I say nothing now about the historic value of Pepys’s journal—for historic value may have no kind of relationship with broad popular interest; and it is with the popular interest, and not with the special significance of the work before us, that we are at present concerned. And therefore my question, concretely put, is just this: How is it that you and I, who may care little or nothing 67for the information that Pepys gives us about the degraded politics and miserable17 court intrigues18 of the Restoration, may still find in his daily capricious jottings a charm which, as literature goes, is almost, if not absolutely, unique?
For any one who has ever dipped into the Diary at all, the answer to this question is not far to seek. Pepys’s memoranda21 have lasting22 interest for us on account of their na?ve frankness, their plain and simple spontaneity, their transparent23 honesty of self-expression. As we read, we realize that, for once at least, we are brought into the closest, the most vital contact with a living man, and that this man speaks to us, who, by the irony24 of fate, chance to overhear his unconsidered utterances26, without disguise, without reticence28 or reserve, of the things which stand nearest to his heart. The reader of Pepys’s Diary knows Pepys himself better than his acquaintances knew him at the office, in the coffee-house, at the street-corner; better than his friends knew him at the social board, spite of the truth that there is in wine; better even than his wife knew him in the intercourse30 of the home. To us he lays bare without sophistication or guile31 thoughts and impulses, desires and disappointments, concealed32 from them beneath the 68conventional wrappings of daily manners and life—personal criticisms and private experiences which, living, he confided33 to none. Does this strike you as a small matter? Then, pause for a moment and ask yourselves of what other man whose written words have ever come into the fierce white glare of publication such statements as these could truthfully be made? Autobiographies35, memoirs, journals, confessions, letters we have, of course, without number, and the value of these as human documents may in most cases be great, in some cases inestimable. But do we, after all, accept literature of this character as the truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth? Do we not rather know that, as a matter of course, such literature must almost always be, in varying degrees, forced, unreal, overwrought, theatrical36? The moment a man begins to talk about himself, the dramatic instinct inevitably37 comes into play; the least vain of mortals colors his own experiences, the least self-conscious manipulates his motives38 and transfigures his feelings. That which we ought to know best—our own heart—is precisely39 that which of set purpose we are forever debarred from describing with more than an approximation to the stern and solid fact. You remember the famous words 69in which Rousseau announced his intention of writing the plain, unvarnished story of his life: “I enter upon an undertaking40 which never had an example, the execution of which will never have an imitation. I desire to show my fellow-creatures a man in all the truth of his nature—and this man will be myself.” And with this rhetorical exordium, the great sentimentalist proceeds, as Mr. Lowell happily phrased it, to throw “open his waistcoat, and make us the confidants of his dirty linen41.” The very condition of deliberate self-revelation places an embargo42 on perfect candor43 and unconsciousness; an autobiographer44, as George Sand said, always makes himself the hero of his own novel, even if he be a hero of the dirty vagabond type, as in the case just referred to. Here, then, is the ultimate secret of Pepys’s peculiar45 charm. Beside him, Rousseau is a mere46 poseur47, and the rest are nowhere. “Is not,” asks Mr. Lowell, “is not old Samuel Pepys, after all, the only man who spoke48 to himself of himself with perfect simplicity49, frankness, and unconsciousness?” That he should have done this is no trifling50 thing. He remains51, seemingly for all time, “a creature unique as the dodo, a solitary52 specimen53, to show that it was possible for nature 70once in the centuries to indulge in so odd a whimsey.”
In speaking of the difficulties inherent in autobiographical writing, I lay stress, it will be observed, on the set purpose, the deliberate intention, generally characterizing it. No small part of the secret of Pepys’s success as a diarist is to be found in the simple fact that with him the set purpose, the deliberate intention, and the resultant disturbing self-consciousness are almost entirely54 absent. Pepys did not write for the public eye, or for any glance save his own; he recorded his impressions and enterprises, his pleasures, anxieties, ambitions, aims, and passing fancies because he found satisfaction in thus summing up “the actions of the day each night before he slept”; and not at all because he proposed to draw a full-length portrait of himself for the benefit of his contemporaries or the amusement of posterity55. It has been suggested by one of the wiseacres who can never leave a simple fact alone, that Pepys regarded his Diary as material towards a fully34 developed autobiography56. Possibly so. But we may be certain that had such autobiography ever been written, the self-delineation of its pages would have differed in many important particulars—in details 71put in, and even more seriously in details left out—from that contained in the journal itself. As it is, we have an odd and uncomfortable sense, when we first open the Diary, of intruding57 where we have no proper business, of breaking in upon the privacy of a man’s life, and surprising him in the undress which he might wear for himself, but in which he would not willingly be caught by even his closest friend. For remember that the six small volumes which contain the manuscript diary are filled with densely58 packed short-hand, peppered with occasional words and phrases from the French, Spanish, Latin, and Greek; and that it was only after immense labor59 that the script was transliterated, and the secrets which poor Pepys had, as he fondly supposed, buried there forever, given to an impertinent and unsympathetic world.[3] Writing thus for himself, and for himself alone, and guarding himself by every means within his power against the possibility of exposure, our chronicler was enabled 72to make his narrative60 the luminous61, because free and spontaneous, expression of his innermost life. A man may be honest with himself in cipher62 for whom long-hand, to say nothing of the thought of subsequent publication, would bring the inevitable63 and fatal temptations to sophistication. Could Pepys have foreseen the ultimate fate of his journal, it is safe to say that it would never have been written, or, once written, would have been discreetly64 burned. Poor fellow! His sense of complete security, of inviolable self-concealment, made possible such confidences as otherwise would never have been committed to paper.
But this is not all. Pepys’s unreserved frankness is to be partially65 accounted for by the fact that he had no fear lest any one but himself should ever read what he found such curious pleasure in writing down. Yet allowance must at the same time be made for a deeper cause, to be sought in an analysis of the character of the man himself. Plenty of people who can write short-hand and appreciate the usefulness of a diary, contrive66 none the less to go through life without finding themselves under the imperative67 necessity of recording68 the minute happenings, the petty annoyances69 and satisfactions, the casual 73meetings, conversations, comings and goings of the common routine of existence. They may enjoy their dinner without feeling impelled70 at the end of the day to make a solemn note of the fact and add the bill of fare; they may fall asleep during a sermon, and yet allow the astonishing circumstance to pass unrecorded; they may say and do a dozen foolish, hasty, and unnecessary things, and see no cause to dwell upon them, and perpetuate71 them, when the evening accounts are made up. But the little things of life were great to Pepys, its trifles singularly, grotesquely72 significant. He was a man, it is clear, of a curiously73 na?ve and garrulous temper, a born lover of gossip, even when he was gossiping only of and to himself, and when some of the matters he found to talk about did not by any means redound74 to his credit.
