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Such is a brief account of London from this map. The original is the property of the Corporation and is kept in the Guildhall Library. A facsimile reprint has been made.

We have passed over two hundred years. We left London under the Three Edwards. We find it under Elizabeth. It was a City of Palaces--monasteries, with splendid churches and stately buildings: town houses of bishops, abbots, and noble lords, every one able to accommodate a goodly following of liveried retainers and servants: the mansions of rich City merchants, sometimes as splendid as those of the lords: the halls of the City Companies: the hundred and twenty City churches. Look at London as Shakespeare saw it. Everywhere there are the ruins of the monasteries: some of the buildings have been destroyed with gunpowder: some have been pulled down: where it has been too costly to destroy the monastic chapels they are used as storehouses or workshops: the marble monuments of the buried Kings and Queens have been broken up and carried off: the ruins of refectory, dormitory, library, chapter house stand still, being taken down little by little as stones are wanted for building purposes: some of the ruins, indeed, lasted till this very century, notably a gateway of the Holy Trinity Priory, at the back of St. Catharine Cree, Leadenhall Street, and some of the buildings of St. Helen's Nunnery, beside the church of Great St. Helen's. One would think that the presence of all these ruins would have saddened the City. Not so. The people were so thoroughly Protestant that they regarded the ruins with the utmost satisfaction. They were a sign of deliverance from what their new preachers taught them was false doctrine. Moreover, there were other reasons why the citizens under Queen Elizabeth could not regret the past.

The parish churches were changed. The walls, once covered with paintings of saints and angels, were now scraped or whitewashed: instead of altars with blazing lights, there was a plain table: there were no more watching candles: there were no more splendid robes for the priest and the altar boys: the priest was transformed into a preacher: the service consisted of plain prayers, the reading of the Bible, and a sermon. In very few churches was there an organ. There was no external beauty in religion. Therefore external beauty in the church itself ceased for three hundred years to be desired. What was required was neatness, with ample space for all to be seated, so arranged that all might hear the sermon. And whereas under the Plantagenets every other man was a priest, a friar, or some officer or servant of a monastery, one only met here and there a clergyman with black gown and Genevan bands.

The merchants' houses took the place of these palaces. They were built either in the form of a quadrangle, standing round a garden, with a cloister or covered way running round, of which Gresham House, pulled down in the last century, was a very fine example. But, since few merchants could afford to build over so large a piece of ground and land was too valuable to be wasted on broad lawns and open courts, the houses were built in four or five stories, with rich carvings all over the front. The house called Sir Paul Pinder's House in Bishopsgate Street, pulled down only a year or two ago, was a very fine example of such a house. The great hall was henceforth only built in great country houses: in the City the following of the richest merchants, in his private house, consisted of a few servants only; small rooms henceforward became the rule: when entertainments and festivities on a large scale are held, the Companies' Halls may be used. The inferior kind of Elizabethan house may still be seen in Holborn--outside of Staple Inn: in Wych Street: in Cloth Fair: and one or two other places. They were narrow: three or four stories high: each story projected beyond the one below: they were gabled: the windows were latticed, with small diamond panes of glass: they were built of plaster and timber. Building with brick only began in the reign of James the First. Before every house hung a sign, on which was painted the figure by which the house was known: some of these signs may still be seen: there is one in Holywell Street: one in Ivy Lane: and there are many old Inns which still keep their ancient signs.

The population of London at this time was perhaps, for it is not certain, 150,000. There were no suburbs, unless we call the Strand and Smithfield suburbs; the London citizen stepped outside the gates into the open country. This fact must be remembered when we think of the narrow lanes. The great danger of the City still remained, that of fire, for though the better houses were built of stone, the inferior sort, as was stated above, continued to be built of timber and plaster. There were no vehicles in the streets except carts, and the number of these was restricted to 420. When you think of London streets at this time remember that in most of them, in all except the busy streets and the chief thoroughfares, there was hardly ever any noise of rumbling wheels. The packhorses followed each other in long procession, laden with everything; there were doubtless wheelbarrows and hand carts; but the rumbling of the wheels was not yet a part of the daily noise.

