Old Saint Paul's: A Tale of the Plague and the Fire

by William Harrison Ainsworth

Filled with wonder at what he saw, Leonard looked towards the east, and here an extraordinary prospect met his gaze. The whole of the city of London was spread out like a map before him, and presented a dense mass of ancient houses, with twisted chimneys, gables, and picturesque roofs—here and there overtopped by a hall, a college, an hospital, or some other lofty structure. This vast collection of buildings was girded in by grey and mouldering walls, approached by seven gates, and intersected by innumerable narrow streets. The spires and towers of the churches shot up into the clear morning air—for, except in a few quarters, no smoke yet issued from the chimneys. On this side, the view of the city was terminated by the fortifications and keep of the Tower. Little did the apprentice think, when he looked at the magnificent scene before him, and marvelled at the countless buildings he beheld, that, ere fifteen months had elapsed, the whole mass, together with the mighty fabric on which he stood, would be swept away by a tremendous conflagration. Unable to foresee this direful event, and lamenting only that so fair a city should be a prey to an exterminating pestilence, he turned towards the north, and suffered his gaze to wander over Finsbury-fields, and the hilly ground beyond them—over Smithfield and Clerkenwell, and the beautiful open country adjoining Gray's-inn-lane.

So smiling and beautiful did these districts appear, that he could scarcely fancy they were the chief haunts of the horrible distemper. But he could not blind himself to the fact that in Finsbury-fields, as well as in the open country to the north of Holborn, plague-pits had been digged and pest-houses erected; and this consideration threw such a gloom over the prospect, that, in order to dispel the effect, he changed the scene by looking towards the west. Here his view embraced all the proudest mansions of the capital, and tracing the Strand to Charing Cross, long since robbed of the beautiful structure from which it derived its name, and noticing its numerous noble habitations, his eye finally rested upon Whitehall: and he heaved a sigh as he thought that the palace of the sovereign was infected by as foul a moral taint as the hideous disease that ravaged the dwellings of his subjects.

At the time that Leonard Holt gazed upon the capital, its picturesque beauties were nearly at their close. In a little more than a year and a quarter afterwards, the greater part of the old city was consumed by fire; and though it was rebuilt, and in many respects improved, its original and picturesque character was entirely destroyed.

It seems scarcely possible to conceive a finer view than can be gained from the dome of the modern cathedral at sunrise on a May morning, when the prospect is not dimmed by the smoke of a hundred thousand chimneys—when the river is just beginning to stir with its numerous craft, or when they are sleeping on its glistening bosom—when every individual house, court, church, square, or theatre, can be discerned—when the eye can range over the whole city on each side, and calculate its vast extent. It seems scarcely possible, we say, to suppose at any previous time it could be more striking; and yet, at the period under consideration, it was incomparably more so. Then, every house was picturesque, and every street a collection of picturesque objects. Then, that which was objectionable in itself, and contributed to the insalubrity of the city, namely, the extreme narrowness of the streets, and overhanging stories of the houses, was the main source of their beauty. Then, the huge projecting signs with their fantastical iron-work—the conduits—the crosses (where crosses remained)—the maypoles—all were picturesque; and as superior to what can now be seen, as the attire of Charles the Second's age is to the ugly and disfiguring costume of our own day.

Satiated with this glorious prospect, Leonard began to recur to his own situation, and carefully scrutinizing every available point on the side of the Tower, he thought it possible to effect his descent by clambering down the gradations of one of the buttresses. Still, as this experiment would be attended with the utmost danger, while, even if he reached the roof, he would yet be far from his object, he resolved to defer it for a short time, in the hope that ere long seine of the bell-ringers, or other persons connected with the cathedral, might come thither and set him free.

While thus communing with himself, he heard a door open below; and hurrying down the stairs at the sound, he beheld, to his great surprise and joy, the piper's daughter, Nizza Macascree.

"I have searched for you everywhere," she cried, "and began to think some ill had befallen you. I overheard Judith Malmayns say she had shut you up in a cell in the upper part of the tower. How did you escape thence?"

Leonard hastily explained.

"I told you I should never forget the service you rendered me in preserving the life of poor Bell," pursued Nizza, "and what I have done will prove I am not unmindful of my promise I saw you search the cathedral last night with Judith, and noticed that she returned from the tower unaccompanied by you. At first I supposed you might have left the cathedral without my observing you, and I was further confirmed in the idea by what I subsequently heard."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Leonard. "What did you hear?"