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 — John Shaqi
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
A watchman, it seems, had been employed to keep his post at the
door of a house which was infected, or said to be infected, and
was shut up. He had been there all night for two nights together,
as he told his story, and the day-watchman had been there one
day, and was now come to relieve him. All this while no noise had
been heard in the house, no light had been seen; they called for
nothing, sent him of no errands, which used to be the chief
business of the watchmen; neither had they given him any
disturbance, as he said, from the Monday afternoon, when he heard
great crying and screaming in the house, which, as he supposed,
was occasioned by some of the family dying just at that time. It
seems, the night before, the dead-cart, as it was called, had
been stopped there, and a servant-maid had been brought down to
the door dead, and the buriers or bearers, as they were called,
put her into the cart, wrapt only in a green rug, and carried her
away.
The watchman had knocked at the door, it seems, when he heard
that noise and crying, as above, and nobody answered a great
while; but at last one looked out and said with an angry, quick
tone, and yet a kind of crying voice, or a voice of one that was
crying, ‘What d’ye want, that ye make such a knocking?’ He
answered, ‘I am the watchman! How do you do? What is the matter?’
The person answered, ‘What is that to you? Stop the dead-cart.’
This, it seems, was about one o’clock. Soon after, as the fellow
said, he stopped the dead-cart, and then knocked again, but
nobody answered. He continued knocking, and the bellman called
out several times, ‘Bring out your dead’; but nobody answered,
till the man that drove the cart, being called to other houses,
would stay no longer, and drove away.
The watchman knew not what to make of all this, so he let them
alone till the morning-man or day-watchman, as they called him,
came to relieve him. Giving him an account of the particulars,
they knocked at the door a great while, but nobody answered; and
they observed that the window or casement at which the person had
looked out who had answered before continued open, being up two
pair of stairs.
Upon this the two men, to satisfy their curiosity, got a long
ladder, and one of them went up to the window and looked into the
room, where he saw a woman lying dead upon the floor in a dismal
manner, having no clothes on her but her shift. But though he
called aloud, and putting in his long staff, knocked hard on the
floor, yet nobody stirred or answered; neither could he hear any
noise in the house.
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