There was much complaint of extravagance in dress: rules were passed by the Common Council on the subject. Prentices especially were forbidden to dress in any but the warmest and plainest materials. The dress of the Blue Coat boy is exactly the dress of the prentice of the period, including the flat cap which the modern wearer of the dress carries in his pocket.

The punishments of this time are much more severe than had been found necessary in the Plantagenet period. They not only carried criminals in shameful procession through the City, but they flogged girls for idleness, apprentices for immorality, and rogues for selling goods falsely described. A 'pillar of reformation' was set up at the Standard in Cheap; here on Sunday morning the mayor superintended the flogging of young servants. When Lady Jane Grey was proclaimed Queen a young fellow, for speaking slightingly of her title, had his ears nailed to the pillory and afterwards cut off, heretics were burned, traitors were hanged first for a few minutes and then taken down and cut open--one of the most horrible punishments ever inflicted.

The Reformation, which suppressed the religious Houses, at the same time suppressed the hospitals which were all religious Houses and the schools which belonged to the religious Houses. St. Bartholomew's, St. Thomas's, St. Mary's, St. Mary of Bethlehem, besides the smaller houses, were all suppressed. The sick people were sent back to their own houses; the brethren and sisters were dispersed. One House contained one hundred blind men, all these were cast adrift; another contained a number of aged priests--these were turned into the streets. Eight schools perished at the Dissolution. For a time London had neither schools nor hospitals.

This could not continue. Bartholomew's, St. Thomas's, Bethlehem, and, under Queen Mary, the Savoy were refounded under new statutes as hospitals. For schools, St. Paul's which was never closed, was endowed by Dean Colet; St. Anthony's continued, the Blue Coat School was founded on the site of the Franciscan House. The Mercers took over the school of St. Thomas. The Merchant Taylors founded their school. In Southwark, schools were founded at St. Olave's and St. Saviour's. A few years later Charterhouse was converted into an almshouse and a school.

There was another association of foreigners called the Merchants of the Staple. That is to say, they dealed in what was called the 'staples' of England--in the raw produce, as lead, tin, wool, &c. Gradually, however, the word Staple came to be applied solely to wool as the most important export. The Lord Chancellor, to this day, is seated on a Woolsack. The Merchants of the Staple became merged in the Merchants of the Steelyard.

These foreign merchants were at all times extremely unpopular with the Londoners, who envied their wealth, which they thought was made at the expense of the City, not understanding, for a long time, that the same way of wealth was open to themselves. When they began to put forth merchant ships on their own account, they at first sought the southern ports, sailing to Dunquerque, Sluys, Rouen, Havre, Bordeaux, Lisbon, and even to the Mediterranean ports. Whittington's trade was entirely with the South. It was not at L?beck or on the shores of the Baltic that he found his cloth of gold, his rich velvets, his silks, his gold embroidery, his scented wood, his wines, his precious stones. And the reason why he sent his ships to the South was that the trade of the North was in the hands of the Steelyard.

These rivals, with their powerful organisations and their hold over all the northern ports, once out of the way the English merchants began to push out their enterprises in all directions. You shall see immediately how they prospered.

Meantime there remains a monument erected in memory of the Hanseatic League. In the reign of Queen Anne the merchants of Hamburg presented to the church where the merchants of the Steelyard had worshipped for 400 years, a splendid screen of carved wood. Unless the church, which is already threatened with destruction, is pulled down, you should go to see that screen, and remember all that it means and commemorates.

Antwerp in the fifteenth century was the richest and most prosperous city in western Europe. There were 200,000 inhabitants, a great many more than could be counted in London: 5,000 merchants met every day in the Bourse for the transaction of business: 2,500 vessels might be counted in the river: 500 loaded waggons entered every day from the country. It was the port of the great and rich manufacturing towns of Bruges and Ghent. In the latter town there were 40,000 weavers, and an army of 80,000 men fully armed and equipped, could be raised at any moment. The former town, Bruges, was the Market--the actual commercial centre--of the world. Hither came the merchants of Venice and Genoa, bringing the silks, velvets, cloth of gold, spices and precious stones from the East to exchange for the English wool and the produce of Germany and the Baltic.

