with care and depressed by fear, that weary of encountering only signs of

misery, I began to retread my steps towards home.

I was now in Holborn, and passed by a public house filled with uproarious

companions, whose songs, laughter, and shouts were more sorrowful than the

pale looks and silence of the mourner. Such an one was near, hovering round

this house. The sorry plight of her dress displayed her poverty, she was

ghastly pale, and continued approaching, first the window and then the door

of the house, as if fearful, yet longing to enter. A sudden burst of song

and merriment seemed to sting her to the heart; she murmured, "Can he have

the heart?" and then mustering her courage, she stepped within the

threshold. The landlady met her in the passage; the poor creature asked,

"Is my husband here? Can I see George?"

"See him," cried the woman, "yes, if you go to him; last night he was taken

with the plague, and we sent him to the hospital."

The unfortunate inquirer staggered against a wall, a faint cry escaped her

--"O! were you cruel enough," she exclaimed, "to send him there?"

The landlady meanwhile hurried away; but a more compassionate bar-maid gave

her a detailed account, the sum of which was, that her husband had been

taken ill, after a night of riot, and sent by his boon companions with all

expedition to St. Bartholomew's Hospital. I had watched this scene, for

there was a gentleness about the poor woman that interested me; she now

tottered away from the door, walking as well as she could down Holborn

367

The Last Man