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The History and Antiquities of Eyam
By William Wood (1842, 1845 & 1860)

The Plague: July 1665 - August 1666

JULY saw the rage of the pest in a form really terrific. Dreadful wailings burst forth from every side; and the countenances of the few who ventured abroad were deeply impressed with the visible signs of inward horror.The village was unfrequented; it stood, as it were, out of the world; none came to sympathise with its suffering inhabitants: no traveller passed through the lonely street during that awful time! It was regarded and avoided as the valley of death! Horror and destruction rode and marked the boundary of the dreadful place. On the clouds that hung gloomily over the village, imagination might see written " Pestilence and Death;" at which terrific inscription the approaching stranger turned aside and precipitately fled. Thus, helpless and alone, perished the villagers of Eyam.

"Struck by turns, in solitary pangs They fell, unblest, untended, and unmourned."

- THOMSON

It is impossible for pen to describe, or imagination to conceive, the unspeakable distress of those who resided in that part of the village, and in those houses, where the plague raged with the greatest violence. Some dwellings, in July, and especially in August, contained at the same moment both the dying and the dead. In one house a victim was struggling with death, while they were hurrying another therefrom to a grave in the fields. In the next a few were anxiously watching for the last convulsive gasp, that the body might be instantly interred, and that "so much of the disease might be buried and its influence destroyed." The open day witnessed the putrid bodies of the victims pass along the street; and sable night was startled at the frequent footsteps of the buriers of the dead. The horrid symptom of the last stage of the disease in almost every victim, was the signal for digging a grave, or rather hole, to which the deceased, placed on the first thing at hand, or more frequently dragged along the ground, was speedily hurried and buried with inconceivable precipitation; "even while the limbs were yet warm, and almost palpitating with life." So anxious were they for immediate interment, that some were buried close by their cottage doors, and it is said, some close behind the very houses in which they died. In this state of things passed day after day, and week after week.The terrified villagers had for some time past forsaken their wonted occupations; the untended cattle lowed mournfully on the neighbouring hills; the fields and gardens became a wilderness; and family feuds and personal animosities sank into oblivion!

Every family up to July, or perhaps the latter end of June, had been, from dire necessity, compelled to bury its own dead; for no one would touch or even glance at a corpse that did not belong to his own house or family. But when, as was now frequently the case, the last of a family died, or when one died in a house and others were dying, some person was necessitated, however dangerous the task, to undertake the removal of the unsightly corpse, and immediately bury it. For this hazardous but necessary purpose, the All-wise Providence had endowed with sufficient nerve, hardihood and indifference, the person of Marshall Howe, a native of the village, a man of gigantic stature, and of the most undaunted courage. The daring conduct of this individual, in that terrible time, has rendered his name familiar with the villagers of Eyam to the present day. During the greatest fury of the plague, he filled the fearful office of burier of the dead. It appears, however, that he took the distemper nearly at the time of its first appearance, but recovered; and to the belief that a person was never attacked twice, much of his intrepidity may be ascribed. Covetousness or avarice seems to have instigated him, in part, to undertake his perilous vocation. When he learnt that a person was dying without relatives to take charge of interment, he immediately proceeded to a garden or adjoining field, and opened a grave; then hastened to the house where the victim lay, perhaps warm with life, and tying one end of a cord round the neck or feet of the corpse, he dragged the body to the grave, and with "an unhallowed haste" lightly covering it with earth. The money, furniture, clothes,and other effects of the deceased were his unenviable remuneration. For nearly three months he was thus employed. Through burying the last victims of the pest-houses, he claimed and took whatever he found therein; and, in alluding to the quantity of small clothes he had thus obtained, he jocularly observed that "he had pinners and napkins sufficient to kindle his pipe with while he lived." Such was the awful occupation of Marshall Howe, during the most horrible ravages of the plague; he, however, tasted the bitter draught by burying, with his own hands, his wife, on the twenty-seventh, and his son on the thirtieth of August of the fatal 1666. For a generation or two after the plague, parents in Eyam endeavoured to bring their children to rule and obedience by telling them that they would send for Marshall Howe.

