THE DECLINE OF THE PLAGUE

More than two months must be passed over in silence.  During that time, the pestilence had so greatly abated as no longer to occasion alarm to those who had escaped its ravages.  It has been mentioned that the distemper arrived at its height about the 10th of September, and though for the two following weeks the decline was scarcely perceptible, yet it had already commenced.  On the last week in that fatal month, when all hope had been abandoned, the bills of mortality suddenly decreased in number to one thousand eight hundred and thirty-four.  And this fortunate change could not be attributed to the want of materials to act upon, for the sick continued as numerous as before, while the deaths were less frequent.  In the next week there was a further decrease of six hundred; in the next after that of six hundred; and so on till the end of October, when, the cold weather setting in, the amount was reduced to nearly one thousand.

At first, when the distemper began to lose somewhat of its malignancy, a few scared individuals appeared in the streets, but carefully shunned each other.  In a few days, however, considerable numbers joined them, and for the first time for nearly three months there was something like life abroad.  It is astonishing how soon hope and confidence are revived.  Now that it could no longer be doubted that the plague was on the decline, it seemed as if a miracle had been performed in favour of the city.  Houses were opened shopkeepers resumed their business and it was a marvel to every one that so many persons were left alive.  Dejection and despair of the darkest kind were succeeded by frenzied delight, and no bound was put to the public satisfaction.  Strangers stopped each other in the streets, and conversed together like old friends.  The bells, that had grown hoarse with tolling funerals, were now cracked with joyous peals.  The general joy extended even to the sick, and many, buoyed up by hope, recovered, when in the former season of despondency they would inevitably have perished.  All fear of the plague seemed to vanish with the flying disorder.  Those who were scarcely out of danger joined in the throng, and it was no uncommon sight to see men with bandages round their necks, or supported by staves and crutches, shaking hands with their friends, and even embracing them.

The consequence of this incautious conduct may be easily foreseen.  The plague had received too severe a check to burst forth anew; but it spread further than it otherwise would have done, and attacked many persons, who but for their own imprudence would have escaped.  Amongst others, a barber in Saint Martin’s-lé-Grand, who had fled into the country in August, returned to his shop in the middle of October, and, catching the disorder from one of his customers, perished with the whole of his family.

But these, and several other equally fatal instances, produced no effect on the multitude.  Fully persuaded that the virulence of the disorder was exhausted as, indeed, appeared to be the case they gave free scope to their satisfaction, which was greater than was ever experienced by the inhabitants of a besieged city reduced by famine to the last strait of despair, and suddenly restored to freedom and plenty.  The more pious part of the community thronged to the churches, from which they had been so long absent, and returned thanks for their unexpected deliverance.  Others, who had been terrified into seriousness and devotion, speedily forgot their former terrors, and resumed their old habits.  Profaneness and debauchery again prevailed, and the taverns were as well filled as the churches.  Solomon Eagle continued his midnight courses through the streets; but he could no longer find an audience as before.  Those who listened to him only laughed at his denunciations of a new judgment, and told him his preachings and prophesyings were now completely out of date.

By this time numbers of those who had quitted London having returned to it, the streets began to resume their wonted appearance.  The utmost care was taken by the authorities to cleanse and purify the houses, in order to remove all chance of keeping alive the infection.  Every room in every habitation where a person had died of the plague and there were few that had escaped the visitation was ordered to be whitewashed, and the strongest fumigations were employed to remove the pestilential effluvia.  Brimstone, resin, and pitch were burnt in the houses of the poor; benjamín, myrrh, and other more expensive perfumes in those of the rich; while vast quantities of powder were consumed in creating blasts to carry off the foul air.  Large and constant fires were kept in all the houses, and several were burnt down in consequence of the negligence of their owners.

