of the people was really turned
wayward and possessed. And no wonder, if they who were poring
continually at the clouds saw shapes and figures, representations
and appearances, which had nothing in them but air, and vapour.
Here they told us they saw a flaming sword held in a hand coming
out of a cloud, with a point hanging directly over the city;
there they saw hearses and coffins in the air carrying to be
buried; and there again, heaps of dead bodies lying unburied, and
the like, just as the imagination of the poor terrified people
furnished them with matter to work upon.
So hypochondriac fancies represent
Ships, armies, battles in the firmament;
Till steady eyes the exhalations solve,
And all to its first matter, cloud, resolve.
I could fill this account with the strange relations such people
gave every day of what they had seen; and every one was so
positive of their having seen what they pretended to see, that
there was no contradicting them without breach of friendship, or
being accounted rude and unmannerly on the one hand, and profane
and impenetrable on the other. One time before the plague was
begun (otherwise than as I have said in St Giles’s), I think it
was in March, seeing a crowd of people in the street, I joined
with them to satisfy my curiosity, and found them all staring up
into the air to see what a woman told them appeared plain to her,
which was an angel clothed in white, with a fiery sword in his
hand, waving it or brandishing it over his head. She described
every part of the figure to the life, showed them the motion and
the form, and the poor people came into it so eagerly, and with
so much readiness; ‘Yes, I see it all plainly,’ says one;
‘there’s the sword as plain as can be.’ Another saw the angel.
One saw his very face, and cried out what a glorious creature he
was! One saw one thing, and one another. I looked as earnestly as
the rest, but perhaps not with so much willingness to be imposed
upon; and I said, indeed, that I could see nothing but a white
cloud, bright on one side by the shining of the sun upon the
other part. The woman endeavoured to show it me, but could not
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