The poor wretch had lost his young wife and lovely infant by the plague.  He was a mechanic; and, rendered unable to attend to the occupation which supplied his necessities, famine was added to his other miseries.  He left the chamber which contained his wife and child—­wife and child no more, but “dead earth upon the earth”—­wild with hunger, watching and grief, his diseased fancy made him believe himself sent by heaven to preach the end of time to the world.  He entered the churches, and foretold to the congregations their speedy removal to the vaults below.  He appeared like the forgotten spirit of the time in the theatres, and bade the spectators go home and die.  He had been seized and confined; he had escaped and wandered from London among the neighbouring towns, and, with frantic gestures and thrilling words, he unveiled to each their hidden fears, and gave voice to the soundless thought they dared not syllable.  He stood under the arcade of the town-hall of Windsor, and from this elevation harangued a trembling crowd.

“Hear, O ye inhabitants of the earth,” he cried, “hear thou, all seeing, but most pitiless Heaven! hear thou too, O tempest-tossed heart, which breathes out these words, yet faints beneath their meaning!  Death is among us!  The earth is beautiful and flower-bedecked, but she is our grave!  The clouds of heaven weep for us—­the pageantry of the stars is but our funeral torchlight.  Grey headed men, ye hoped for yet a few years in your long-known abode—­but the lease is up, you must remove—­children, ye will never reach maturity, even now the small grave is dug for ye—­ mothers, clasp them in your arms, one death embraces you!”

Shuddering, he stretched out his hands, his eyes cast up, seemed bursting from their sockets, while he appeared to follow shapes, to us invisible, in the yielding air—­“There they are,” he cried, “the dead!  They rise in their shrouds, and pass in silent procession towards the far land of their doom—­their bloodless lips move not—­their shadowy limbs are void of motion, while still they glide onwards.  We come,” he exclaimed, springing forwards, “for what should we wait?  Haste, my friends, apparel yourselves in the court-dress of death.  Pestilence will usher you to his presence.  Why thus long? they, the good, the wise, and the beloved, are gone before.  Mothers, kiss you last—­husbands, protectors no more, lead on the partners of your death!  Come, O come! while the dear ones are yet in sight, for soon they will pass away, and we never never shall join them more.”

From such ravings as these, he would suddenly become collected, and with unexaggerated but terrific words, paint the horrors of the time; describe with minute detail, the effects of the plague on the human frame, and tell heart-breaking tales of the snapping of dear affinities—­the gasping horror of despair over the death-bed of the last beloved—­so that groans and even shrieks burst from the crowd.