could perceive at first in the church-yard or going into it but the buriers
and the fellow that drove the cart or rather led the horse and cart; but
when they came up to the pit they saw a man going to and fro muffled up in
a brown cloak and making motions with his hands under his cloak, as if
he was in a great agony, and the buriers immediately gathered about him,
supposing he was one of those poor delirious or desperate creatures that
used to bury themselves. He said nothing as he walked about, but two or
three times groaned very deeply and loud, and sighed as he would break his
heart.

When the buriers came up to him they soon found he was neither a person
infected and desperate, as I have observed above, nor a person distempered
in mind, but one oppressed with a dreadful weight of grief, indeed, having
his wife and several of his children in the cart that had just come in, and
he followed it in an agony and excess of sorrow. He mourned heartily, as
it was easy to see, but with a kind of masculine grief that could not give
itself vent in tears, and, calmly desiring the buriers to let him alone,
said he would only see the bodies thrown in and go away; so they left
importuning him. But no sooner was the cart turned round and the bodies
shot into the pit promiscuously, which was a surprise to him, for he at
least expected they would have been decently laid in, though indeed he was
afterward convinced that was impracticable--I say, no sooner did he see the
sight but he cried out aloud, unable to contain himself.

I could not hear what he said, but he went backward and forward two or
three times and fell down in a swoon. The buriers ran to him and took him
up, and in a little while he came to himself, and they led him away to the
Pye tavern, over against the end of Houndsditch, where it seems the man was
known and where they took care of him. He looked into the pit again as
he went away, but the buriers had covered the bodies so immediately with