The Religious Wars of the sixteenth century: the ferocities, cruelties, and savagery of those wars: depopulated and ruined this rich and flourishing country: the Inquisition drove thousands of Flemings, an industrious and orderly folk, to England, where they established silk manufactures: and the carrying trade which had been wholly in the hands of the Antwerp shipowners was diverted and went across the narrow seas to London, where it has ever since remained.

You must learn something about this great man. He was the son of Sir Richard Gresham, formerly Lord Mayor: nephew of Sir John Gresham, also Lord Mayor : he came of a Norfolk family originally of the village of Gresham: like Whittington he was of gentle birth. He was educated at Cambridge: he was apprenticed to his uncle after taking his degree: and he was received into the Mercers' Company at the age of twenty-four. It must be observed that from the outset the young man had every advantage--good birth, good education, good society, and wealth.

When he came back to England he brought with him a discovery which seems simple. It is, however, the most difficult thing in the world for people to understand: we are always discovering it, over and over again.

His discovery was this--it applies to every kind of business or enterprise--It is that union will effect what single effort is powerless to attempt. The City had for centuries understood this in matters of government: they were now to learn the same thing in matters of trade. The merchants of Antwerp had a central place where they could meet for purposes of union and combination. Those of London had none. As yet union had only been practised for the regulation of trade prices and work. True, the merchant adventurers existed, but the spirit of enterprise had as yet spread a very little way.

Gresham determined to present to his fellow citizens such a Bourse as the merchants of Antwerp had enjoyed for centuries. He built his Bourse; he gave it to the City: he gave it as a place of meeting for the merchants: he gave it for the advance of enterprise. The Queen opened it with great State, and called it the Royal Exchange. It stood exactly where the present Royal Exchange stands, but its entrance was on the south side, not the west. And no gift has ever been made to any city more noble, more farseeing, more wise, or productive of greater benefits.

The merchants got their Exchange. What did they do in it? They did most wonderful things with it. Greater things were never done in any Exchange. For the first time they were enabled to act together: and it was the most favourable opportunity that ever happened to any trading community. The charters of the foreigners were abolished: the markets of Bruges were depressed in consequence of the civil wars already beginning: that city itself, with Antwerp and Ghent, was on the point of ruin. The way was open, and the spirit of enterprise was awakened. In ordinary times it would have been the love of gain alone that awakened this spirit. But these were not ordinary times. The people of Western Europe took a hundred years to discover that Columbus had doubled the world: that there was a new continent across the ocean. They began to send their ships across: nobody as yet knew the possibilities of that continent with its islands: the Spaniards had the first run, but the French and the English were beginning to claim their share. Then a way to India and the East had been found out: we were no longer going to be dependent on the Venetians for the products of Persia, India, the Moluccas, China. All those turbulent and restless spirits who could not settle down to peaceful crafts or the dull life of the desk, longed to be on board ship sailing Westward Ho. Fortune was waiting for them there: fortune with fighting, privation, endurance--perhaps death by fever or by battle: yet a glorious life. Or they might sail southwards and so round the Cape of Good Hope--called at first the Cape of Storms--and across the Indian Ocean to the port of Calicut, there to trade. There were dangers enough even on that voyage to tempt the most adventurous: Moorish pirates off the coast of Morocco: European pirates--English pirates--coming out of the rivers and ports of Western Africa: storms off the Cape: hurricanes in the Indian Ocean: the rocks and reefs of seas as yet unsurveyed: treachery of natives. Yet there were never wanting men in plenty to volunteer for these long and perilous voyages. At home, then, the spirit of enterprise, joined with the spirit of adventure, achieved mighty things. The merchant adventurers succeeding to some of the trade of the Hanseatic League, established 'courts,' i.e. branches at Antwerp, Hamburg, and Dordrecht: they had also courts at York, Hull, and Newcastle. Many other companies were founded. There was the Eastland Company or merchants of Ebbing. Their trade was with the Baltic. There was the 'Merchant Adventurers for the discovery of Lands, not before known to, or frequented by, the English.' This afterwards became the Russian Company. They sent out Sir Hugh Willoughby with three ships to find a North-East passage to China. He and all his men were frozen to death on the shores of Russian Lapland. The Company afterwards took to whaling. There was also the Turkey Company, which lasted to well into the present century. There was the Royal African Company, which has been revived. There were the Merchants of Spain: the Merchants of France: the Merchants of Virginia: the East India Company: the Hudson's Bay Company: the South Sea Company: the Guinea Company: the Canary Company. Some of these companies were founded later, but they are all sprung from the spirit of enterprise, first called into existence by Gresham when he built his Exchange and brought the merchants together.

