and fifty. Eight of these are said to have been
deaths from other causes, leaving two hundred
and sixty-five as the number destroyed by the
plague.

The clergyman of the parish was the
Reverend William Mompesson. It was early in
June when his wife, a young, beautiful, and
delicate woman, threw herself at his feet with their
two little children of the ages of three and four,
imploring him to depart with them from the
devoted village. He was deeply moved by her
appeal, but firmly withstood it. He positively
refused to quit Eyam; showing his wife that duty
to his flock forbade his desertion of it in the hour
of danger; and that the providence of God had
placed him there to counsel, strengthen, and
comfort his people. But at the same tune he
urged her to fly with the children. This she
refused to do, pleading fulfilment of her marriage
vow in abiding with him for better and for
worse, in sickness or health. It was finally
agreed to send the children away to a relative
in Yorkshire.

The mortality of Eyam has no parallel in the
history of the plague. It has been naturally
supposed that ill treatment of the disorder
through the ignorance and poverty of the
people, and some peculiarly unwholesome local
circumstances, caused the unheard-of havoc.
There is little doubt that one reason was the
resolve of many people living close together
not to fly from the infected spot. At the time
of the appearance of the pest the more wealthy
inhabitants left, and some erected solitary huts
in the valleys and on the hills, where they lived
out the season of danger in strict seclusion.
These separated themselves from the rest before
any taint had reached them.

When the fearful advance in June aroused
the keenest dread the people were disposed to fly
the place. It was then that their pastor
energetically set himself against their purpose. He
showed them the frightful consequences their
flight would bring on the surrounding villages.
He told them how surely disease was already at
work with many among them, lying invisible
in their bodies and clothes; he warned them
against the guilt of carrying the plague far and
wide; and he prevailed with them to lessen
their own hope of safety in consideration for
the lives of others. On his part, Mompesson
promised to remain with them, and do all in his
power to help and guide them. Associated
with him in his labours, we find another clergyman
named Stanley, then living at Eyam, who
shared the danger and the toil of the time.
These two arranged a plan. Mompesson wrote
a letter to the Duke of Devonshire, then at
Chatsworth (five miles from Eyam) telling him
that if they could depend on adequate supplies
of necessaries, he had little doubt of prevailing
with the people to remain in the village. The
prompt reply was an expression of deep
sympathy, and a promise that supplies should be
provided. Mompesson and Stanley then fixed
upon certain points at which such supplies
should be left. A well or rivulet to the north
of Eyam, still called "Mompesson's well," was
one of these. Another was at the cliff between
Eyam and Stony Middleton, where stood a
large stone trough: one of many to be found
on the waysides of Derbyshire, into which
little rills trickle for the refreshment of
travellers and their cattle on the steep roads.
These places were chosen as convenient for
purification of money left by the villagers for
special purchases: lest infection should be
passed with it from hand to hand. Here, very
early in the morning, supplies were left, which
were fetched by persons whom Mompesson
and Stanley appointed for the purpose. And
here would be left the record of deaths, with
other information for the world outside Eyam.

A line was drawn around the village, marked
by well-known stones and fences; and it was
agreed upon by all within it that the boundary
should not be overstepped. No need to caution
those beyond it! The fear of entering Eyam
was general, and its inhabitants were left to
meet their enemy alone.

Towards the end of June the plague
increased, the passing bell ceased, the churchyard
was no longer used for interment, the church
doors were closed. Mompesson proposed to his
daily-diminishing flock to meet on the border
of a secluded dingle called "the Delf." There,
he read prayers twice a week, and preached on
Sundays, under a beautiful natural archway of
grey rock, which is still called "Mompesson's
pulpit," or "Cuckleth Church." His hearers
seated themselves apart from one another, on
the grassy slope before him. July came. Funeral
rites were suspended, and the dead were
buried, as soon as life had departed, by the
hands of the survivors of the household, if any
remained. Coffins and shrouds were no longer
provided. An old door or chair would serve as
a bier, and a shallow grave in a near field or
garden would receive the corpse. Some were
buried close to the doors, and some, it is
affirmed, in the back part of the houses in
which they died. Day saw dead bodies hurried
along the village; night heard the frequent
footsteps of those who bore them out. During
July and August, dead and dying were in the
same houses, dreadful wailings were heard on
every side; on every face was seen unutterable
grief. So long as any remained of a household
it was difficult to find neighbours who would
touch or bury its dead; but when the last of a
household died, or there were none but dying
in the house beside the dead, it was needful
that some stranger should undertake the
dangerous office.

Marshall Howe, a native of Eyam, now stood
forward. He was a man of undaunted courage
and gigantic stature. His name yet survives
in Eyam. He had taken the distemper and
recovered from it soon after its first appearance
at Eyam, and to the belief that no one was
liable to a second attack may be ascribed much
of his intrepidity. Covetousness also greatly
influenced him; he received money from the
kindred of those he interred, and when he
buried the last of a plague-destroyed household
he claimed all that was in the cottage. When