All goods, clothes, and bedding, capable of harbouring infection, were condemned to be publicly burned, and vast bonfires were lighted in Finsbury Fields and elsewhere, into which many hundred cart-loads of such articles were thrown.  The whole of Chowles’s hoard, except the plate, which he managed, with Judith’s aid, to carry off and conceal in certain hiding-places in the vaults of Saint Faith’s, was taken from the house in Nicholas-lane, and cast into the fire.

The cathedral was one of the first places ordered to be purified.  The pallets of the sick were removed and burned, and all the stains and impurities with which its floor and columns were polluted were cleansed.  Nothing was left untried to free it from infection.  It was washed throughout with vinegar, fumigated with the strongest scents, and several large barrels of pitch were set fire to in the aisles.”

“It shall undergo another species of purification,” said Solomon Eagle, who was present during these proceedings; “one that shall search every nook within it shall embrace all those columns, and pierce every crack and crevice in those sculptured ornaments; and then, and not till then, will it be thoroughly cleansed.”

During all this time the grocer had not opened his dwelling.  The wisdom of this plan was now made fully apparent.  The plague was declining fast, and not an inmate of his house had been attacked by it.  Soon after the melancholy occurrence, he had been informed by Doctor Hodges of Amabel’s death; but the humane physician concealed from him the painful circumstances under which it occurred.  It required all Mr. Bloundel’s fortitude to support him under the shock of this intelligence, and he did not communicate the afflicting tidings to his wife until he had prepared her for their reception.  But she bore them better than he had anticipated; and though she mourned her daughter deeply and truly, she appeared completely resigned to the loss.  Sorrow pervaded the whole household for some weeks; and the grocer, who never relaxed his system, shrouded his sufferings under the appearance of additional austerity of manner.  It would have been a great consolation to him to see Leonard Holt; but the apprentice had disappeared; and even Doctor Hodges could give no account of him.

One night, in the middle of November, Mr. Bloundel signified to his wife his intention of going forth, early on the following morning, to satisfy himself that the plague was really abating.  Accordingly, after he had finished his devotions, and broken his fast, he put his design into execution.  His first act, after locking the door behind him, which he did as a measure of precaution, was to fall on his knees and offer up prayers to Heaven for his signal preservation.  He then arose, and, stepping into the middle of the street, gazed at the habitation which had formed his prison and refuge for nearly six months.  There it was, with its shutters closed and barred a secure asylum, with all alive within it, while every other dwelling in the street was desolate.

The grocer’s sensations were novel and extraordinary.  His first impulse was to enjoy his newly-recovered freedom, and to put himself into active motion.  But he checked the feeling as sinful, and proceeded along the street at a slow pace.  He did not meet a single person, until he reached Cheapside, where he found matters completely changed.  Several shops were already opened, and there were a few carts and other vehicles tracking their way through the broad and yet grass-grown street.  It was a clear, frosty morning, and there was a healthful feel in the bracing atmosphere that produced an exhilarating effect on the spirits.  The grocer pursued his course through the middle of the street, carefully avoiding all contact with such persons as he encountered, though he cordially returned their greetings, and wandered on, scarcely knowing whither he was going, but deeply interested in all he beheld.

The aspect of the city was indeed most curious.  The houses were for the most part unoccupied the streets overgrown with grass while every object, animate and inanimate, bore some marks of the recent visitation.  Still, all looked hopeful, and the grocer could not doubt that the worst was past.  The different demeanour of the various individuals he met struck him.  Now he passed a young man whistling cheerily, who saluted him, and said, “I have lost my sweetheart by the plague, but I shall soon get another.”  The next was a grave man, who muttered, “I have lost all,” and walked pensively on.  Then came others in different moods; but all concurred in thinking that the plague was at an end; and the grocer derived additional confirmation of the fact from meeting numerous carts and other vehicles bringing families back to their houses from the country.

