No More Learning

[August 23d, 1662. ] I offered eight shillings for a boat to
attend me this afternoon, and they would not, it being the day of
the Queen's coming to town from Hampton Court. So we fairly
walked it to White Hall, and through my Lord's lodgings we got
into White Hall garden, and so to the Bowling-green, and up to
the top of the new Banqueting House there, over the Thames,
which was a most pleasant place as any I could have got; and
all the show consisted chiefly in the number of boats and barges;
and two pageants, one of a King, and another of a Queen, with
her Maydes of Honour sitting at her feet very prettily; and
they tell me the Queen is Sir Richard Ford's daughter. Anon
came the King and Queen in a barge under a canopy with 10,000
barges and boats, I think, for we could see no water for them,
nor discern the King nor Queen. And so they landed at White
Hall Bridge, and the great guns on the other side went off.
But that which pleased me best was, that my Lady Castlemaine
stood over against us upon a piece of White Hall, where I glut-
ted myself with looking on her. But methought it was strange
to see her Lord and her upon the same place walking up and
down without taking notice one of another, only at first entry
he put off his hat, and she made him a very civil salute, but
afterwards took no notice one of another; but both of them now
and then would take their child, which the nurse held in her
armes, and dandle it. One thing more: there happened a scaf-
fold below to fall, and we feared some hurt, but there was none,
but she of all the great ladies only run down among the com-
mon rabble to see what hurt was done, and did take care of
a child that received some little hurt, which methought was so
noble. Anon there came one there booted and spurred that
she talked long with. And by and by, she being in her hair,
she put on his hat, which was but an ordinary one, to keep the
wind off. But methinks it became her mightily, as every thing
else do. The show being over, I went away, not weary with look-
ing on her, and to my Lord's lodgings, where my brother Tom
and Dr. Thomas Pepys were to speak with me.
[January 13th, 1662-63. ] My poor wife rose by five o'clock in
the morning, before day, and went to market and bought fowls


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and many other things for dinner, with which I was highly
pleased, and the chine of beef was down also before six o'clock,
and my own jack, of which I was doubtfull, do carry it very well.
Things being put in order, and the cook come, I went to the
office, where we sat till noon and then broke up, and I home,
whither by and by comes Dr. Clerke and his lady, his sister,
and a she-cozen, and Mr. Pierce and his wife, which was all my
guests. I had for them, after oysters, at first course, a hash of
rabbits, a lamb, and a rare chine of beef. Next a great dish of
roasted fowl, cost me about 30s. , and a tart, and then fruit and
cheese. My dinner was noble and enough. I had my house
mighty clean and neat; my room below with a good fire in it;
my dining-room above, and my chamber being made a with-
drawing-chamber; and my wife's a good fire also.
I find my
new table very proper, and will hold nine or ten people well,
but eight with great room. After dinner the women to cards
in my wife's chamber, and the Dr. and Mr. Pierce in mine, be-
cause the dining-room smokes unless I keep a good charcoal
fire, which I was not then provided with. At night to supper,
had a good sack posset and cold meat, and sent my guests away
about ten o'clock at night, both them and myself highly pleased
with our management of this day; and indeed their company was
very fine, and Mrs. Clerke a very witty, fine lady, though a little
conceited and proud. So weary, so to bed. I believe this day's
feast will cost me near £5.
[July 13th, 1663. ] Hearing that the King and Queen are rode
abroad with the Ladies of Honour to the Park, and seeing a great
crowd of gallants staying here to see their return, I also staid
walking up and down, and among others spying a man like Mr.
Pembleton (though I have little reason to think it should be he.
speaking and discoursing long with my Lord D'Aubigne), yet how
my blood did rise in my face, and I fell into a sweat from my
old jealousy and hate, which I pray God remove from me. By
and by the King and Queen, who looked in this dress (a white
laced waistcoat and a crimson short pettycoat, and her hair dressed
à la negligence) mighty pretty; and the King rode hand in hand
with her. Here was also my Lady Castlemaine rode among the
rest of the ladies: but the King took, methought, no notice of
her; nor when they 'light did any body press (as she seemed to
expect, and staid for it) to take her down, but was taken down
by her own gentleman. She looked mighty out of humour, and