Mr. Lowell somewhere speaks of the unconscious humor of the Diary. This unconscious humor is, I think, to be referred very largely to this extraordinary na?veté; to the irresponsible loquacity75, the love of commonplace and frivolous76 detail, which seem to have been among Pepys’s most salient characteristics, and to his amazing lack of any sense of perspective—in other words, to his congenital inability to disentangle the 74momentous from the trivial in the complex occurrences of life. An interview with the King, a discussion with the naval77 authorities, the manning of a ship, the arrangements for a war, were serious matters to him; but so, too, were the purchase of a new periwig, the sight of a pretty face in the theatre, a specially78 succulent joint79 of meat at the midday repast, a game of billiards80 or ninepins. It is needful to lay stress on these personal qualities, because they are of the very essence of the man, of the very essence of the Diary. That it should have seemed to him worth while to place on record, if only for his own perusal81, so many things that most of us would give no second thought to—that is the point to be noted82, as one only a little less astonishing than the diarist’s odd plainness of dealing83 with himself. I have said that the use of a cipher which none of your family or acquaintances can read, is in itself a premium84 upon veracity85. Yet Pepys’s singular, remorseless honesty of self-expression remains still in the last degree surprising. The Diary is full of confessions which, I venture to think, you and I would hardly feel called upon to make, even to ourselves, so strong, so irresistible87 does the dramatic tendency become in most of us the moment we begin to touch our 75own lives. If we are fond of reading, it would be natural to us, I suppose, to jot19 down the names of the books we buy or dip into, and any criticism we may have to make upon them; but I wonder how many of us would think it incumbent88 upon us to commit ourselves to such an entry as this?—“To the Strand89, to my bookseller’s, and there bought an idle, roguish French book, ‘L’Escholle des Filles,’ which I have bought in plain binding90, avoiding the buying of it better bound, because I resolved, as soon as I have read it, to burn it, that it may not stand in the list of my books, nor among them, to disgrace them if it should be found.” A declaration like this may strike us as absurdly familiar when we light upon it, but it takes a Pepys to make it, after all; and we therefore feel that in the solemnity and precision with which such an experience is recorded, rather perhaps than in the experience itself, which is neither very important, nor very creditable, nor very singular, is to be found the key to much that is most interesting and significant in the pages of the Diary. Pepys, for instance, quarrels with a captain in the army, and goes about in mortal dread91 of possible consequences. Thousands of men, I dare say, have found themselves in just such a 76predicament; but Pepys makes a note of the fact, plainly, straightforwardly92, with no pretence93 at apology or self-deception, with no tendency towards heroics. Again, he lies awake one night quaking in fear of robbers, and starting at every sound. You and I may have done the same; but I do not imagine that our journals, if searched, would contain any indication of the fact. Take such an entry as the following: “After we had dined came Mr. Mallard, and I brought down my viol.... He played some very fine things of his own, but I was afraid to enter too far into their commendation, for fear he should offer to copy them for me out, and so I be forced to give or lend him something,”—and I wonder how many of us could lay our hands on our hearts and honestly say that this presentation of motive strikes us as remote, unfamiliar94, alien. But while we would hardly dare to look a bit of conduct of this kind squarely in the face, Pepys does so, and unflinchingly sets down the not over-flattering results of his observation. And he does this not because he has the modern man’s morbid95 love of self-analysis, or any of the grim desire of many a recent writer to show himself up as a sorry fellow, but simply because it is his habit all through to report frankly96 and 77unreservedly the various circumstances of his life, withholding97 nothing, adding nothing, disguising nothing.
All this helps to bring the essential na?veté of Pepys’s character into high relief. He tears his new cloak on the latch98 of a door, and is greatly troubled, though the darning is successfully done; he rejoices when Mr. Pierce’s little girl draws him for her valentine, because a present to her will cost him less than one to a grown-up person; he drinks large quantities of milk and beer, and gets pains in consequence; he acts the sycophant99 and the tuft-hunter towards those in power, swallowing his own opinions and rejoicing in the success of his diplomacy100; his appetite for supper is taken away by the sight of his aunt’s dirty hands; he makes up his mind to try how eating fish will suit him, before vowing101 to diet himself in Lent;—and down all such matters go pell-mell in the Diary. He wrangles103 with his mother; breaks an oath never to go to see a play without his wife; gets a headache by drinking overmuch wine; thinks he sees a ghost; rejoices to find himself addressed as Esquire;—and down go all these things, too. He puts his thumb out of joint boxing his footboy’s ears; in a fit of anger he tweaks Mrs. Pepys’s pretty 78nose; is “vext to the heart” when Sir William Pen’s page chances to catch him kicking his cook-maid, “because I know he will be telling their family of it”;—and all these occurrences, once again, are given due record and chronicle. Finally,—not to multiply, as one might do indefinitely, such illustrations of our writer’s singular simplicity and artlessness,—he even notes being “mightily104 troubled” with snoring in his sleep, a statement which I have reserved as a kind of climax105, since I find the allegation of snoring to be about the last that sensitive humanity is willing to bear. Charge a man with theft, if you will; but, as you value your life, do not suggest that he snores.
To this brief analysis of some of the personal peculiarities106 upon which the curious charm of Pepys’s Diary so largely depends, it would be unfair to the writer not to add mention of a characteristic of a somewhat different order. If a diarist, like a poet, is rather born than made, then justice compels us to acknowledge that Pepys was a born diarist—a man who, by reason of his strength and his weakness alike, was an almost ideal chronicler of daily affairs and small beer. For he possessed107 something more than the native garrulousness108, the itch109 to chatter110 and 79to tattle, of which we have already said enough. His, too, was another rare quality of equal importance for the success of his chosen undertaking—a keen, immense, tireless interest in “men, women, and things in general.” He was, in the fullest sense of the term, a viveur—a man who made it his business to get the most possible out of existence, and who, as matters went in his day, touched the world at an amazing variety of points. Immersed as he was in practical responsibilities, fond as he was of money and affairs, he nevertheless threw himself with the utmost avidity and ardor111 into the life of his time, an unheroic Ulysses, forever setting forth112 upon a voyage of new discovery and fresh adventure. He loved, after his own fashion, literature and painting; he was a devotee of music and an amateur of the drama; and he had the shrewdest eye for character, the largest appreciation113 of the picturesqueness114 resulting from the clash of motives, the contests of opinion and feeling, and outworkings of ambitions and passions in the tragedy and comedy of men’s every-day social world. He was indeed, as Sir Walter Scott said of him, a man of the “most undiscriminating, unsatiable, and miscellaneous curiosity.” Although “exceptionally busy and diligent116 in his attendance at 80the office,” this same writer continues, “he finds time to go to every play and every execution, to every procession, fire, concert, riot, trial, review, city feast, public dissection117, or picture-gallery that he can hear of. Nay118, there seems scarcely to have been a school examination, a wedding, christening, charity sermon, bull-baiting, philosophic119 meeting, or private merrymaking in his neighborhood at which he was not sure to make his appearance, and mindful to record all the particulars.” He had an unbounded love of pleasure, a craving120 for new sensations, an indefatigable121 courage in the pursuit of experience, a versatility122 of enthusiasm simply amazing, an industry in multitudinous enterprises which makes us breathless as we read. “He is the first to hear all the court scandal, and all the public news; to observe the changes of fashions, and the downfall of parties; to pick up family gossip, and retail123 philosophical124 intelligence; to criticise125 every new house or carriage that is built, every new book or new beauty that appears, every measure the King adopts, and every mistress he discards.” In one sentence he will report a debate in Parliament—in the next, carefully itemize the points in a lady’s dress; now he is deeply concerned over the problems 81of the navy, and anon is to be found mourning the death of a canary, or the ruin of his fine bands, which he has carelessly slobbered with chocolate. Accounts of state crises, details of court profligacy126, particulars of his own matrimonial misunderstandings, literary criticisms, headings of sermons, accounts of plays, disquisitions on music and finance, on dinners and dancing, and a thousand other matters, important and petty, are jumbled128 together in bewildering confusion in his pages, along with sketches129 of character, bits of the frankest self-delineation, scraps130 of wisdom and folly131, keen judgments133 of men and circumstances, and those notes of success and failure, of aspiration134, achievement, disappointment, of penitence135, and sometimes of remorse86, which belong to the true story of his inner life. Such is Pepys’s Diary—the record of the daily doings and feelings of a busy, restless, vain, easy-tempered, pleasure-loving, ambitious, shrewd, yet often fatuous136, man of the world; take it for all in all, a book without an equal, almost without a rival, in its class.
The author of this extraordinary book, despite some rather aristocratic connections, was the son of a not very successful tailor, and was born, 82perhaps in London, perhaps in Brampton, Huntingdonshire, (the point remains unsettled,) on 23d February, 1632. He seems to have been at one time at school in Huntingdon; but he afterwards entered regularly as a scholar of St. Paul’s, London, passing thence, in 1650, to the University of Cambridge. Of his college career we know little; but we have the record of one incident, interesting as foreshadowing the convivial137 tendencies which come out so often and so strongly in the pages of the Diary. In the Regents’ Book of Magdalene College appears the following highly suggestive entry:—
“Oct 21, 1653. Mem. That Peapys and Hind138 were solemnly admonished139 by myself and Mr. Hill for having been scandalously overserved with drink ye night before. This was done in the presence of all the fellows then resident, in Mr. Hill’s chamber140.
“[Signed] John Wood, Registrar141.”
Yet, notwithstanding this episode, and whatever it may be taken to stand for as an exemplification of Pepys’s way of life, as an undergraduate he became the good friend of some of the most industrious142 of his contemporaries, and, we have reason to believe, acquitted143 himself in his own studies, if not brilliantly, still with a very fair measure of success. At all events, he took his 83bachelor’s degree, in 1653—the very year, it will be observed, of his bacchanalian144 misadventure,—and received his mastership seven years later. Meanwhile, as we learn from a passing note in the Diary, made a long while after, he dabbled145 in literary composition to the extent of beginning a romance, called “Love a Cheat.” The manuscript of this he tore up and destroyed on 30th January, 1663, adding to his chronicle of the event: “I liked it very well, and wondered a little at myself, at my vein146 at that time, when I wrote it, doubting that I cannot do so well now if I would try.” Pepys may not have shown himself in every emergency of life a strong man or a brave; but thus to sacrifice the first heir of his invention, even on finding it, after all, rather better than he had imagined—let us recognize here resolution and courage not by any means to be sneered147 at.
