In recent days I have found myself thinking a great deal about Richard Peirson.
In 1665, the year of the Great Plague, Peirson was the priest here at St Bride’s Church, Fleet Street, the post that I now hold. Faced with the unimaginable horror of the plague, many clergy fled London. Peirson was one of the few who chose to remain. He stayed at his post, faithfully serving his people as best he could, for the whole of that terrible year.
Our burial register for the year 1665 makes for startling reading. Our parish was a densely populated area and the impact of the plague was devastating. In the month of September alone, when the plague was at its height, Peirson buried 636 people — 43 of them on a single day. There are so many burials that he signs his name at the bottom of each page of the register, rather than against individual entries. He buries whole families; he buries his church officials; he buries unknown and unidentified strangers: some entries read simply: “A child from Kingshead Ally” or “A man from new street”. The symptoms of bubonic plague were horrific and the recovery rate was effectively nil.
I can’t help wondering how Peirson kept going during that year. I wonder what he prayed about and how it affected his faith; I wonder what kept him here, quietly and steadfastly ministering to his flock, day after dreadful day, when every human instinct within him must have craved escape. And Peirson was not alone….
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