After roaming about for several hours, and pondering on all he saw, he found himself before the great western entrance of Saint Paul’s.  It chanced to be the morning on which the pallets and bedding were brought forth, and he watched the proceeding at a distance.  All had been removed, and he was about to depart, when he perceived a person seated on a block of stone, not far from him, whom he instantly recognised.  “Leonard,” he cried “Leonard Holt, is it you?”

Thus addressed, and in these familiar tones, the apprentice looked up, and Mr. Bloundel started at the change that had taken place in him.  Profound grief was written in every line of his thin and haggard countenance; his eyes were hollow, and had the most melancholy expression imaginable; and his flesh was wasted away from the bone.  He looked the very image of hopeless affliction.

“I am sorry to find you in this state, Leonard,” said the grocer, in a tone of deep commiseration; “but I am well aware of the cause.  I myself have suffered severely; but I deem it my duty to control my affliction.”

“I would control it, if it were possible, Mr. Bloundel,” replied Leonard.  “But hope is dead in my breast.  I shall never be happy again.”

“I trust otherwise,” replied the grocer, kindly.  “Your trials have been very great, and so were those of the poor creature we both of us deplore.  But she is at peace, and therefore we need not lament her.”

“Alas!” exclaimed Leonard, mournfully, “I am now only anxious to rejoin her.”

“It is selfish, if not sinful, to grieve in this way,” rejoined Mr. Bloundel, somewhat sternly.  “You must bear your sorrows like a man.  Come home with me.  I will be a father to you.  Nay, do not hesitate.  I will have no refusal.”

So saying, he took Leonard’s arm, and led him in the direction of Wood-street.  Nothing passed between them on the way, nor did Leonard evince any further emotion until he entered the door of the grocer’s dwelling, when he uttered a deep groan.  Mrs. Bloundel was greatly affected at seeing him, as were the rest of the family, and abundance of tears were shed by all, except Mr. Bloundel, who maintained his customary stoical demeanour throughout the meeting.

Satisfied that the pestilence had not declined sufficiently to warrant him in opening his house, the grocer determined to await the result of a few weeks.  Indeed, that very night, he had reason to think he had defeated his plans by precipitancy.  While sitting after prayers with his family, he was seized with a sudden shivering and sickness, which he could not doubt were the precursors of the plague.  He was greatly alarmed, but did not lose his command over himself.

“I have been most imprudent,” he said, “in thus exposing myself to infection.  I have symptoms of the plague about me, and will instantly repair to one of the upper rooms which I have laid aside as an hospital, in case of any emergency like the present.  None of you must attend me.  Leonard will fetch Doctor Hodges and a nurse.  I shall then do very well.  Farewell, dear wife and children!  God bless you all, and watch over you.  Remember me in your prayers.”  So saying, he arose and walked towards the door.  His wife and eldest son would have assisted him, but he motioned them away.

“Let me go with you, sir,” cried Leonard, who had arisen with the others; “I will nurse you; my life is of little consequence, and I cannot be more satisfactorily employed.”

The grocer reluctantly assented, and the apprentice assisted him upstairs, and helped to place him in bed.  No plague-token could be found about his person, but as the same alarming symptoms still continued, Leonard administered such remedies as he thought needful, and then went in search of Doctor Hodges.

On reaching Watling-street, he found Doctor Hodges about to retire to rest.  The worthy physician was greatly distressed by the apprentice’s account of his master’s illness; but was somewhat reassured when the symptoms were more minutely described to him.  While preparing certain medicines, and arming himself with his surgical implements, he questioned Leonard as to the cause of his long disappearance.  “Having seen nothing of you,” he said, “since the fatal night when our poor Amabel’s sorrows were ended, I began to feel very apprehensive on your account.  Where have you been?”