JULY 1666

(Dates of interments and names of sufferers.)

Elizabeth Heald July 2^nd.

William Lowe July 2^nd.

Eleanor Lowe (his wife) July 3^rd.

Deborah Ealott July 3^rd.

George Darby July 4^th.

Anna Coyle July 5^th.

Briget Talbot, Riley July 5^th.

Mary Talbot, Riley July 5^th.

John Dannyel July 5^th.

Elizabeth Swanna July 6^th.

Mary Thornley July 6^th.

John Townsend July 7^th.

Ann Talbot, Riley July 7^th.

Francis Wragge July 8^th.

Elizabeth Thorpe July 8^th.

Elizabeth Lowe July 9^th.

Edytha Torre July 9^th.

Anne Lowe July 13^th.

Margret Teylor July 14^th.

Alice Thornley July 16^th.

Jane Naylor July 16^th.

Edytha Barkinge July 17^th.

Elizabeth Thornley July 17^th.

Jane Talbot July 17^th.

Robert Whyteley July 18^th.

Catherine Talbot July 18^th.

Thomas Heald July 18^th.

Robert Torre July 18^th.

George Short July 18^th.

Thomas Ashe July 18^th.

William Thornley July 19^th.

Francis Wood July 22^nd.

Thomas Thorpe July 22^nd.

Robert Thorpe July 22^nd.

Robert Talbot July 24^th.

Joan Nealor July 25^th.

Thomas Healley July 25^th.

Richard Talbot July 25^th.

John Nealor July 26^th.

Joan Talbot July 26^th.

Ruth Talbot July 26^th.

Anna Chapman July 26^th.

Lydia Chapman July 26^th.

Margret Allen July 29^th.

John Torre July 29^th.

Samuel Ealott July 29^th.

Rowland Mower July 29^th.

Thomas Barkinge July 30^th.

Nicholas Whitby July 30^th.

Jonathan Talbot July 30^th.

Mary Whitby July 30^th.

Rowland Mower July 30^th.

Robert Kempe,

Shepherds' Flat July 30^th.

Sarah Ealott July 31^st.

Joseph Allen July 31^st.

Ann Mortin, Bretton July 31^st.

---

AUGUST, however, was the month in which the pest bared his arm for the most deadly slaughter. Distraction overwhelmed the hourly diminishing villagers; some lay in a death-like stupor, anticipating their doom; others ran about the streets in a state of madness, until they suddenly dropped down dead. From every house that was not empty, loud and dismal cries issued forth, mixed with violent exclamations of pain; and, as Ossian sings," the groan of the people spread over the hills." The swellings in the neck and groin of the patient became insufferable when they would not burst, and the torment was unspeakably excruciating. All now expected death; no one cherished a hope of escape; and a mournful gloom settled on the features of the few who ventured to pace the lonely street. Those who fetched the victuals and other articles from the stated places, were marked on the brow by sullen despair; and even

"The very children had imbibed a look Of such unutterable woe, as told A tale of sorrows indescribable."

- ROBERTS

As this fatal month advanced, the mortality increased with inconceivable violence. The wakes,or feast came on again, but alas! alas! how awful the change! The remaining few thought not of their wonted joy; they breathed not its name, for all their thoughts were full of death! The festive Sunday passed away, with all the stillness of the grave; none watched for the arrival of relations and friends; no village choristers assembled at the Church; nor did the cheerful bells call aloud to the hills to be merry and glad. Nearly all who had danced upon the village-green at the last anniversary of this, till then, happy time, were now laid, uncoffined, in their graves.