He did more than give an Exchange to the City. He gave a college: he gave his own house in Broad Street for a college: he endowed it with professorships: he intended it to become for London what Christ Church was to Oxford, or Trinity to Cambridge. It has been converted into a place for the delivery of lectures, but there are signs that the City will once more have such a college as Gresham intended.

There were no theatres in England, nor any Plays, before the reign of Queen Elizabeth. This is a statement which is true, but needs explanation. It is not the case that there was no acting. On the contrary, there has always been acting of some kind or other. There was acting at the fairs, where the Cheap Jack and the Quack had their tumbling boys and clowns to attract the crowd. There were always minstrels and tumblers, men and women who played, sang, danced, and tumbled in the hall for the amusement of the great people in the long winter evenings. Not including the wandering mummers, the Theatre was preceded by the Religious Drama, the Pageant, and the Masque.

The Religious Drama was usually performed in churches, but sometimes in market-places and in front of churches. They represented scenes from the Bible and acts of saints. In a time when the people could not read, such shows presented Sacred History in a most vivid form. No one could possibly forget any detail in the Passion of Our Lord who had once seen it performed in a Mystery, with the dresses complete, with appropriate words and action, and with music. In the year 1409 there was a play representing the Creation of the World performed at Clerkenwell. It lasted eight days, and was witnessed by a vast concourse of all ranks. Here were shown Paradise, our first parents, the admonition of the Creator, the Fall, and the expulsion. Such a sight was better than a hundred sermons for teaching the people.

We have very full accounts of one Miracle Play, that which was annually performed by the Guilds of the City of Chester. It was performed at Whitsuntide and lasted three days. The play began with the 'Fall of Lucifer' performed by the tanners: went on to the 'Creation,' by the drapers: then to the 'Flood,' and so on. Nine plays were performed on the first day; nine on the second; and seven on the third. Each Guild provided a scaffold on wheels. The scaffold was provided with a canopy which would represent the sky, or the roof of a house, or a tent, or a cave, as the play demanded: the performers were properly dressed for their parts: there was music, and in some cases there were songs. Under the scaffold was the room where the actors dressed and where the 'properties' were kept. Every play was performed in every principal street. When one was finished the scaffold was rolled to another station and the play was repeated. This method prevented crowding. The most sacred Persons were exhibited at these plays, and nothing was spared to make them realistic to the last degree. Sometimes devils were put upon the stage: flames issued from their mouths: they performed tricks of buffoonery: they dragged off sinners to their doom. Sometimes comic scenes were introduced, as in the play of the 'Flood,' where it was common to represent Noah's wife as a shrew who beats her husband and refuses to go into the Ark.

These plays were swept away by the Reformation. They had been productive for a long time of mischief rather than of instruction. The profanity of the comic scenes increased: and reverence was destroyed when in the same tableau which presented the most sacred of events appeared the most unbridled buffoons. Religious plays have never been allowed since the Reformation. Should they again be put upon the stage it must be under the safeguard of those who can be trusted to admit of no other consideration than the presentation in the most reverent manner of sacred subjects. There must be no thought of gain for those who manage, or those who act, such plays. Many scenes and events of the Bible would lend themselves wonderfully to dramatic rendering. But the choice of these must not be left to the lessee of a theatre: nor must the acting of such plays be permitted to those who live by making the people laugh.