Pepys was but twenty-three when he married Elizabeth St. Michel, an exceedingly pretty girl of fifteen, the daughter of a Huguenot who had come to England with Elizabeth Maria on her union with Charles the First. Of the relations of husband and wife we shall have something to say by and by. Poor St. Michel was a man of countless148 resources and infinite ingenuity149, and in 84consequence was frequently both a burden to himself and a tax upon his friends. He had the genius for inventing things without, it would appear, the talent for turning his inventions to much practical account. He obtained a patent for curing smoky chimneys, and another for cleaning muddy pools; evolved plans for the raising of submerged ships; and in a moment of special illumination actually discovered the whereabouts of King Solomon’s gold and silver mines—in this respect anticipating the interesting performance of Mr. Rider Haggard. In view of these facts, it is hardly necessary to add that, Micawber-like, he was always in an impecunious150 condition, and, pending151 the establishment of the said mines on a modern working basis, was fain to support himself and wife on the offerings of his daughter’s husband, with an additional four shillings a week contributed out of the charitable fund of the French church in London. To one so keenly alive to the meaning and value of money, and so cautious and economical in the management of his own affairs, as Mr. Pepys, the visions and vagaries152 of such a father-in-law must have given constant cause for dissatisfaction and alarm.
Mrs. Pepys thus brought her husband no 85fortune but her beauty, and as, at the time of their marriage, Pepys himself had obtained no settled position, the early years of their wedded153 life were rendered picturesque115 (from an artistic154 point of view) by financial difficulties, and often harassed155 by the ancient problem of how to make one shilling do the work of two. The young couple, however, seem to have put a brave face on the matter, and to have kept faith in each other, and in the coming of better days. At this period, it must be remembered, the Diary had not been started, and direct information, therefore, fails us. But in after years, as wealth grew, and his prosperity became firmly established, Pepys would often cast a back-glance at these early times of anxiety and struggle, indulging, after his manner, in many quaint29 expressions of thankfulness to God over the change, and frequent prayers for strength and courage in case of sudden fall.
On the first page of his Diary he notes that, though “esteemed rich”, he was in reality “very poor,”—a combination of circumstances which is apt at times to be trying even to the most philosophical. His salary was then only fifty pounds a year, and the straitened character of his domestic conditions is shown by the fact that, 86when the curtain rises on the journal, we discover Mr. and Mrs. Pepys dining in the garret on the remains of a turkey—in the preparation of which, be it mentioned as matter of history, poor Mrs. Pepys burned her hand. But changes were pending. Chosen secretary to Sir Edward Montague on his taking command of the fleet sent to bring Charles the Second to England, Pepys was shortly afterwards made clerk to the King’s ships, a position in which, through his industry and astuteness156, he was presently to be of great service to the country in very critical times. This appointment was not, however, secured without complications and difficulties. The actual incumbent of the coveted157 office—one Barlow—was a rival in the field, with personal prestige and influence strong enough to fill poor Pepys with dismal158 misgivings159 concerning his own chances of success. Matters at length were amicably160 settled between the candidates on the basis of a rather singular compromise. Pepys was inducted into the position on undertaking to pay the said Mr. Barlow fifty pounds a year so long as his (Pepys’s) salary was not increased, and one hundred pounds a year when it was raised to three hundred and fifty pounds or more. The tax seems a heavy one, but Pepys 87was willing to accept the responsibility on observing, as he duly notes in the Diary, that Mr. Barlow was “an old consumptive man,” and therefore, assumably, not one likely to call for many annual payments. The old consumptive man lived till 1665, and the entry made by Pepys on hearing of his decease is too characteristic not to be reproduced in full:—
“9 Feb., 1665. Sir William Petty tells me that Mr. Barlow is dead; for which, God knows my heart, I would be as sorry as it is possible for one to be for a stranger, by whose death he gets ￡100 per annum.”
While still a young man, Pepys was made Clerk of the Privy161 Seal, and a justice of the peace, the latter appointment “mightily” pleasing him, though he notes the somewhat unfortunate circumstance that he was “wholly ignorant” of the duties of the post. Little by little he rose to be the most important and influential162 of the naval officials, with a steadily163 improving financial condition, the record of which is given, year by year, in great detail in the Diary. Trouble came presently in the shape of failing eyesight, and by and by he lost his wife; but material fortune continued to attend him through years which were fraught164, for the world of English politics, with vast fluctuation165 and change. At length 88reverses came. In 1679-80, he was imprisoned166 for alleged167 complicity in the famous Popish Plot. After his release he was made Secretary to the Admiralty, and was for two consecutive168 years President of the Royal Society. In 1690, he was again imprisoned, this time on the charge of Jacobinism. With this occurrence, Pepys’s active life may be said to have come to a close. His constitution had long been undermined by a malady169 which had been intensified170 by his sedentary existence, and in 1700 he was persuaded by his physicians to leave his house in York Buildings and take up his abode171 at the home of his old friend and servant, William Hewer, at Clapham. There he died on 26th May, 1703, having just passed the Scriptural term of life.
Pepys’s only acknowledged piece of literary work was “The Memoirs of the Royal Navy,” published in 1690, though a small volume entitled “Relation of the Troubles in the Court of Portugal.” and bearing the initials, S. P., is sometimes ascribed to him by bibliographers. Apart from the Diary, however,—the peculiar qualities of which, it will be understood, remove it altogether from the region of comparison—Pepys’s most useful and lasting achievement was the foundation of the famous library at Cambridge, 89which still bears his name—a collection of manuscript naval memoirs, prints, old English ballads172, and curious miscellanea, which, by the judgment132 of high authorities, remains to-day one of the richest of its class. The visitor to Magdalene College, Cambridge, may still inspect this library as it stands in Pepys’s original book-presses; and if he be a student of the journal, and withal a man of any imaginative power, he will hardly fail to recall with what true bibliomaniac delight the old collector gathered these treasures about him in his own home, with what twinges of conscience he sometimes laid out larger sums than he felt he could well afford in their acquisition, with what enthusiasm he pored over their pages, with what satisfaction and pride he arranged and rearranged them on many a dull and tedious day.
I have sketched173 in brief the external history of Pepys’s life, but you must not be under the impression that the whole, or even the larger part of his career, is covered by the voluminous Diary. This daily record comprises some ten years only, extending from 1st January, 1659-60, when the writer was nearly twenty-seven, to May, 1669, when he had recently completed his 90thirty-seventh year. Just how and why he came to open his secret chronicle, he nowhere tells us; but he makes it very clear that he closed it at length, not because he had grown weary of it, or ceased to find satisfaction in its composition, but simply on account of the failure of eyesight, above referred to. Very pathetic is the final entry:—
“And thus ends all that I doubt I shall ever be able to do with my own eyes in the keeping of my journal, I not being able to do it any longer, having done now so long as to undo174 my eyes almost every time that I take a pen in my hand; and, therefore, whatever comes of it, I must forbear; and, therefore, resolve from this time forward to have it kept by my people in long-hand, and must be contented175 to set down no more than is fit for them and all the world to know; or if there be anything, I must endeavor to keep a margin176 in my book open, to add here and there a note in short-hand with my own hand. And so I betake myself to that course, which is almost as much as to see myself go into my grave; for which, and all the discomforts177 that will accompany my being blind, the good God prepare me.” May 31, 1669. S. P.
Few readers probably will rise from the perusal of the Diary, dismissing it with such an entry as this as the closing note, without regretting that the end should have come just when it did; for we would well have liked to know how Pepys 91responded to some of his later experiences, and especially in what spirit he accepted the tragic178 accidents which presently forced his manhood to the test. About these matters we can now only speculate, with the feeling that had the journal been continued for even a few years longer, we should perhaps have been brought into contact with a deeper, stronger, more earnest side of the writer’s character than actually makes itself apparent in the narrative. We little guess what resources of courage and power lie somewhere mysteriously stored up in men and women seemingly the least heroic, to be drawn179 upon only when the great and decisive moments of a lifetime come; and it might well give us, we fancy, a certain sense of satisfaction if we could follow the vain and garrulous Pepys through his season of growing wealth and prosperity onward180 to the time when he fell on evil days, and watch him in the enveloping181 darkness, bowing his head amid reverses of fortune, or standing127 face to face with death beside his wife’s open grave. But it is useless to indulge in hypothesis. We must accept the Diary as it is, and be thankful that the years covered by it were so full of matters of private interest and public importance.