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had a yellow plume in her hat (which all took notice of), and
yet is very handsome, but very melancholy; nor did any body
speak to her, or she so much as smile or speak to any body. I
followed them up into White Hall, and into the Queen's presence,
where all the ladies walked, talking and fiddling with their hats
and feathers, and changing and trying one another's by one an-
other's heads, and laughing. But it was the finest sight to me,
considering their great beautys and dress, that ever I did see in
all my life. But above all, Mrs. Stewart in this dress, with her
hat cocked and a red plume, with her sweet eye, little Roman
nose, and excellent taille, is now the greatest beauty I ever saw,
I think, in my life; and if ever woman can, do exceed my Lady
Castlemaine, at least in this dress: nor do I wonder if the King
changes, which I verily believe is the reason of his coldness to
my Lady Castlemaine.
[December 31st, 1664. ] At the office all the morning, and
after dinner there again, dispatched first my letters, and then to
my accounts, not of the month but of the whole yeare also, and
was at it till past twelve at night, it being bitter cold; but yet I
was well satisfied with my worke, and above all, to find myself,
by the great blessing of God, worth £1,349, by which, as I have
spent very largely, so I have laid up above £500 this yeare above
what I was worth this day twelvemonth. The Lord make me
forever thankful to his holy name for it! Thence home to eat a
little and so to bed. Soon as ever the clock struck one I kissed
my wife in the kitchen by the fireside, wishing her a merry new
yeare, observing that I believe I was the first proper wisher of it
this year, for I did it as soon as ever the clock struck one.
So ends the old yeare, I bless God, with great joy to me, not
only from my having made so good a yeare of profit, as having
spent £420 and laid up £540 and upwards; but I bless God I
never have been in so good plight as to my health in so very
cold weather as this is, nor indeed in any hot weather, these ten
years, as I am at this day, and have been these four or five
months. But I am at a great losse to know whether it be my
hare's foote,* or taking every morning of a pill of turpentine, or
my having left off the wearing of a gowne. My family is, my
wife, in good health, and happy with her; her woman Mercer, a
pretty, modest, quiett mayde; her chamber-mayde Besse, her cook
* As a charm against the colic.


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mayde Jane, the little girl Susan, and my boy which I have had
about half a yeare, Tom Edwards, which I took from the King's
chappell, and a pretty and loving quiett family I have as any man
in England. My credit in the world and my office grows daily,
and I am in good esteeme with everybody, I think.
[January 23d, 1664. ] . To Jervas's, my mind, God for-
give me, running too much after some folly; but elle not being
within, I away by coach to the 'Change, and thence home to din-
ner. And finding Mrs. Bagwell waiting at the office after dinner,
away she and I to a cabaret where she and I have eat before.
Thence to the Court of the Turkey Company at Sir
Andrew Rickard's to treat about carrying some men of ours to
Tangier, and had there a very civil reception, though a denial of
the thing as not practicable with them, and I think so too. So to
my office a little and to Jervas's again, thinking avoir rencontrais
Jane, mais elle n'était pas dedans. So I back again and to my
office, where I did with great content ferais a vow to mind my
business, and laisser aller les femmes for a month, and am with
all my heart glad to find myself able to come to so good a reso-
lution, that thereby I may follow my business, which and my
honour thereby lies a bleeding. So home to supper and to bed.
24th. Up and by coach to Westminster Hall and the Parlia-
ment House, and there spoke with Mr. Coventry and others about
business and so back to the 'Change, where no news more than
that the Dutch have, by consent of all the Provinces, voted no
trade to be suffered for eighteen months, but that they apply
themselves wholly to the warr. And they say it is very true, but
very strange, for we use to believe they cannot support them-
selves without trade. Thence home to dinner and then to the
office, where all the afternoon, and at night till very late, and
then home to supper and bed, having a great cold, got on Sunday
last, by sitting too long with my head bare, for Mercer to comb
my hair and wash my eares.
[March 22d, 1664-65. ] After dinner Mr. Hill took me with
Mrs. Hubland, who is a fine gentlewoman, into another room, and
there made her sing, which she do very well, to my great con-
tent. Then to Gresham College, and there did see a kitling killed
almost quite, but that we could not quite kill her, with such a
way: the ayre out of a receiver, wherein she was put, and then
the ayre being let in upon her revives her immediately; nay, and
this ayre is to be made by putting together a liquor and some