“You shall hear,” replied Leonard, “though the relation will be like opening my wounds afresh.  On recovering from the terrible shock I had received, I found myself stretched upon a bed in a house whither I had been conveyed by Rainbird the watchman, who had discovered me lying in a state of insensibility in the street.  For nearly a week I continued delirious, and should, probably, have lost my senses altogether but for the attentions of the watchman.  As soon as I was able to move, I wandered to the lesser plague-pit, in Finsbury Fields, you will guess with what intent.  My heart seemed breaking, and I thought I should pour forth my very soul in grief, as I gazed into that dreadful gulf, and thought she was there interred.  Still my tears were a relief.  Every evening, for a month, I went to that sad spot, and remained there till daybreak admonished me to return to Rainbird’s dwelling.  At last, he was seized by the distemper; but though I nursed him, voluntarily exposing myself to infection, and praying to be carried off, I remained untouched.  Poor Rainbird died; and having seen his body thrown into the pit, I set off into Berkshire, and after three days’ toilsome travel on foot, reached Ashdown Park.  It was a melancholy pleasure to behold the abode where she I had loved passed her last few days of happiness, and where I had been near her.  Her aunt, good Mrs. Buscot, though overwhelmed by affliction at the sad tidings I brought her, received me with the utmost kindness, and tried to console me.  My sorrow, however, was too deeply seated to be removed.  Wandering over the downs, I visited Mrs. Compton at Kingston Lisle, from whose house Amabel was carried off by the perfidious earl.  She, also, received me with kindness, and strove, like Mrs. Buscot, to comfort me, and, like her, ineffectually.  Finding my strength declining, and persuaded that my days were drawing to a close, I retraced my steps to London, hoping to find a final resting-place near her I had loved.”

“You are, indeed, faithful to the grave, Leonard,” said the physician, brushing away a tear; “and I never heard or read of affection stronger than yours.  Sorrow is a great purifier, and you will come out all the better for your trial.  You are yet young, and though you never can love as you have loved, a second time, your heart is not utterly seared.”

“Utterly, sir,” echoed Leonard, “utterly.”

“You think so, now,” rejoined the physician.  “But you will find it otherwise hereafter.  I can tell you of one person who has suffered almost as much from your absence as you have done for the loss of Amabel.  The Lady Isabella Argentine has made constant inquiries after you; and though I should be the last person to try to rouse you from your present state of despondency, by awakening hopes of alliance with the sister of a proud noble, yet it may afford you consolation to know that she still cherishes the warmest regard for you.”

“I am grateful to her,” replied Leonard, sadly, but without exhibiting any other emotion.  “She was dear to Amabel, and therefore will be ever dear to me.  I would fain know,” he added, his brow suddenly contracting, and his lip quivering, “what has become of the Earl of Rochester?”

“He has married a wealthy heiress, the fair Mistress Mallet,” replied Hodges.

“Married, and so soon!” cried Leonard.  “And he has quite forgotten his victim?”

“Apparently so,” replied the doctor, with an expression of disgust.

“And it was for one who so lightly regarded her that she sacrificed herself,” groaned Leonard, his head dropping upon his breast.

“Come,” cried Hodges, taking his arm, and leading him out of the room; “we must go and look after your master.”

With this, they made the best of their way to Wood-street.  Arrived at the grocer’s house, they went upstairs, and Hodges immediately pronounced Mr. Bloundel to be suffering from a slight feverish attack, which a sudorific powder would remove.  Having administered the remedy, he descended to the lower room to allay the fears of the family.  Mrs. Bloundel received the happy tidings with tears of joy, and the doctor remained a short time to condole with her on the loss she had sustained.  The good dame wept bitterly on hearing the whole particulars, with which she had been hitherto unacquainted, attending her daughter’s untimely death, but she soon regained her composure.  They then spoke of Leonard, who had remained above with his master, of his blighted hopes, and seemingly incurable affliction.

“His is true love, indeed, doctor,” sighed Mrs. Bloundel.  “Pity it is that it could not be requited.”

“I know not how it is,” rejoined Hodges, “and will not question the decrees of our All-Wise Ruler, but the strongest affection seldom, if ever, meets a return.  Leonard himself was insensible to the devotion of one, of whom I may say, without disparagement to our poor Amabel, that she was, in my opinion, her superior in beauty.”