And if we only think for a moment of all that 92happened in a public way during these ten critical years, and remember that Pepys, by virtue of his official position, was often drawn into very close relations with some of the moving forces and figures of the time—“names that in their motion were full-welling fountain-heads of change,”—we can realize at once that on the historical side this Diary has immense value. I do not dwell upon this side now, for time is limited, and there are other matters, not so frequently dealt with, to which I want to direct attention. Yet it is necessary just to say that, as documentary evidence concerning the inner life of the court and society, the inconceivable, the unutterable profligacy of the King and his followers182, the irresponsibility of those in charge of public affairs, the complete demoralization of the upper classes during the early years of the Restoration, Pepys’s chronicle furnishes a record that we cannot afford to overlook. His simplicity, insouciance183, and habitual184 self-possession are often more telling than the most eloquent185 descriptions of historians, the most fervid186 denunciations of moralists. An accidental word of his will often lay bare a condition of things which lengthy187 analysis, supported by innumerable references to authorities will hardly make us realize, a few passing 93sentences, penned au jour le jour, having frequently the power of throwing some circumstance, otherwise almost incredible, into sudden and lurid188 relief. Indeed, the mere fact that the temper of moral indignation is not one to which Pepys often or easily gives way, itself lends added force to all he writes, and intensifies189 the meaning of his rare exclamations191 of horror or protest. If Pepys had any political convictions at all, they were of the most flexible kind; he did not cultivate the sort of conscience which has the troublesome faculty192 of interfering193 at unexpected times with its owner’s chances of worldly advancement194 and success. Brought up under the Commonwealth195, and, for a time at least, marked by Roundhead proclivities196, he readily and rapidly transferred his allegiance to the new régime, his only anxiety being, it would seem, lest his earlier opinions should be resuscitated197, with unpleasant practical results. Oddly enough, though the Diary opens in the midst of a great political crisis—when Monk198 was marching from Scotland, and English affairs were hanging poised199 in the balance of fate,—it nowhere contains any utterance25 of strong party feeling, any distinctly enunciated200 wish, either for the restoration of the Stuarts or for the preservation201 of the 94Commonwealth. When the Merry Monarch202 was settled upon the throne, Pepys quietly accepted the fact—along with the very desirable office in the Admiralty secured thereby203. You say that the spirit thus shown is not a manly204, not a noble one. Alas205! no. Pepys, I am afraid, had but one firmly rooted political principle—the principle proverbially associated with the celebrated206 Vicar of Bray207, of looking out for himself and his own welfare. Here, of course, we are strongly tempted208 to indulge by the way in a little conventional moralizing, and to congratulate ourselves that in our own days, in enlightened America, the low aims and sordid209 ambitions of poor old Pepys are quite unknown. But I restrain my eloquence, having other matters on hand. The point I want to dwell on for the moment is, that testimony210 to the political and social corruption211 following the Restoration, coming from such a man as this, is testimony of almost unique value, on account of the very character of the witness. To lead you through the miry places of the Diary is no part of my present plan; but let me just say that when such a man, albeit212 unused to the chiding213 mood, bursts out with the exclamation190, “So they are all mad!—and thus the kingdom is governed!”—when, as sometimes 95happens, he speaks with genuine sorrow of what he has heard, or perhaps seen, in the high places of the land; when he scatters214 among his small talk and frivolous details sentences full of dismal apprehension215 concerning the country’s position and outlook,—then things must have come to a pretty pass indeed. Pepys was professionally committed to the Stuart dynasty; yet, as has been well said, a splendid eulogy216 of Cromwell could be gathered from the obiter dicta of his pages. Certainly, we need hardly travel outside the Diary itself, if we seek only to understand and estimate the iniquities217 and political short-sightedness of those who succeeded Cromwell in place and power.
But now we will descend218 from the dignity of history—if these things belong to the dignity of history—to the plane of common every-day life. Abandoning our quest for edification, we will wander for a little while about the Diary, for no other purpose than that of deriving219 what amusement we may from its personal banalities and social tittle-tattle. Pepys tempts220 us to be as unsystematic and inconsequential as himself. We will assume, therefore, the privilege which, according to Hazlitt, Coleridge so constantly 96abused in his conversational222 monologues—that of beginning nowhere in particular, and ending, if we see fit, in the same place.
It has been said that in Pepys’s ten years’ record there are more than five hundred references to dress and personal decoration. I have not checked the statement, but I can easily believe it. This gives, roughly speaking, an average of one such notice to each week covered by the journal. Dress and the affairs of the toilet were indeed for Pepys always matters of serious importance, not to be disregarded in the midst of the greatest strain of public events. We learn that at times Mrs. Pepys’s feminine desire for a new gown or some expensive bit of finery gave rise to domestic bickering223 and husbandly reproof224, and that the money laid out on tailoring and haberdashery occasionally caused an uneasy hour. Yet, with all his thrift225, Pepys seems to have had a remarkably226 free hand when questions of this kind stood in the way. He reports, without remorse, the payment of twenty-four pounds for a single suit—the best, he adds, “that I ever wore in my life”; and later on, notes the spending of eighty pounds for a necklace for his wife—though in this case he has misgivings. It is sad to relate that, on the 97whole, our diarist was much less concerned about his own personal extravagances than about the extravagances of his better-half—a fact which shows us that husbands, like other conveniences of life, have been improved by the course of civilization. At any rate, once noting, to his great sorrow and alarm, a month’s outlay227 of seventy-seven pounds on dress and its accompaniments, he adds that about twelve pounds of this had gone for his wife, and the small remaining balance—some fifty-five pounds—for himself. Charity begins at home; but economy, like justice, often starts next door. Pepys’s marital228 parsimoniousness229 frequently manifests itself in very petty ways; as when, for example, under date 14th February, 1666-7, he writes—“I am also this year my wife’s valentine, and it will cost me ￡5; but that I must have laid out if we had not been valentines.”
Once upon a time, Mr. and Mrs. Pepys went to the theatre together, and there they saw “Mrs. Stewart, very fine, with her locks done up with puffs230, as my wife calls them, and several other great ladies had their hair so, though I do not like it; but my wife do mightily; but it is only because she sees it is the fashion.” This is all very well as a piece of superior masculine 98judgment; but unfortunately our moralist betrays no such scruples231 when social opinion prescribes a new departure in his own accoutrement. We notice with interest in the jottings of the journal the first appearance, or early reappearance, of several curious customs in dress. Patches were used by Mrs. Pepys, for the first time “since we were married,” on 30th August, 1660; and on 12th June, 1663, after observing the growth of the practice then indulged in by ladies, of wearing vizards, or masks, at the theatre—a practice we can understand better as we come to know more of the character of the performances given on the Restoration stage,—Mr. Pepys goes forthwith to the Exchange “to buy things with my wife; among others, a vizard for herself.” On 3d November, in this same year, he reports the adoption232 by himself of the new mode of wearing a periwig in place of the natural hair. It went a little to his heart, we find, to part with his own head-gear. However, he was somewhat reassured233 when, causing all his maids to look upon him, he observed their satisfaction with the result; though he notes intense self-consciousness and some embarrassment234 when, the next day, he went abroad for the first time in his new guise27. About the same period he begins to 99shave himself—a performance which pleases him “mightily,” as promising235 to save both time and money. “Up betimes and shaved myself,” so runs a later entry, “after a week’s growth; but Lord! how ugly I was yesterday, and how fine to-day.”
One is sorely tempted here to reproduce a few of the many passages in which the vain old chronicler gloats over his handsome clothing, and the imposing236 figure cut by him at the theatre, or on the promenade237, or in church. But one or two must suffice as specimens:—
“July 10, 1660. This day I put on my new silk suit, the first that ever I wore in my life.”
“Feb. 3, 1661, (Lord’s Day). This day I first begun [sic] to go forth in my coat and sword, as the manner now among gentlemen is.”
“April 22, 1661. Up early, and made myself as fine as I could.”
