DANIEL DEFOE. A JOURNAL OF THE PLAGUE YEAR

be positive whether he said yet forty days or yet a few days. Another

ran about naked, except a pair of drawers about his waist, crying day

and night, like a man that Josephus mentions, who cried, ‘Woe to

Jerusalem!’ a little before the destruction of that city. So this poor

naked creature cried, ‘Oh, the great and the dreadful God!’ and said no

more, but repeated those words continually, with a voice and

countenance full of horror, a swift pace; and nobody could ever find

him to stop or rest, or take any sustenance, at least that ever I could

hear of. I met this poor creature several times in the streets, and

would have spoken to him, but he would not enter into speech with

me or any one else, but held on his dismal cries continually.

These things terrified the people to the last degree, and especially

when two or three times, as I have mentioned already, they found one

or two in the bills dead of the plague at St Giles’s.

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 make me confess that I saw it, which, indeed, if I had I must

have lied. But the woman, turning upon me, looked in my face, and

fancied I laughed, in which her imagination deceived her too, for I

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