Towards the latter end of August, near four-fifths of the inhabitants had been swept away. Mompesson, during the whole time, unremittingly went from house to house, comforting, as much as possible, his dying flock. He, however, was an "ailing man," and had an issue in his leg. One day his beloved wife observed a green ichor issuing from the wound, which she conceived to be the result of his having taken the distemper, and its having found vent that way. Great was her joy on this occasion; and although Mompesson thought she was mistaken, yet he, as we shall see in his letter to his children, fully and duly appreciated her extreme anxiety for his welfare. This admirable and worthy man was now destined to drink deep of the sickening cup which had been passing round the village. Catherine, his beloved partner, had for some time shown symptoms of pulmonary consumption. She is represented to have been exceedingly beautiful, though very delicate. There is a very current tradition in the village, that on, or a little before the twenty-second of August, 1666, Mompesson and his wife were walking arm-in-arm in the fields adjoining the Rectory, as had been their custom in the morning during some months in the spring, hoping that the air would restore her to convalescence. During this walk she had been dwelling on her usual theme- their absent children, when, just as they were leaving the last field for their habitation, she suddenly exclaimed: "Oh! Mompesson! the air! how sweet it smells!" These words went through the very soul of Mompesson, and his heart sank within him. He made some evasive reply, and they entered their dwelling. The lapse of a few hours confirmed his fearful anticipation from her remark in the fields : she had taken the distemper.

* There is a current tradition in the little hamlet of Curbar (two miles south-east of Eyam), that when the plague raged there in 1632, a woman named Sheldon, on leaving a house where some person was suffering of the plague, said to her husband who was accompanying her home, "Oh! my dear, how sweet the air smells!" She took the distemper and died. This sensation and exclamation, compared with Mrs. Mompesson's, afford a most striking coincidence.

---

Mompesson seemed for awhile unable to stand the terrible shock; he stood at her bedside a statue of despair. He, however, after the first paroxysm of grief was past, began with a fortitude unexampled, to use every means imaginable to arrest the progress of the disease. Cordials and chemical antidotes were administered by his own hand; but alas! in vain. She struggled with the invincible pest for a few days, when her spirit took its flight to the regions of bliss. Mompesson cast himself beside her putrid corpse; and in the agony of despair bathed her cold and pallid face with burning tears. The domestics came and led him faltering away; yet, ere he left the room he turned, and, sobbing, cried "Farewell! farewell! all happy days!" He repaired to his closet, and on his bended knees lifted up his voice to heaven; while

"One lightning-winged cry Shot through the hamlet; and a wailing grew, Wilder than when the plague-fiend first drew nigh, One troublous hour,- and from all quarters fly The wretched remnant, who had ceased to weep; But sorrow, which had drained their bosoms dry, Found yet fresh fountains in the spirit deep, Wringing out burning tears that loved one's couch to steep."

- WILLIAM AND MARY HOWITT

She, who a few days past had been so lovely and beautiful, was now a livid corpse; she, who had been the object of every attention, now lay lone and still, guarded from every eye by dreadful apprehension.

"Ah! then Mompesson felt What human tongue nor poet's pen must feign- Quick to the grave the kindred earth was given With e'en affection's last sad pledge forgone, The mortal kiss- for round those blighted lips, Exhaled the lingering spirit of the pest. As if in triumph o'er all that was once So lovely and beloved."

- HOLLAND

Thus, this lovely and amiable woman fell a victim to the plague, in the twenty-seventh year of her age. Her resolution to abide with her husband in defiance of death, is a striking instance of the strength and purity of female affection. She was interred August the twenty-fifth, 1666, in the Churchyard at Eyam. Over her ashes her loving and truly affectionate husband erected a splendid tomb, which, with its inscription and devices, will be hereafter described.

Great as was the calamity that had visited and was still visiting almost every family in the fated village- terrible as was the devastation of the pestilence in August- yet the very few inhabitants who were left nearly forgot their own sufferings and distress in the death of Mrs. Mompesson. They had witnessed in her worthy husband so much sympathy and benevolence, so much attention and humane feeling, that they regarded him as their counsellor, physician and friend; and hence their participation in his sorrow for the loss of his lovely and amiable wife. The trying situation, the lacerated feelings of this incomparable man, will be best shown by the two following letters, written with his own hand, a few days after the interment of his affectionate spouse.

To his dear children he thus announces the death of their mother:-

"To my dear children, George and Elizabeth Mompesson, these present with my blessing."