“Oct 19, 1662, (Lord’s Day). Put on my first new lace-band; and so neat it is, that I am resolved my great expense shall be lace-bands, and it will set off anything else the more.”
“May 17, 1668, (Lord’s Day). Up and put on my new stuff suit, with a shoulder belt, according to the new fashion, and the bands of my vest and tunique laced with silk lace of the colour of my suit; and so very handsome to church.”
100Alas, poor Pepys! Where be your lace-bands now? your shoulder-belts? your rich silk vests?
The prominence238 of dress in the Diary may well surprise us, but we are scarcely less astonished by the amount of space given by our busy man of affairs to the most various kinds of pleasure and simple merrymaking. Amongst the games in which Mr. Secretary Pepys seems to have found special satisfaction, tennis, ninepins, and billiards hold high place; but these, after all, never yielded him a tithe239 of the pure enjoyment240 that he derived241 from his more intellectual pastimes, reading and music. Pepys was a genuine musician; and we get the impression from the journal that his love of music reached the proportions of a real passion—the only passion, indeed, of his life. On the other hand, he was not a systematic221 scholar, though he devoured242 books with avidity, keeping in touch with the literary output of his day, and at least tasting all sorts of things, from Cicero, the Hebrew grammar, and Hooker’s “Ecclesiastical Polity,” downward to Audley’s “Way to be Rich,” and the last-published comedy of the popular playwrights243 of his time. Here are a couple of sample entries:—
“Feb. 10, 1661-2. To Paul’s Churchyard, and there I met with Dr. Fuller’s ‘England’s Worthys,’ the first 101time that ever I saw it; and so I sat down reading in it; being much troubled that (though he had some discourse244 with me about my family and arms) he says nothing at all, nor mentions us either in Cambridgeshire or Norfolke. But I believe, indeed, our family were never considerable.”
“July 1, 1666. ... Walked to Woolwich, reading ‘The Rivall Ladys’[4] all the way, and find it a most pleasant and fine writ1 play.”
Pepys’s passing opinions have not much critical value, but they are his own, which is more than can be said of many literary dicta far more pretentious245 than his. It is rather instructive to follow some of his fluctuations246 in taste. We notice—to take a single illustration only—that when the first part of “Hudibras” was issued, he bought a copy for half a crown, having heard it much cried up for its pungent247 wit; but was so much disappointed when he came to dip into it, that he sold it again the same afternoon for eighteen-pence. Still every one talked of the poem, and Pepys began to wonder whether he had given it a fair trial. So a few days later he purchased another copy, resolved on closer study. Now, I will venture to say that in this emergency 102poor Pepys kept himself by no means free from the sham248 admiration249 and cuckoo-criticism which is the bane of our drawing-rooms, and, for that matter, of some of our college classrooms, at the present day. Had you met him in social gatherings250, and had the talk turned on “Hudibras,” as it would almost certainly have done, then, doubtless, you would have found that Pepys, fearful of appearing deficient251 in acumen252 or taste, would have little or nothing to say about his adverse253 judgment, and might even consent to laugh perfunctorily at jokes he really did not think funny, and at doggerel254 rhymes which in his heart of hearts he held to be simply stupid. Meanwhile, he confides255 to his Diary the expression of his honest opinion, promising himself that, on the appearance of the second part of the poem, he will borrow it from some friend, and buy it only if, on inspection256, it should turn out to be better than the first part. All this is surely edifying257.
Here we ought perhaps to add that, in an ill-advised moment, Mr. Pepys undertook to learn to dance. “The truth is, I think it a thing very useful for a gentleman, and sometimes I may have occasion of using it, and though it cost me what I am heartily258 sorry it should,” (he deeply 103deplores the payment of ten shillings entrance fee to the class,) “yet I am resolved to get it up some other way.... So, though it be against my stomach, yet I will try it for a little while.” The subsequent introduction of a dancing-master, whose name was Pemberton, turned out, however, to be the introduction of a serpent into Pepys’s matrimonial Paradise. Mrs. Pepys, crazy over the new accomplishment259, insisted on his coming twice a day, which, as Mr. Pepys properly protested, was “a folly.” Moreover, he by and by grew jealous of his wife’s attention to the said Pemberton, and some heartache and much petulance260 were the result. Pepys gives us one graphic4 description of himself, too angry to join his wife at her lesson, yet walking up and down in his own chamber, “listening to hear whether they danced or no.” But he presently became an adept261 in the art, and danced his own part, infinitely262 to his satisfaction, in many a corranto and jig263.
For Pepys, as we have said, was a highly convivial person, and abandoned himself to the pleasure of the moment with an ardor and whole-heartedness which fill the grimly serious modern reader with something like amazement264. The thought of the morrow rarely for him disturbed 104the enjoyment of to-day, though with the coming of the morrow he sometimes found that he had applied265 himself to the good things of this life not wisely but too well. Accounts of suppers, of social festivities kept up until ever so much o’clock in the morning, of mirthmaking of the most boisterous266 kind, abound267 in his pages, mixed up with matters of more serious import in quite a bewildering way. Pepys will often round off some such detailed268 report with a characteristic comment expressive269 of deep satisfaction; as, for example, “mighty270 merry,” or “so home, mighty pleased with this day’s sport.” Carpe diem was evidently his counsel of perfection. There is something charming about the man’s juvenile271 capacity for enjoyment, though we are frequently inclined to wonder how he managed in certain emergencies to keep his clear head and his steady hand. Yet only occasionally does the journal record any marked reaction from even the most roistering overnight carousal272. Here, however, is just one case in point. On 14th August, 1666,—in the midst, be it noted, of a good deal of mental disturbance273 caused by a misunderstanding between himself and Lord Peterborough,—Pepys describes at length an evening of wild frolic and buffoonery. 105After dinner, with his wife and wife’s maid, Mercer (who played a rather prominent part in subsequent domestic unpleasantnesses), he takes a turn at the Bear Garden, where there is much wine-drinking.
“Then we supped at home, and very merry. And then about 9 o’clock to Mrs. Mercer’s gate, where the fire and boys expected us, and her son had provided abundance of serpents and rockets; and there mighty merry (my Lady Pen and Pegg going thither274 with us, and Nan Wright) till about 12 at night, flinging our fireworks and burning one another and the people over the way. At last our businesses being most spent, we into Mrs. Mercer’s, and there mighty merry, smutting one another with candle-grease and soot275, till most of us were like devils. And that being done, then we broke up, and to my house, and there I made them drink; and upstairs we went, and there fell into dancing (W. Batelier dancing well), and dressing276 him and I and one Mr. Banister ... like women; and Mercer put on a suit of Tom’s like a boy, and mighty mirth we had; and Mercer danced a jig, and Nan Wright and my wife and Pegg Pen put on periwigs. Thus we spent till three or four in the morning, mighty merry; and then parted and to bed.”
Do we wonder that the next day’s entry should significantly open—“Mighty sleepy; slept till past eight of the clock”?
As wine-bibbing, and even downright drunkenness, occupy so large a space in our record, it 106may be proper to note indications contained in it of the rise of domestic forces destined277 to do much in a quiet way towards the gradual improvement of general manners in this particular respect. From the point of view of social history, there is much to interest us in Pepys’s occasional references to tea, coffee, and chocolate. These three beverages278 found their way into England within a few years of one another, about the middle of the seventeenth century, cocoa leading the way, and tea bringing up the rear. We have seen that on one occasion our diarist spoilt his bands by spilling chocolate upon them. The coffee-house was an accomplished279 fact in his time. There he often met distinguished280 men on business; there he passed many a chatty hour; there he once reports seeing “Dryden the poet ... and all the wits of the town.” For tea he never seems to have acquired special fondness. I have marked but two references to it in the Diary. Once, on 28th September, 1660, he notes: “I did send for a cup of tea (a China drink), of which I never had drank before,”—and unfortunately, for a wonder, he does not tell us how he liked it. And again, on 28th June, 1667, he chronicles returning home to find his wife “making of tea, a drink which Mr. Pelling, 107the Potticary, tells her is good for her cold.” Tea, by the way, was enormously dear in those days, and was supposed to possess astonishing and mysterious medicinal properties, concerning which we may read much in a broadside issued by Thomas Garway, the coffee-man of Change Alley,—a rare and curious document, a copy of which is still preserved in the British Museum.
