By Daniel Defoe
Defoe's account of the bubonic plague that swept London in 1665 is still as shiny because it is harrowing. according to Defoe's personal youth stories and prodigious examine, A magazine of the Plague Year walks the road among fiction, heritage, and reportage. In meticulous and unsentimental element it renders the way of life of a urban below siege; the customarily ugly clinical precautions and practices of the time; the mass panics of a worried citizenry; and the solitary travails of Defoe's narrator, a guy who makes a decision to stay within the urban via all of it, chronicling the process occasions with an unwavering eye. Defoe's magazine is still possibly the best account of a common catastrophe ever written.
This smooth Library Paperback vintage is decided from the unique version released in 1722.
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Additional resources for A Journal of the Plague Year (Modern Library Classics)
I stood a while, but I had no stomach to go back again to see the same dismal scene over again, so I went directly home, where I could not but consider with thankfulness the risk I had run, believing I had gotten no injury, as indeed I had not. Here the poor unhappy gentleman's grief came into my head again, and indeed I could not but shed tears in the reflection upon it, perhaps more than he did himself; but his case lay so heavy upon my mind that I could not prevail with myself, but that I must go out again into the street, and go to the Pie Tavern, resolving to inquire what became of him.
Into these pits they had put perhaps fifty or sixty bodies each; then they made larger holes wherein they buried all that the cart brought in a week, which, by the middle to the end of August, came to from 200 to 400 a week; and they could not well dig them larger, because of the order of the magistrates confining them to leave no bodies within six feet of the surface; and the water coming on at about seventeen or eighteen feet, they could not well, I say, put more in one pit. But now, at the beginning of September, the plague raging in a dreadful manner, and the number of burials in our parish increasing to more than was ever buried in any parish about London of no larger extent, they ordered this dreadful gulf to be dug--for such it was, rather than a pit.
The buriers ran to him and took him up, and in a little while he came to himself, and they led him away to the Pie Tavern over against the end of Houndsditch, where, it seems, the man was known, and where they took care of him. He looked into the pit again as he went away, but the buriers had covered the bodies so immediately with throwing in earth, that though there was light enough, for there were lanterns, and candles in them, placed all night round the sides of the pit, upon heaps of earth, seven or eight, or perhaps more, yet nothing could be seen.
A Journal of the Plague Year (Modern Library Classics) by Daniel Defoe