Eyam, August 31 1666

"DEAR HEARTS,- This brings you the doleful news of your dear mother's death- the greatest loss which ever befel you! I am not only deprived of a kind and loving comfort, but you also are bereaved of the most indulgent mother that ever dear children had. But we must comfort ourselves in God with this consideration, that the loss is only ours, and that what is our sorrow is her gain. The consideration of her joys, which I do assure myself are unutterable, should refresh our drooping spirits.

"My dear hearts, your blessed mother lived a most holy life, and made a most comfortable and happy end, and is now invested with a crown of righteousness. I think it may be useful to you to have a narrative of your dear mother's virtues, that the knowledge thereof may teach you to imitate her excellent qualities . In the first place, let me recommend to you her piety and devotion, which were according to the exact principles of the Church of England. In the next place, I can assure you, she was composed of modesty and humility, which virtues did possess her dear soul in a most extraordinary manner. Her discourse was ever grave and meek, yet pleasant withal; a vaunting, immodesword was never heard to come from her mouth. Again, I can set out in her two other virtues i.e. charity and frugality. She never valued anything she had, when the necessities of a poor neighbour required it; but had a bountiful heart to all indigent and distressed persons. And, again, she was never lavish, but commendably frugal. She never liked tattling women, and abhorred the custom of going from house to house, thus wastefully spending precious time. She was ever busied in useful work, yet, though prudent, she was affable and kind. She avoided those whose company could not benefit her, and would not unbosom herself to such, still she dismissed them with civility. I could tell you of her many other excellent virtues. I do believe, my dear hearts, upon sufficient grounds that she was the kindest wife in the world, and think, from my soul, that she loved me ten times better than herself; for she not only resisted my entreaties that she would fly with you, dear children, from this place of death; but some few days before it pleased God to visit my house, she perceived a green matter to come from the issue in my leg, which she fancied a symptom that the distemper had found vent that way, whence she assured herself that I was past the malignity of the disorder, whereat she rejoiced exceedingly, not considering her own danger thereby. I think, however, that she was mistaken in the nature of the discharge she saw: certainly it was the salve that made it look so green; yet her rejoicing on that account was a strong testimony of her love to me: for I am clear that she cared not (if I were safe) though her own dear self was in ever so much pain and jeopardy.

"Further, I can assure you, my sweet babes, that her love to you was little inferior than to me; since why should she so ardently desire my continuance in this world of sorrows, but that you might have the protection and comfort of my life? You little imagine with what delight she talked of you both, and the pains she took when you sucked the milk from her breasts. She gave strong testimony of her love for you when she lay on her death-bed. A few hours before she expired I wished her to take some cordials which she told me plainly she could not take. I entreated she would attempt for your dear sakes. At the mention of your names, she with difficulty lifted up her head and took them; which was to let me understand that whilst she had any strength left she would embrace any opportunity she had of testifying her affection to you.

"Now I will give you an exact account of the manner of her death. For some time she had shown symptoms of a consumption, and was wasted thereby. Being surrounded by infected families, she doubtless got the infection from them; and her natural strength being impaired, she could not struggle with the disease, which made her illness so very short. She showed much contrition for the errors of her past life, and often cried out,"One drop of my Saviour's blood to save my soul!" At the beginning of her sickness she entreated me not to come near her, lest I should receive harm thereby; but, thank God, I did not desert her, but stood to my resolution not to leave her in sickness, who had been so tender a nurse to me in her health. Blessed be God, that He enabled me to be so helpful and consoling to her, for which she was not a little thankful. During her illness she was not disturbed by worldly business- she only minded making her calling and election sure; and she asked pardon of her maid for having sometimes given her an angry word. I gave her some sweating antidotes, which rather inflamed her more, whereupon her dear head was distempered, which put her upon many incoherencies. I was troubled thereat, and propounded to her questions in divinity; as by whom and on what account she expected salvation, and what assurances she had of the certainty thereof. Though in all other things she talked at random, yet to these religious questions she gave me as rational answers as could be desired. And at these times I bade her repeat after me certain prayers and ejaculations, which she did with great devotion,- it gave me comfort that God was so gracious to her.