It does not, of course, surprise us to learn that this pleasure-loving man of the town was a regular attendant at all the public amusements of his time. He visited the cockpit, the bear-garden, the gambling-room, the prize-ring; though, much to his credit, he found little pleasure in these places of popular resort—a fact which makes it harder for us to understand his frequent presence at public executions, in witnessing which, as many entries serve to show, he found a curious kind of satisfaction. On the other hand, his enthusiasm for everything connected with the theatre was simply unbounded; his Diary remaining to-day an important source of first-hand information on all matters pertaining281 to the drama of the Restoration. From his miscellaneous jottings we gain a wonderfully vivid impression of the manners and customs of the playhouse of the period, together with a 108sense of life in things otherwise dead beyond recall. For Pepys saw the great Betterton in all his glory, and was bewitched by the beautiful and fascinating Nell Gwynne. When his record opens, boys were still playing female parts, as they had done in Shakspere’s time, and the introduction of women to the English stage is duly registered by him as an event. He details, after his manner, all the odds282 and ends of scandal concerning prominent theatrical people; was himself on very friendly terms—somewhat too friendly at times for domestic peace—with various pretty actresses; and was an occasional visitor to that mysterious realm which lies behind the scenes. Once in a while, however, he acknowledges the disillusion283 caused by such excursions. The extremely human proportions into which the heroes and heroines of that magic stage-land dwindled284 when seen at close quarters,—the dust, noise, confusion, paint, powder, and general dinginess285 of the dressing-rooms and coulisses,—these are subjects of frequent remark. Perhaps his most disenchanting experience was one connected with Nell Gwynne—“pretty, witty286 Nelly,” as he fondly calls her,—(we will not forget that the Diary was written in cipher). He finds her once behind the curtain,—alas, 109that we should have to repeat it!—swearing like a trooper because of the smallness of the audience. Now, a small house is a trial sufficient to tax the philosophy of any actress; but we are sorry that pretty, witty Nelly, should have behaved herself in this way. Pepys confesses that on this occasion he went home a sadder and a wiser man.
Let us not imagine that Pepys followed his career of pleasure without twinges of conscience and occasional remorse. The expense involved frequently worried him, and again and again he reproved himself for wasting valuable time. It saddened him once in a while, too, to realize that he could not say “No” when temptation came in his way,—“a very great fault of mine which I must amend287 in.” Sometimes he argued the matter out to a logical issue; as, for instance, when, on 9th March, 1665, he writes:—
“The truth is I do indulge myself a little more in pleasure, knowing that this is the proper age of my life to do it; and out of my observation that most men that do thrive in the world do forget to take pleasure during the time they are getting their estate, but reserve that till they have got one, and then it is too late for them to enjoy it.”
This eminently288 philosophical generalization289 appears to have given him a good deal of relief. 110Still, the qualms290 would come, philosophy notwithstanding. The thought of neglected business is like a death’s head at the feast when he dines once with Lady Batten and Madame Williams; and when, on another memorable291 occasion, he goes to the playhouse when he knows well enough that he should have been elsewhere, he is so thoroughly292 ashamed of himself that he sneaks293 in and takes a back place—only to be immediately singled out by an acquaintance, who spies him out from afar, and, much to his mortification294, insists on sitting beside him. Incidents of this kind are numerous enough to show us that the way of the transgressor295 was sometimes hard.
Pepys, however, managed upon occasion to get even with himself in these delicate matters by a very curious device. He registered solemn vows,—as, for instance, not to drink wine for a specified296 period, or not to go to the play till after a certain date,—inflicting various penalties upon himself for infraction297. These penalties habitually298 took financial forms—payments to charities and the like; and we note that in cases of infraction—and these were sufficiently299 frequent—Pepys was more deeply concerned about the spent money than about the broken vow102. Moreover, 111it has to be acknowledged that some fine casuistry is now and then shown by him in the way in which he manages to elude300 the sense of an obligation while technically301 fulfilling its letter. Under pledge not to touch wine, he consumes hypocras, a mixture of red and white wine with sugar and spices, and comforts himself with the extraordinary theory that this is, “to the best of my personal judgment, ... only a mixed compound drink, and not any wine.” Equally dubious302 are some of his theatrical doings. Once he congratulates himself that he has kept his vow because he arrives at the playhouse too late to make it worth his while to go in—a really magnificent confusion of intention with result. Once again, he allows an acquaintance to pay for him, and exonerates303 himself on the ground that he was taken to the performance, and did not, so to speak, take himself—did not, in other words, go as a free agent, and of his own impulse and will. And on yet another occasion,—such is his subtlety,—he gets Mr. Creed304 to treat him in this way, actually lending the said Mr. Creed the money necessary for the purpose. This, however, he felt to be going rather too far, even for an ethical305 theorist. In reporting the incident, he adds that this “is a fallacy that I have found 112now once, to avoid my vow with, but never to be more practised, I swear.”
I said that in this part of my lecture I should make no attempt to maintain logical consistency306. This must be my excuse for leading you by an abrupt307 transition from the stage to the pulpit. Pepys occasionally stayed at home on Sundays to work up his accounts, or look over his papers, and once (but he was sick that day) to read plays; but he was, on the whole, a faithful church-goer, and, as we have had occasion to observe, made special use of the Lord’s Day for a display of his new clothes and finery, a practice which to modern readers must needs seem both strange and reprehensible308. His notes of discourses309 heard by him are sometimes extremely interesting; while his criticisms—and he was evidently by no means easy to satisfy in the matter of sermons—are often as pungent and incisive310 as they are quaint and characteristic. “A lazy, poor sermon,” he writes, after hearing Dr. Fuller. Once he reports “an unnecessary sermon upon original sin, neither understood” by the preacher himself “nor the people”; and another time he hears a young man “play the fool upon the doctrine311 of Purgatory312.” Considerable space is given in his jottings to a certain 113poor young Scotchman, who had a perfect genius for preaching “most tediously,” and who becomes for Pepys a sort of type and standard of dulness and nebulosity. Poor little Scot, thus to be pilloried313 to the end of time! Pepys had, however,—let us put it euphemistically,—a wonderful power of withdrawing into himself, when the exercises of the pulpit became unusually trying—when, to adapt the phrase of Madame de Sévigné, a preacher abused the privilege preachers have of being long-winded and tiresome314. Over and over again he chronicles sleeping soundly through a sermon, and waking refreshed, if not edified315, at the close. “After dinner, to church again, where the young Scot preaching, I slept all the while.”—“So up and to church, where Mr. Mills preached, but I know not how; I slept most of the sermon.”—“So to church, and slept all the sermon, the Scot, to whose voice I am not to be reconciled [one would suppose that he had become pretty well reconciled to it, judging by its soporific influences] preaching.” I pick these at random316, as specimen entries. There were seasons, however, when, the sermon being bad, and himself unable to achieve the benign317 relief of slumber, Pepys confesses to killing318 time in less innocent ways. 114Susceptible to an extreme degree to feminine charms and graces, he often passed the hour of exhortation320 in looking out for pretty women, and in studying carefully their various styles of beauty and of dress. Here are a few instances to the point. “To church, where, God forgive me! I spent most of my time in looking on my new Morena [brunette] at the other side of the church.” So runs one of his confidences. And again: “After dinner, I by water alone to Westminster to the parish church, and there did entertain myself with my perspective-glass up and down the church, by which I had the great pleasure of seeing and gazing at a great many very fine women; and what with that and sleeping, I passed away the time till the sermon was done.” He even reports that once, at St. Dunstan’s, in the midst too of an “able sermon,” he found himself beside a “pretty, modest maid,” whom “I did labor to take by the hand, but she would not, but got further and further from me; and at last I could perceive her to take pins out of her pocket, to prick321 me if I should touch her again, which seeing I did forbear, and was glad I did spy her design. And then I fell to gaze upon another pretty maid in a pew close to me, and she on me; and I did go about to take her 115by the hand, which she suffered a little, and then withdrew. So the sermon ended, and the church broke up, and my amours ended also.”
This time, by a transition strictly322 logical, we are led to speak for a moment about the most intimate side of Pepys’s domestic existence—his relations with his wife. The subject is a difficult and delicate one; it is, moreover, too complicated to be dealt with in any detail here. A few general words must suffice.
Their marriage had been one of love, and it can hardly be called, on the whole, an unfortunate one, in spite of many unhappy episodes and a good deal of misunderstanding; for even in the white glare of the Diary, where every fleck323 shows, their home life often comes out in a very pleasant light. Still there were unquestionably, even from the very beginning, little rifts324 within the lute20, and these rifts widen terribly, we notice, as the journal runs its course. To the outside world, very probably, such rifts were not often apparent; but we are privileged to see matters close at hand, and from the inside; and this undercurrent of tragedy, beneath the broad stream of prosperity and success, becomes at times painfully manifest as we read.
