But the plague? My Lord Brouncker's observation would not, I fear, lead
him to think that Englishmen of the nineteenth century are purer in
life, or more fervent in religious faith, than the generation which
could produce a Boyle,[40] an Evelyn,[41] and a Milton. He might find
the mud of society at the bottom, instead of at the top, but I fear that
the sum total would be as deserving of swift judgment as at the time of
the Restoration.[42] And it would be our duty to explain once more, and
this time not without shame, that we have no reason to believe that it
is the improvement of our faith, nor that of our morals, which keeps
the plague from our city; but, again, that it is the improvement of our
natural knowledge.
We have learned that pestilences will only take up their abode among
those who have prepared unswept and ungarnished residences for them.
Their cities must have narrow, unwatered streets, foul with accumulated
garbage. Their houses must be ill-drained, ill-lighted, ill-ventilated.
Their subjects must be ill-washed, ill-fed, ill-clothed. The London
of 1665 was such a city. The cities of the East, where plague has an
enduring dwelling, are such cities. We, in later times, have learned
somewhat of Nature, and partly obey her. Because of this partial
improvement of our natural knowledge and of that fractional obedience,
we have no plague; because that knowledge is still very imperfect and
that obedience yet incomplete, typhoid is our companion and cholera our
visitor.
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