The Mayor and Aldermen, dressed in scarlet, with collars and chains, with 400 citizens in 'murrey,' all well mounted, rode out to meet the King at Blackheath. Then, after formal greetings, they all rode to London. In Southwark the King was met by all the London clergy in their most sumptuous robes, with crosses and censers. At the entrance of London Bridge, on the top of the tower, stood a pair of giants, male and female, the former bearing in his right hand an axe, and in his left hand the keys of the City. Around them stood a band of trumpeters.

On the drawbridge were two lofty columns, on one of which stood an antelope and on the other a lion--both the King's crests.

At the other end of the Bridge was another tower, and within it an image of St. George, with a great number of boys representing angels. These sang an anthem, 'Give thanks, O England, to God for victory.' This is supposed to be preserved in the song 'Our King went forth to Normandy.'

On Cornhill there was erected a tent of crimson cloth ornamented with the King's arms. Within it was a company of 'prophets' in golden coats. As the King approached they set loose a great number of small birds, which fluttered about while the 'prophets' sung 'Cantate Domino canticum novum'--'Sing unto the Lord a new song.'

In Cheapside the conduit was hung with green. Here sat the twelve Apostles and the twelve Kings, Martyrs and Confessors of England. They also sung a chant and made the conduit run with wine. This represented the reception of Abraham by Melchisedek.

The Cross of Chepe was built over by a high tower of wood covered all over with splendid coats of arms. There was a stage in front, on which a crowd of girls came with timbrels dancing and singing. Thus the maidens welcomed David when he returned from the slaughter of Goliath. And all about the building were crowds of boys, representing the Heavenly Host, who showered down coins resembling gold, and boughs of laurel, and sang 'Te Deum Laudamus.'

Lastly, there was another tower at the west end of Chepe. In each corner of this stood a girl, who out of a cup strewed golden leaves before the feet of the King. And there was a high canopy painted with blue and stars, and beneath a figure all gold, to represent the sun surrounded by angels singing and playing all kinds of musical instruments.

This witnessed, the King went on to St. Paul's to pay his devotions.

When you read this bald account of one of the greatest Pageants ever celebrated in the City, you must fill it up by imagining the long procession, every one in his place. Trumpeters, bowmen in leather jerkins, men-at-arms in shining helmet and cuirass, horsemen in full armour, knights, nobles, heralds all in full panoply, banners and bannerets, the Bishop and all the clergy, the King and his retinue, the Lord Mayor and his four hundred followers. Imagine the blare of the trumpets, the singing of the chants, the roaring of the people, the crimson hangings all along the line of march at every window. There were no police to keep the line: you might see the burgesses running out of the taverns on their way with blackjacks of Malmsey to regale the gallant soldiers who had fought and won the victory. You would see the King bareheaded. Why was he bareheaded? Because he was so modest--this brave King. Because he would not let the people see his helmet dinted and misshapen with the signs and scars of hard battle in which he had played his part as well as any humble leather-jerkined bowman in his array. Your ancestors, these soldiers and these citizens: your forefathers. They knew, far better than you will ever know, how to marshal a gallant show. We have lost the art of making a Pageant. It remains with us--once a year--in the Lord Mayor's Show. But think of Henry's Riding into London compared with the Lord Mayor's Show!

The scene presents a rock with trees beyond it and 'all the wildness that can be presented.' All is dark. Presently the moon rising shows a Satyr, one of the beings with whom the ancients peopled the forests and wild places. They were drawn with the feet and legs of goats, short horns on the head, and the body covered with thick hair. This Satyr lifts his head and calls his companions. There is no answer. He blows his cornet. Echo answers him. He blows again, and is again mocked by the Echo. A third time he blows, and other Satyrs come leaping and dancing upon the stage. Silenus, their leader, bids them prepare to see the young Prince Oberon.

The scene opens: the rocks and forests disappear: there is shown a glorious palace whose walls and gates are transparent. Before the gates lie asleep two 'Sylvans'--i.e. men of the woods. The Satyrs gather round these sleeping sentinels and wake them up with singing:

Buzz, quoth the blue fly: Hum, quoth the bee: Buzz and hum they cry And so do we. In his ear, in his nose, Thus do you see? He ate the dormouse Else it was he.