I suppose it can hardly be said that in the 116case of Mr. and Mrs. Pepys’s various matrimonial difficulties, the entire blame rested on either pair of shoulders. Mrs. Pepys was extremely pretty and attractive, and her husband admired her thoroughly, and was after his own rather singular fashion, devotedly325 attached to her. Yet she was evidently whimsical, somewhat capricious, apt to get into what Pepys calls “fusty” humors, and at times exceedingly trying to the nerves. Many a little crisis, not serious perhaps, but distinctly unpleasant, seems to have been brought about by a word unnecessarily spoken, a look or a phrase interpreted amiss. But, after all, we fear that the main burden of responsibility rested with Pepys himself. Why would he undertake to teach the poor young woman astronomy and arithmetic, when, admittedly, she had neither taste nor talent for such subjects? Why was he so much upset on finding that her ear for music was not nearly as good as he thought it should have been? Why did he cut her short so peremptorily326 on one most unfortunate occasion when she was telling that long-winded story of hers from “The Grand Cyrus”? Why was he petulant327 with her, at another time, for no better reason, as he himself confesses, than that he was hungry, and she had dressed herself, as she not 117infrequently did, in a manner that displeased328 him? Why, finally, when she was berating329 him rather roundly about her deficient wardrobe, did he fall to reading Boyle’s “Hydrostatics” aloud, “and let her talk till she was tired, and vexed330 that I would not hear her”? It is surely, to say the least of it, far from tactful in a husband to declaim from a treatise331 on hydrostatics, when his wife is determined332 to discuss more serious matters. These may be trifles; but such trifles are important things, when viewed from the standpoint of domestic peace. But all this touches merely the fringe of the problem. The really serious troubles were generally, if not always, caused by poor Mr. Pepys’s fatal over-sensibility—that characteristic weakness of his, to which he himself from time to time became only too keenly alive. The simple fact of the matter is, that our diarist had a fondness for the society of pretty women; that his wife, naturally enough, grew jealous; and that all sorts of unpleasantness, deepening sometimes into genuine domestic tragedy, was the inevitable result. I have not time now to go into the ins and outs of what is really a very long story, to follow the rapid fluctuations of feeling, or mark out the converging333 lines of approach to the unavoidable catastrophe334. 118But I cannot resist the temptation of recounting one curious episode—that of a neat joke once played by Mrs. Pepys on her susceptible319 better-half. Pepys, early in the period of the Diary, had fallen in with his wife’s desire to have a girl to live with them—a kind of companion and lady’s maid. He did not like the expense incurred335; but as long as the young lady was sufficiently well-favored to be a pleasant object to look on, he saw but little other cause for complaint—though cause for complaint, and good cause too, Mrs. Pepys was presently to find. Well, on one occasion his wife told him she had engaged a new maid—a girl so pretty and winsome336, she went on to say, that positively337 she was already jealous. Mr. Pepys was a little uneasy about all this. However, he concluded that she “meant it merrily,” and awaited with a good deal of ill-repressed excitement the coming of the domestic beauty. In due season, Hebe arrived; and judge his astonishment338 and disgust, when he found, as he plaintively339 reports, that she was not pretty at all, but a very ordinary wench! For once, at all events, the laugh was on Mrs. Pepys’s side.
Towards the latter part of the Diary the conjugal340 misunderstandings pass into a very acute 119stage, and for a time a break-up of the Pepys establishment seems imminent341. But we are glad to be able to record that the crisis was a comparatively brief one. Mr. Pepys, sorrow-smitten and full of remorse over his recent ill-doings, undertakes to mend his ways, and sets manfully, though with some misgivings and much difficulty, about the task of so doing. And thus the curtain falls upon what promises to be a complete reconciliation342; and we close the Diary with the hope that the new peace lasted for the few brief years that were destined to elapse before the life of poor Elizabeth Pepys was brought to its untimely end. There is one odd commentary on matrimony, which I must needs add for its characteristic strain. Pepys, going to church one day, happens by accident to witness a wedding, and is much interested in what Thackeray described as “the happy couple, as the saying is.” In chronicling this incident, he makes the following extraordinary remark: “Strange to see what delight we married people have to see these poor fools decoyed into our condition, every man and woman gazing and smiling upon them.”
120There is much still on the purely343 personal side of the Diary about which I should well have liked to speak; and, in particular, I had hoped to dwell for a little on Pepys’s notices of the Great Plague (which are much more interesting, as well as accurate, than Defoe’s well-known romancing book), and on his graphic account of the fire of London, which forms an admirable commentary on the second half of Dryden’s famous, if somewhat unmanageable, poem, “Annus Mirabilis.” But these matters, and many other such, cannot now be even touched upon. Meanwhile, in bringing these rambling344 memoranda to a close, I do not feel inclined to apologize for what may seem the frivolous character of my material. The unique charm of Pepys’s Diary, as I said at the outset, lies very largely in the frankness, the na?veté, the unsophisticated directness of its record; it is, as I insisted, really and truly what other chronicles of the kind have been simply in name, a journal intime. Something of this frankness, this na?veté, it has been my aim to illustrate345, and to show you at the same time how quaint and startling are some of the results. And let me ask you not to judge too harshly of the man into whose existence we have thus ventured to pry346. Remember 121that we have been privileged in his case to push aside the curtain which men habitually keep carefully drawn across the penetralia of their lives; that we have caught him often enough at unfair advantage, and in a light fiercer than that which, Tennyson says, beats upon a throne, blackening each blot347. At any rate, I, for my own part, see no reason why, as we lay his Diary aside, we should indulge in platitudes348 of criticism—still less, why we should console ourselves with the flattering thought of moral superiority. Pepys was not a great man, it is true: he was often weak, often foolish; the temptations of the world again and again proved too much for him; at many important points, his theory and practice of life were alike unsound. But it might be well perhaps, before we undertake to throw stones at his glass house, to look a little carefully into the vitreous mansion349 in which we ourselves dwell. And if you and I were forced to lay bare, as he has done for himself, the secret thoughts and feelings, the passing fancies, the unspoken desires, the foibles and failures of our every-day existence, I wonder how many of us would see reason to be proud of the revelation so made. O my brothers, let us be humble350 and charitable! Humility351 and charity are excellent things; and 122humility and charity, I confess, I find constantly forced upon me whenever I dip, for an hour’s genuine amusement, into the Diary of old Samuel Pepys.