“And does this person love him still?” inquired Mrs. Bloundel, eagerly.  “I ask, because I regard him as a son, and earnestly desire to restore him to happiness.”

“Alas!” exclaimed Hodges, “there are obstacles in the way that cannot be removed.  We must endeavour to cure him of his grief in some other way.”

The conversation then dropped, and Hodges took his leave, promising to return on the morrow, and assuring Mrs. Bloundel that she need be under no further apprehension about her husband.  And so it proved.  The powders removed all the grocer’s feverish symptoms, and when Doctor Hodges made his appearance the next day, he found him dressed, and ready to go downstairs.  Having received the physician’s congratulations on his entire recovery, Mr. Bloundel inquired from him when he thought he might with entire safety open his shop.  Hodges considered for a moment, and then replied, “I do not see any great risk in doing so now, but I would advise you to defer the step for a fortnight.  I would, also, recommend you to take the whole of your family for a short time into the country.  Pure air and change of scene are absolutely necessary after their long confinement.”

“Farmer Wingfield, of Kensal-Green, who sheltered us on our way down to Ashdown Park, will, I am sure, receive you,” observed Leonard.

“If so, you cannot go to a better place,” rejoined the physician.

“I will think of it,” returned Mr. Bloundel.  And leading the way downstairs, he was welcomed by his wife and children with the warmest demonstrations of delight.

“My fears, you perceive, were groundless,” he remarked to Mrs. Bloundel.

“Heaven be praised, they were so!” she rejoined.  “But I entreat you not to go forth again till all danger is at an end.”

“Rest assured I will not,” he answered.  Soon after this, Doctor Hodges took his leave, and had already reached the street-door, when he was arrested by Patience, who inquired with much anxiety whether he knew anything of Blaize.

“Make yourself easy about him, child,” replied the doctor; “I am pretty sure he is safe and sound.  He has had the plague, certainly; but he left the hospital at Saint Paul’s cured.

“O then I shall see him again,” cried Patience, joyfully.  “Poor dear little fellow, it would break my heart to lose him.”

“I will make inquiries about him,” rejoined Hodges, “and if I can find him, will send him home.”  And without waiting to receive the kitchen-maid’s thanks, he departed.

For some days the grocer continued to pursue pretty nearly the same line of conduct that he had adopted during the height of the pestilence.  But he did not neglect to make preparations for resuming his business; and here Leonard was of material assistance to him.  They often spoke of Amabel, and Mr. Bloundel strove, by every argument he was master of, to remove the weight of affliction under which his apprentice laboured.  He so far succeeded that Leonard’s health improved, though he still seemed a prey to secret sorrow.  Things were in this state, when one day a knock was heard at the street-door, and the summons being answered by the grocer’s eldest son, Stephen, he returned with the intelligence that a person was without who desired to see Patience.  After some consideration, Mr. Bloundel summoned the kitchen-maid, and told her she might admit the stranger into the passage, and hear what he had to say.  Patience hastened with a beating heart to the door, expecting to learn some tidings of Blaize, and opening it, admitted a man wrapped in a large cloak and having a broad-leaved hat pulled over his brows.  Stepping into the passage, he threw aside the cloak and raised the hat, discovering the figure and features of Pillichody.

“What brings you here, sir?” demanded Patience, in alarm, and glancing over her shoulder to see whether any one observed them.  “What do you want?”

“I have brought you news of Blaize,” returned the bully.  “But how charmingly you look.  By the coral lips of Venus! your long confinement has added to your attractions.”

“Never mind my attractions, sir,” rejoined Patience, impatiently.  “Where is Blaize?  Why did he not come with you?”

“Alas!” replied Pillichody, shaking his head in a melancholy manner, “he could not.”

“Could not!” half screamed Patience.  “Why not?”