"A little before her dear soul departed (I was gone to bed) she sent for me to pray with her. I got up and went to her, and asked her how she did. The answer was, that she was looking when the good hour should come. Thereupon I prayed, and she made her responses from the Common Prayer Book, as perfectly as in her health, and an "Amen" to every pathetic expression. When we had ended the prayers for the sick, we used those from the Whole duty of Man! and when I heard her say nothing, I said,"My dear, dost thou mind?" She answered, "Yes," and it was the last word she spoke.

"My dear babes, the reading of this account will cause many a salt tear to spring from your eyes; yet let this comfort you,- your mother is a saint in heaven. I could have told you of many more of your dear mother's excellent virtues; but I hope that you will not in the least question my testimony, if in a few words I tell you that she was pious and upright in her demeanour and conversation.

"Now to that blessed God, who bestowed upon her all those graces be ascribed all honour, glory and dominion, the just tribute of all created beings, for evermore.- Amen!"

"WILLIAM MOMPESSON"

Is there not in this truly pathetic letter, the visible manifestation of a truly Christian spirit- the bright effulgence of a heavenly mind, which ought to command the admiration of succeeding generations to the end of time? On the same melancholy event, the following letter was written by Mompesson, to his friend and patron, Sir George Saville:-

"Eyam, September 1, 1666

"HONOURED AND DEAR SIR, - This is the saddest news that ever my pen could write. The destroying Angel having taken up his quarters within my habitation, my dearest wife is gone to her eternal rest, and is invested with a crown of righteousness, having made a happy end. Indeed had she loved herself as well as me, she had fled from the pit of destruction with the sweet babes, and might have prolonged her days; but she was resolved to die a martyr to my interests. My drooping spirits are much refreshed with her joys, which I think are unutterable.

"Sir, this paper is to bid you a hearty farewell for ever, and to bring you my humble thanks for all your noble favours; and I hope you will believe a dying man, I have as much love as honour for you, and I will bend my feeble knees to the God of Heaven, that you, my dearlady, and your children, may be blessed with external and eternal happiness, and that the same blessing may fall upon Lady Sunderland and her relations.

"Dear Sir, let your dying Chaplain recommend this truth to you and your family, that no happiness or solid comfort can be found in this vale of tears, like living a pious life; and pray ever remember this rule, never do anything upon which you dare not first ask the blessing of God upon the success thereof.

"Sir, I have made bold in my will with your name for executor, and I hope you will not take it ill. I have joined two others with you, who will take from you the trouble. Your favourable aspect, will I know, be a great comfort to my distressed orphans. I am not desirous that they should be great, but good; and my next request is that they be brought up in the fear and admonition of the Lord.

"Sir, I thank God I am contented to shake hands with all the world; and have many comfortable assurances that God will accept me through His Son. I find the goodness of God greater than I ever thought or imagined; and I wish from my soul that it were not so much abused contemned. I desire, Sir, that you will be pleased to make choice of a humble, pious man, to succeed me in my parsonage; and could I see your face before my departure hence, I would inform you in what manner I think he may live comfortable amongst his people, which would be some satisfaction to me before I die.

"Dear Sir, I beg the prayers of all about you that I may not be daunted at the powers of hell; and that I may have dying graces; with tears I beg that when you are praying for fatherless orphans, you will remember my two pretty babes.

"Pardon the rude style of this paper, and be pleased to believe that I am, dear Sir, &c."

"WILLIAM MOMPESSON"

"In the whole range of literature," say William and Mary Howitt, "we know of nothing more pathetic than these letters;" alluding to another, besides these two, dated Eyam, Nov. 20, 1666, which will be found hereafter.

It is singular indeed, that Mompesson enjoyed such remarkably good health during the whole time of the calamitous visitation; he, in the language of the poet,

"Drew like Marseilles' good bishop, purer breath, When Nature sickened, and each gale was death."

From house to house he went and prayed with the dying victims:-

"Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, pain, by turns dismayed, The reverend champion stood."

- GOLDSMITH

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