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1
writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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graphic
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| adj.生动的，形象的，绘画的，文字的，图表的 | |
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confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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upheavals
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| 突然的巨变( upheaval的名词复数 )； 大动荡； 大变动； 胀起 | |
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recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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chaotic
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| adj.混沌的，一片混乱的，一团糟的 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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jot
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| n.少量；vi.草草记下；vt.匆匆写下 | |
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lute
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| n.琵琶，鲁特琴 | |
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memoranda
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| n. 备忘录, 便条 名词memorandum的复数形式 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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guile
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| n.诈术 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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autobiographies
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| n.自传( autobiography的名词复数 )；自传文学 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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embargo
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| n.禁运（令）；vt.对...实行禁运，禁止（通商） | |
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candor
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| n.坦白，率真 | |
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autobiographer
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| n.自传作者 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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poseur
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| n.装模作样的人 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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51
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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autobiography
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| n.自传 | |
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57
intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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densely
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| ad.密集地；浓厚地 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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cipher
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| n.零；无影响力的人；密码 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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annoyances
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| n.恼怒( annoyance的名词复数 )；烦恼；打扰；使人烦恼的事 | |
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impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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perpetuate
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| v.使永存，使永记不忘 | |
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grotesquely
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| adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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redound
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| v.有助于；提；报应 | |
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loquacity
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| n.多话，饶舌 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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billiards
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| n.台球 | |
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81
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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84
premium
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| n.加付款；赠品；adj.高级的；售价高的 | |
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veracity
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| n.诚实 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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straightforwardly
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| adv.正直地 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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withholding
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| 扣缴税款 | |
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latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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99
sycophant
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| n.马屁精 | |
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100
diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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101
vowing
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的现在分词形式） | |
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102
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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103
wrangles
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| n.（尤指长时间的）激烈争吵，口角，吵嘴( wrangle的名词复数 )v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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104
mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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105
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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106
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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107
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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108
garrulousness
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109
itch
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| n.痒，渴望，疥癣；vi.发痒，渴望 | |
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110
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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111
ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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112
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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113
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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114
picturesqueness
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115
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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116
diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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117
dissection
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| n.分析；解剖 | |
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118
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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119
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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120
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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121
indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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122
versatility
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| n.多才多艺，多样性，多功能 | |
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123
retail
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| v./n.零售；adv.以零售价格 | |
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124
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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125
criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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126
profligacy
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| n.放荡，不检点，肆意挥霍 | |
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127
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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128
jumbled
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| adj.混乱的；杂乱的 | |
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129
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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130
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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131
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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132
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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133
judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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134
aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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135
penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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136
fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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137
convivial
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| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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138
hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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139
admonished
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|
| v.劝告( admonish的过去式和过去分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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140
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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141
registrar
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| n.记录员，登记员；(大学的)注册主任 | |
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142
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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143
acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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144
bacchanalian
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| adj.闹酒狂饮的；n.发酒疯的人 | |
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145
dabbled
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| v.涉猎( dabble的过去式和过去分词 )；涉足；浅尝；少量投资 | |
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146
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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147
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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148
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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149
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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150
impecunious
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| adj.不名一文的，贫穷的 | |
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151
pending
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| prep.直到，等待…期间；adj.待定的；迫近的 | |
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152
vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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153
wedded
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|
| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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154
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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155
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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156
astuteness
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| n.敏锐；精明；机敏 | |
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157
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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158
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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159
misgivings
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|
| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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160
amicably
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| adv.友善地 | |
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161
privy
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| adj.私用的；隐密的 | |
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162
influential
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|
| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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163
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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164
fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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165
fluctuation
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| n.(物价的)波动，涨落；周期性变动；脉动 | |
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166
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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167
alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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168
consecutive
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|
| adj.连续的，联贯的，始终一贯的 | |
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169
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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170
intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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171
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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172
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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173
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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174
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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175
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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176
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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177
discomforts
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| n.不舒适( discomfort的名词复数 )；不愉快，苦恼 | |
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178
tragic
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|
| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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179
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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180
onward
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|
| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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181
enveloping
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的现在分词 ) | |
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182
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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183
insouciance
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| n.漠不关心 | |
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184
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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185
eloquent
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|
| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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186
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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187
lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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188
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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189
intensifies
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| n.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的名词复数 )v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的第三人称单数 ) | |
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190
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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191
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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192
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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193
interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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194
advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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195
commonwealth
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| n.共和国，联邦，共同体 | |
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196
proclivities
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| n.倾向，癖性( proclivity的名词复数 ) | |
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197
resuscitated
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| v.使（某人或某物）恢复知觉，苏醒( resuscitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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198
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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199
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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200
enunciated
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| v.（清晰地）发音( enunciate的过去式和过去分词 )；确切地说明 | |
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201
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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202
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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203
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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204
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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205
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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206
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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207
bray
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| n.驴叫声, 喇叭声；v.驴叫 | |
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208
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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209
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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210
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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211
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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212
albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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213
chiding
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| v.责骂，责备( chide的现在分词 ) | |
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214
scatters
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| v.（使）散开， （使）分散，驱散( scatter的第三人称单数 )；撒 | |
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215
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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216
eulogy
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| n.颂词；颂扬 | |
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217
iniquities
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| n.邪恶( iniquity的名词复数 )；极不公正 | |
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218
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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219
deriving
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| v.得到( derive的现在分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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220
tempts
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| v.引诱或怂恿（某人）干不正当的事( tempt的第三人称单数 )；使想要 | |
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221
systematic
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| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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222
conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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223
bickering
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|
| v.争吵( bicker的现在分词 )；口角；（水等）作潺潺声；闪烁 | |
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224
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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225
thrift
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| adj.节约，节俭；n.节俭，节约 | |
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226
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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227
outlay
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| n.费用，经费，支出；v.花费 | |
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228
marital
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| adj.婚姻的，夫妻的 | |
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229
parsimoniousness
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230
puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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231
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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232
adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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233
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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234
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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235
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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236
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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237
promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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238
prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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239
tithe
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| n.十分之一税；v.课什一税，缴什一税 | |
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240
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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241
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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242
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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243
playwrights
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| n.剧作家( playwright的名词复数 ) | |
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244
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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245
pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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246
fluctuations
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| 波动，涨落，起伏( fluctuation的名词复数 ) | |
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247
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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248
sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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249
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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250
gatherings
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| 聚集( gathering的名词复数 )； 收集； 采集； 搜集 | |
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251
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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252
acumen
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| n.敏锐，聪明 | |
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253
adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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254
doggerel
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| n.拙劣的诗，打油诗 | |
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255
confides
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的第三人称单数 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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256
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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257
edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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258
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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259
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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260
petulance
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| n.发脾气，生气，易怒，暴躁，性急 | |
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261
adept
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| adj.老练的，精通的 | |
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262
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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263
jig
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| n.快步舞（曲）；v.上下晃动；用夹具辅助加工；蹦蹦跳跳 | |
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264
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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265
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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266
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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267
abound
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| vi.大量存在；(in，with)充满，富于 | |
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268
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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269
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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270
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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271
juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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272
carousal
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| n.喧闹的酒会 | |
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273
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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274
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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275
soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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276
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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277
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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278
beverages
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| n.饮料( beverage的名词复数 ) | |
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279
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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280
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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281
pertaining
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| 与…有关系的，附属…的，为…固有的(to) | |
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282
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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283
disillusion
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| vt.使不再抱幻想，使理想破灭 | |
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284
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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285
dinginess
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| n.暗淡，肮脏 | |
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286
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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287
amend
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| vt.修改，修订，改进；n.[pl.]赔罪，赔偿 | |
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288
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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289
generalization
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| n.普遍性，一般性，概括 | |
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290
qualms
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| n.不安；内疚 | |
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291
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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292
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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293
sneaks
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| abbr.sneakers (tennis shoes) 胶底运动鞋（网球鞋）v.潜行( sneak的第三人称单数 )；偷偷溜走；（儿童向成人）打小报告；告状 | |
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294
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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295
transgressor
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| n.违背者 | |
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296
specified
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| adj.特定的 | |
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297
infraction
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| n.违反；违法 | |
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298
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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299
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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300
elude
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| v.躲避，困惑 | |
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301
technically
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| adv.专门地，技术上地 | |
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302
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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303
exonerates
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| n.免罪，免除( exonerate的名词复数 )v.使免罪，免除( exonerate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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304
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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305
ethical
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| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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306
consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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307
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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308
reprehensible
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| adj.该受责备的 | |
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309
discourses
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| 论文( discourse的名词复数 )； 演说； 讲道； 话语 | |
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310
incisive
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| adj.敏锐的，机敏的，锋利的，切入的 | |
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311
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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312
purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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313
pilloried
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| v.使受公众嘲笑( pillory的过去式和过去分词 )；将…示众；给…上颈手枷；处…以枷刑 | |
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314
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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315
edified
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| v.开导，启发( edify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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316
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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317
benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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318
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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319
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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320
exhortation
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| n.劝告，规劝 | |
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321
prick
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| v.刺伤，刺痛，刺孔；n.刺伤，刺痛 | |
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322
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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323
fleck
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| n.斑点，微粒 vt.使有斑点，使成斑驳 | |
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324
rifts
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| n.裂缝( rift的名词复数 )；裂隙；分裂；不和 | |
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325
devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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326
peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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327
petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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328
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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329
berating
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| v.严厉责备，痛斥( berate的现在分词 ) | |
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330
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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331
treatise
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| n.专著；(专题)论文 | |
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332
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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333
converging
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| adj.收敛[缩]的，会聚的，趋同的v.（线条、运动的物体等）会于一点( converge的现在分词 )；（趋于）相似或相同；人或车辆汇集；聚集 | |
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334
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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335
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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336
winsome
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| n.迷人的，漂亮的 | |
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337
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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338
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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339
plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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340
conjugal
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| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
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341
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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342
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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343
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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344
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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345
illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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346
pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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347
blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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348
platitudes
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| n.平常的话，老生常谈，陈词滥调( platitude的名词复数 )；滥套子 | |
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349
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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350
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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351
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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