The Sylvans wake: they explain that it is yet too early for the gates to open. Meantime let them sing and dance to while away the time. One of them sings therefore. After the song they fall into an 'antick dance full of gesture and swift motion' and thus continue till the crowing of a cock gives the signal for the whole palace to open. It is like a transformation scene at a pantomime. There is the palace with all its occupants--the 'whole nation of Fays' or Fairies. Some are playing instruments of music; some are singing: some are bearing lights: at the back of the stage sit the 'Knights masquers.' With them Oberon in his chariot. And then, drawn by two white bears, guarded by three Sylvans on each side, the chariot moves down the stage. Observe that to produce all these effects the stage must have been very deep. The song they sing is in praise of the King:

Melt earth to sea, sea flow to air, And air fly into fire, Whilst we in tunes to Arthur's chair Bear Oberon's desire: Than which there's nothing can be higher Save James to whom it flies: But he the wonder is of tongues and ears and eyes--

The Satyrs leap and dance again for joy at so splendid a sight.

Then Silenus speaks in praise of Prince Oberon, who is, of course, Prince Henry, the elder son of James, who died young. The flattery is no worse than was usual in Masques. Silenus says that the Prince--

Stays the time from turning old, And keeps the age up in a head of gold. He makes it ever day and ever spring When he doth shine, and quickens everything.

Then two Fays sing a song and all the Fays together dance, after which all together sing. Then Oberon and his knights dance. Another song follows. Then they all together dance 'measures, corantos, and galliards,' till Phosphorus the day star appears and calls them away--

To rest! To rest! The herald of the day, Bright Phosphorus commands you hence. Obey.

They quickly dance their last dance, one by one getting into the Palace. Then the Star vanishes, the day breaks, and while the last song is sung the 'machine closes'--i.e. the Palace becomes a wall of the room and the show is over. This is the pretty song which ends the Masque:

O yet how early and before her time, The envious morning up doth climb, Though she not love her bed! What haste the jealous sun doth make His fiery horses up to take And once more show his head! Lest, taken with the brightness of this night, The world should wish it last and never miss his light.

The first theatre was built in 1570. Thirty years after there were seven. The Queen had companies of children to play before her. They were the boys of the choirs of St. Paul's, Westminster, Whitehall, and Windsor. The actors called themselves the servants of some great lord. Lord Leicester, Lord Warwick, Lord Pembroke, Lord Howard, the Earl of Essex, and others all had their company of actors--not all at the same time. The principal Houses were those at Southwark, and especially at Bank Side, where there were three, including the famous Globe: the Blackfriars Playhouse: the Fortune in Golden Lane, and the Curtain at Shoreditch. If you will look at the map you will observe that not one of these theatres is within the City--that at Blackfriars was in the former precinct of the Dominicans and outside the City. No theatre was allowed in the City. Thus early sprang up the prejudice against actors. Probably this was of old standing, and first belonged to the time when the minstrel and the tumbler, the musician and the dancing girl, the buffoon and the contortionist, wandered about the country free of rule and discipline, leading careless and lawless lives.

The theatre was octagonal in shape but circular within. What we call the pit was called the 'yarde.' The stage projected into the 'yarde,' about three or four feet high. The people who filled the 'yarde' were called groundlings. Round the house were three galleries, the lowest of which contained 'rooms' or private boxes: what we call the upper circle and the gallery were above. There were no seats in the pit, nor apparently in the upper circles. On either side of the stage sat or lay gentlemen, chiefly of the younger kind, who smoked pipes of tobacco and talked loudly, disturbing the performance. At the back of the stage was a kind of upper stage, supported on columns, which gave the players a tower, gallery, wall, a town, or an upper story of a house, or anything of the kind that they wanted. There was a great sale of apples, nuts, and ale before the play began and between the acts: boys hawked the newest books about the 'rooms': the people while they waited smoked pipes, played cards. Above the stage on one side was the 'music.' Three times the trumpets sounded. At the first, those who were outside hurried in to get a place: at the second, the card-players left off their games: at the third, those who bawled apples and ale and shouted the name of the new book became silent: the audience settled down: the Play began. Not much costume was wanted: that of the Elizabethan--noble--courtier--young knight--clown--fitted any and every age. There was little scenery required: blue hangings above meant day: black hangings night: the actors came out upon the advanced stage and played their parts. No doubt the illusion was as complete as we can contrive with all our scenery, mounting, and correctness of costume.

