I’ve been reading Daniel Defoe’s Journal of the Plague Year, about the bubonic plague in London in 1665. Published in 1722, the book purports to be one man’s experience during the epidemic.
The plague was spread by fleabites, but of course the citizens of London didn’t know that then. As the disease spread from parish to parish across the city, the wealthy packed up and left for their country homes. It was the poor who were the worst hit. Really, the only strategy to combat infection was to lock up the homes where one person became sick. The entire household was quarantined under guard, which virtually insured all would soon become sick.
To deal with the tragic number of deaths, the “dead cart” would come at night, load up the bodies, and take them to the churchyard, where large pits had been dug as mass graves. There was little official acknowledgement of the scope of infection and it was only through studying the bills of deaths from each parish that the progress of the plague could be guessed. However, it was not always made clear if the death was caused by the “distemper” or something else.
Comparisons with COVID 19 are startling. As it was nearly 400 years ago, dependable statistics elude us. Our best defense today is the same it was for Londoners – to stay at home. Then as now, quack cures were promoted. We can only guess how and when it will be safe to assume our old routines. In London in 1665, when people began to go out again, another wave of plague struck.
But the one similarity I most identified with is the itch to leave the house. Defoe’s narrator lasts about two weeks in total confinement when curiosity moves him to venture out and walk about the city. He sees for himself the effects of the plague and how the city has changed, and he returns home to ponder on what he has seen and write in his journal. It is the stimulation of being out among people that I miss the most.
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