fail to search their pockets, and sometimes strip off their clothes if they were well dressed, as sometimes they were, and carry off what they could get.

12. Much about the same time, I walked out into the fields toward Bow; for I had a great mind to see how things were managed on 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 that are there. for landing or taking water.

13. Here I saw a poor man walking on the bank or sea-wall, as they call it, by himself. I walked awhile 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 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 dead already and the rest sick. Then he, pointing to one house, 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.

14. 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 do here alone? Why, says he, I am a poor desolate man; it hath 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 is 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 dare 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.

15. 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.

16. 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 is 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 it 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.

17. Well, friend, says I, but how can you get money as a waterman? Does anybody 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 to 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.

18. Well, said I, friend, but will they let you come on board after you have been on shore here, when this has been

such a terrible place, and so infected as it is? Why, as to that, said he, I very seldom go up the ship's 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.

19. 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 only now to call my wife, and hear how my little family do, and give them a little money which I received last night.

20. 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 had 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.

21. 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 judgment. 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.

[During this awful visitation, which lasted till December, 1665, at least one hundred thousand persons perished in London alone. Close upon this calamity followed the Great Fire, which raged for three days, and destroyed thirteen thousand two hundred dwelling-houses, besides ninety churches, including St. Paul's Cathedral. At the death of Charles II., his brother, James II., ascended the throne.]

Capture and Execution of Monmouth.-Macaulay.

[A short time after the accession of James II., the Duke of Monmouth, natural son of Charles II., rose in rebellion and assumed the title of king. At the battle of Sedgemoor, his forces were defeated, and he was compelled to flee, being closely pursued by the emissaries of the king, who soon came upon his track (1685). The narrative is continued in the following extract from Macaulay's "History of England."]

1. ATTENTION was soon drawn to a place well fitted to shelter fugitives. It was an extensive tract of land separated by an inclosure from the open country, and divided by numerous hedges into small fields. In some of these fields, the rye, the peas, and the oats were high enough to conceal a man. Others were overgrown with fern and brambles. A poor woman reported that she had seen two strangers lurking in this covert. The near prospect of reward animated the zeal of the troops. It was agreed that every man who did his luty in the search should have a share of the promised five thousand pounds. The outer fence was strictly guarded; the space within was examined with indefatigable diligence; and several dogs of quick scent were turned out among the bushes. The day closed before the work was completed; but careful watch was kept all night. Thirty times the fugitives ventured to look through the outer hedge; but everywhere they found a senti nel on the alert: once they were seen and fired at; they then separated and concealed themselves in different hiding-places.

2. At sunrise the next morning the search recommenced, and Buyse was found. He owned that he had parted from the Duke only a few hours before. The corn and copsewood were now beaten with more care than ever. At length a gaunt figure was discovered hidden in a ditch. The pursuers sprang on their prey. Some of them were about to fire; but Portman forbade all violence. The prisoner's dress was that of a shep. herd; his beard, prematurely grey, was of several days' growth. He trembled greatly, and was unable to speak. Even those who had often seen him were at first in doubt whether this were truly the brilliant and graceful Monmouth. His pockets were searched by Portman, and in them were found, among some raw peas, gathered in the rage of hunger, a watch, a purse of gold, a small treatise on fortification, an album filled with songs, receipts, prayers, and charms, and the George with which, many years before, King Charles the Second had decorated his favorite son. Messengers were instantly dispatched to Whitehall with the good news, and with the George as a token that the news was true. The prisoner was conveyed under a strong

guard to Ringwood.

3. And all was lost; and nothing remained but that he should prepare to meet death as became one who had thought himself not unworthy to wear the crown of William the Conqueror and of Richard the Lion-hearted, of the hero of Crecy, and of the hero of Agincourt. The captive might easily have called to mind other domestic examples, still better suited to his condition. Within a hundred years two sovereigns whose blood ran in his veins, one of them a delicate woman, had been placed in the same situation in which he now stood. They had shown, in the prison and on the scaffold, virtue of which, in the season of prosperity, they had seemed incapable, and had half redeemed great crimes and errors by enduring with Christian meekness and princely dignity all that victorious enemies could inflict. 4. Of cowardice Monmouth had never been accused; and, even had he been wanting in constitutional courage, it might have been expected that the defect would be supplied by pride and by despair. The eyes of the whole world were upon him.