“Do not question me,” replied Pillichody, feigning to brush away a tear.  “He was my friend, and I would rather banish him from my memory.  The sight of your beauty transports me so, that, by the treasures of Croesus!  I would rather have you without a crown than the wealthiest widow in the country.”

“Don’t talk nonsense to me in this way,” sobbed Patience “I’m not in the humour for it.”

“Nonsense!” echoed Pillichody.  “I swear to you I am in earnest.  By Cupid!  I am ravished with your charms.”  And he would have seized her hand, but Patience hastily withdrew it; and, provoked at his impertinence, dealt him a sound box on the ear.  As she did this, she thought she heard a suppressed laugh near her, and looked round, but could see no one.  The sound certainly did not proceed from Pillichody, for he looked very red and very angry.

“Do not repeat this affront, mistress,” he said to her.  “I can bear anything but a blow from your sex.”

“Then tell me what has become of Blaize,” she cried.

“I will no longer spare your feelings,” he rejoined.  “He is defunct.”

“Defunct!” echoed Patience, with a scream.  “Oh, dear me! I shall never survive it I shall die.”

“Not while I am left to supply his place,” cried Pillichody, catching her in his arms.

“You!” cried Patience, contemptuously; “I would not have you for the world.  Where is he buried?”

“In the plague-pit,” replied Pillichody.  “I attended him during his illness.  It was his second attack of the disorder.  He spoke of you.”

“Did he? dear little fellow!” she exclaimed.  “Oh, what did he say?”

“‘Tell her,’ he cried,” rejoined Pillichody, “’that my last thoughts were of her.’”

“Oh, dear! oh, dear!” cried Patience, hysterically.

“‘Tell her also,’ he added,” pursued Pillichody, “’that I trust she will fulfil my last injunction.’”

“That I will,” replied Patience.  “Name it.”

“He conjured you to marry me,” replied Pillichody.  “I am sure you will not hesitate to comply with the request.”

“I don’t believe a word of this,” cried Patience.  “Blaize was a great deal too jealous to bequeath me to another.”

“Right, sweetheart, right,” cried the individual in question, pushing open the door.  “This has all been done to try your fidelity.  I am now fully satisfied with your attachment; and am ready to marry you whenever you please.”

“So this was all a trick,” cried Patience, pettishly; “I wish I had known it, I would have retaliated upon you nicely.  You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Major Pillichody, to lend a helping-hand in such a ridiculous affair.”

“I did it to oblige my friend Blaize,” replied Pillichody.  “It was agreed between us that if you showed any inconstancy, you were to be mine.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Patience.  “I would not advise you to repeat the experiment, Mr. Blaize.”

“I never intend to do so, my angel,” replied the porter.  “I esteem myself the happiest and most fortunate of men.”

“You have great reason to do so,” observed Pillichody.  “I do not despair of supplanting him yet,” he muttered to himself.  “And now, farewell!” he added aloud; “I am only in the way, and besides, I have no particular desire to encounter Mr. Bloundel or his apprentice;” and winking his solitary orb significantly at Patience, he strutted away.  It was well he took that opportunity of departing, for the lovers’ raptures were instantly afterwards interrupted by the appearance of Mr. Bloundel, who was greatly delighted to see the porter, and gave him a hearty welcome.

“Ah, sir, I have had a narrow escape,” cried Blaize, “and never more expected to see you, or my mother, or Patience.  I have had the plague, sir, and a terrible disorder it is.”

“I heard or your seizure from Leonard Holt,” replied Mr. Bloundel.  “But where have you been since you left the hospital at Saint Paul’s?”

“In the country, sir,” rejoined Blaize; “sometimes at one farm-house, and sometimes at another.  I only returned to London yesterday, and met an old friend, whom I begged to go before me, and see that all was right before I ventured, in.”

“We have all been providentially spared,” observed Mr. Bloundel, “and you will find your mother as well as when you last quitted her.  You had better go to her.”