In the year 1610 the Lord Mayor and Aldermen being alarmed at the increasing popularity of the Play, ordered that there should be only two theatres, the Fortune in Golden Lane and the Globe at Bankside. This order, however, like so many other laws, was only passed to satisfy a passing scare and does not seem to have been carried into effect. It was in such a theatre as this and with such scenery that the immortal plays of Shakespeare and Ben Jonson were acted. When next you read a play of Shakespeare, remember the stage projecting into the pit; the people in the pit all standing, the gallants on the stage talking and smoking, the ladies in the boxes, the boys enjoying apples and nuts and ale and new books, and the actors playing partly on the stage advanced and partly on the stage behind.

You have seen the City as it appeared to one who walked about its streets and watched the people. It was free, busy and prosperous, except at rare intervals, when its own internal dissensions, or the civil wars of the country, or the pretensions of the Sovereign, disturbed the peace of the City. Behind this prosperity, however, lay hid all through the middle ages, and down to two hundred years ago, four great and ever-present terrors. The first was the Terror of Leprosy: the second the Terror of Famine: the third was the Terror of Plague: the last was the Terror of Fire.

As for the first two, we have seen how lazar houses were established outside every town, and how public granaries were built. Let us consider the third. The Plague broke out so often that there was hardly any time between the tenth and the seventeenth century when some living person could not remember a visitation of this awful scourge. It appeared in London first--i.e. the first mention of it occurs in history--in the year 962: again in 1094: again in 1111: then there seems to have been a respite for 250 years. In the year 1348 the Plague carried off many thousands: in 1361 it appeared again: in 1367 and in 1369. In 1407 30,000 were carried off in London alone by the Plague. In 1478 a plague raged throughout the country, which was said to have destroyed more people than the Wars of the Roses. But we must accept all mediaeval estimates of numbers as indicating no more than great mortality. With the sixteenth century began a period of a hundred and sixty years, marked with attacks of the Plague constantly recurring, and every time more fatal and more widespread. Nothing teaches the conditions of human life more plainly than the history of the Plague in London. We are placed in the world in the midst of dangers, and we have to find out for ourselves how to meet those dangers and to protect ourselves. Thus a vast number of persons were crowded together within the walls of the City. The streets were all narrow: the houses were generally of three or more stories, built out in front so as to obstruct the light and air; there were many courts, in which the houses were mere hovels: there was no drainage: refuse of all kinds lay about the streets: everything that was required for the daily life was made in the City, which added a thousand noisome smells and noxious refuse. Then the Plague came and carried off its thousands and disappeared. Then the survivors went on their usual course. Nothing was changed. Yet the Plague was a voice which spoke loudly. It said 'Clean yourselves: cease to defile the soil of the City with your decaying matter: build your houses in wider streets: do not shut out the sunshine--which is a splendid purifier--or light and air. Keep yourselves clean--body and raiment, and house and street.' The voice spoke, but no one heard. Then came the Plague again. Still no one heard the voice. It came again and again. It came in 1500, in 1525, in 1543, in 1563, in 1569, in 1574, in 1592, in 1603 , in 1625 , in 1635 , and lastly, in 1665. And in all that time no one understood that voice, and the City was never cleansed. All that was done was to light bonfires in the street in order to increase the circulation of the air. After the last, and worst attack, in 1666 the City was burned, and in the purification of the flames it emerged clean, and the Plague has never since appeared. The same voice speaks to mankind still in every visitation of every new pestilence. It used to cry aloud in time of Plague: it cries aloud now in time of typhoid, diphtheria, and cholera. Diseases spring from ignorance and from vice. Physicians cannot cure them: but they can learn their cause and they can prevent.

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