Blaize obeyed, and was received by old Josyna with a scream of delight.  Having embraced him, and sobbed over him, she ran for a bottle of sack, and poured its contents down his throat so hastily as nearly to choke him.  She then spread abundance of eatables before him, and after he had eaten and drank his full, offered him as a treat a little of the plague medicine which she had in reserve.

“No, thank you, mother,” replied Blaize.  “I have had enough of that.  But if there should be a box of rufuses amongst the store, you can bring it, as I think a couple might do me good.”

Three days after this event, the apprentice was sent forth to ascertain the precise state of the city, as, if all proved favourable, the grocer proposed to open his house on the following day.  Leonard set out betimes, and was speedily convinced that all danger was at an end.  A severe frost had set in, and had completely purified the air.  For the last few days there had been no deaths of the plague, and but little mortality of any kind.  Leonard traversed several of the main streets, and some narrow thoroughfares, and found evidences of restored health and confidence everywhere.  It is true there were many houses, in which whole families had been swept off, still left untenanted.  But these were only memorials of the past calamity, and could not be referred to any existing danger.  Before returning to Wood-street, an irresistible impulse led him to Finsbury Fields.  He passed through the postern east of Cripplegate, and shaped his way towards the lesser plague-pit.  The sun, which had been bright all the morning, was now partially obscured; the air had grown thick, and a little snow fell.  The ground was blackened and bound by the hard frost, and the stiffened grass felt crisp beneath his feet.  Insensible to all external circumstances, he hurried forward, taking the most direct course, and leaping every impediment in his path.  Having crossed several fields, he at length stood before a swollen heap of clay, round which a wooden railing was placed.  Springing over the enclosure, and uttering a wild cry that evinced the uncontrollable anguish of his breast, he flung himself upon the mound.  He remained for some time in the deepest affliction, and was at last roused by. a hand laid upon his shoulder, and, raising himself, beheld Thirlby.

“I thought it must be you,” said the new comer, in accents of the deepest commiseration.  “I have been visiting yonder plague-pit for the same melancholy purpose as yourself, to mourn over my lost child.  I have been in search of you, and have much to say to you.  Will you meet me in this place at midnight tomorrow?” Leonard signified his assent.

“I am in danger,” pursued Thirlby, “for, by some means, the secret of my existence has been made known, and the officers of justice are in pursuit of me.  I suspect that Judith Malmayns is my betrayer.  You will not fail me?”

“I will not,” returned Leonard.  Upon this, Thirlby hurried away, and leaping a hedge, disappeared from view.

Leonard slowly and sorrowfully returned to Wood-street.  On arriving there, he assured his master that he might with entire safety open his house, as he proposed, on the morrow; and Doctor Hodges, who visited the grocer the same evening, confirmed the opinion.  Early, therefore, the next morning, Mr. Bloundel summoned his family to prayers; and after pouring forth his supplications with peculiar fervour and solemnity, he went, accompanied by them all, and threw open the street-door.  Again, kneeling down at the threshold, he prayed fervently, as before.  He then proceeded to remove the bars and shutters from the windows.  The transition from gloom and darkness to bright daylight was almost overpowering.  For the first time for six months, the imprisoned family looked forth on the external world, and were dazzled and bewildered by the sight.  The grocer himself, despite his sober judgment, could scarcely believe he had not been in a trance during the whole period.  The shop was scarcely opened before it was filled with customers, and Leonard and Stephen were instantly employed.  But the grocer would sell nothing.  To those who asked for any article he possessed, he presented them with it, but would receive no payment.

He next dispatched Blaize to bring together all the poor he could find, and distributed among them the remainder of his store his casks of flour, his salted meat, his cheeses, his biscuits, his wine in short, all that was left.

“This I give,” he said, “as a thanksgiving to the Lord, and as a humble testimony of gratitude for my signal deliverance.”