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body that ferments, the steam of that do do the work. Thence
home, and thence to White Hall, where the house full of the
Duke's going to-morrow, and thence to St. James's, wherein these
things fell out: (1) I saw the Duke, kissed his hand, and had
his most kind expressions of his value and opinion of me, which
comforted me above all things in the world, (2) the like from
Mr. Coventry most heartily and affectionately. (3) Saw, among
other fine ladies, Mrs. Middleton,* a very great beauty I never
knew or heard of before; (4) I saw Wallert the poet, whom I
never saw before. So, very late, by coach home with W. Pen,
who was there. To supper and to bed, with my heart at rest,
and my head very busy thinking of my several matters now on
foot, the new comfort of my old navy business, and the new one
of my employment on Tangier.
[August 30th, 1665. ] Up betimes and to my business of settling
my house and papers, and then abroad and met with Hadley, our
clerke, who, upon my asking how the plague goes, he told me
it encreases much, and much in our parish; for, says he, there
died nine this week, though I have returned but six: which is
a very ill practice, and makes me think it is so in other places;
and therefore the plague much greater than people take it to be.
Thence, as I intended, to Sir R. Viner's, and there found not
Mr. Lewes ready for me, so I went forth and walked towards
Moorefields to see (God forbid my presumption! ) whether I could
see any dead corps going to the grave; but as God would have
it, did not. But, Lord! how every body's looks and discourse in
the street is of death, and nothing else, and few people going up
and down, that the towne is like a place distressed and forsaken.
[September 10th, 1665, Lord's Day. ] Walked home; being
forced thereto by one of my watermen falling sick yesterday, and
it was God's great mercy I did not go by water with them yes-
terday, for he fell sick on Saturday night, and it is to be feared
of the plague. So I sent him away to London with his fellow;
but another boat come to me this morning, whom I sent to
Blackewall for Mr. Andrews. I walked to Woolwich, and there
find Mr. Hill, and he and I all the morning at musique and a
song he hath set of three parts, methinks very good. Anon
*Jane, daughter to Sir Robert Needham, is frequently mentioned in the
'Grammont Memoirs,' and Evelyn calls her "that famous and indeed incom-
parable beauty. "
Edmund Waller, born March 3d, 1605, died October 21st, 1687.


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comes Mr. Andrews, though it be a very ill day, and so after
dinner we to musique and sang till about 4 or 5 o'clock, it
blowing very hard, and now and then raining; and wind and
tide being against us, Andrews and I took leave and walked to
Greenwich. My wife before I come out telling me the ill news
that she hears that her father is very ill, and then I told her I
feared of the plague, for that the house is shut up. And so she
much troubled she did desire me to send them something; and I
said I would, and will do so. But before I come out there hap-
pened newes to come to me by an expresse from Mr. Coventry,
telling me the most happy news of my Lord Sandwich's meeting
with part of the Dutch; his taking two of their East India ships,
and six or seven others, and very good prizes; and that he is
in search of the rest of the fleet, which he hopes to find upon
the Wellbancke, with the loss only of the Hector, poor Captain
Cuttle. This newes do so overjoy me that I know not what to
say enough to express it, but the better to do it I did walk to
Greenwich, and there sending away Mr. Andrews, I to Captain
Cocke's, where I find my Lord Bruncker and his mistress, and
Sir J. Minnes. Where we supped (there was also Sir W. Doyly
and Mr. Evelyn); but the receipt of this newes did put us all
into such an extacy of joy, that it inspired into Sir J. Minnes
and Mr. Evelyn such a spirit of mirth, that in all my life I never
met with so merry a two hours as our company this night was.
Among other humours, Mr. Evelyn's repeating of some verses
made up of nothing but the various acceptations of may and can,
and doing it so aptly upon occasion of something of that nature,
and so fast, did make us all die almost with laughing, and did
so stop the mouth of Sir J. Minnes in the middle of all his
mirth (and in a thing agreeing with his own manner of genius),
that I never saw any man so outdone in all my life; and Sir
J. Minnes's mirth too to see himself outdone, was the crown
of all our mirth. In this humour we sat till about ten at night,
and so my Lord and his mistress home, and we to bed, it being
one of the times of my life wherein I was the fullest of true
sense of joy.
[September 2d, 1666, Lord's Day. ] Some of our mayds sitting
up late last night to get things ready against our feast to-day,
Jane called us up about three in the morning, to tell us of a
great fire they saw in the City. So I rose and slipped on my
night-gowne, and went to her window, and thought it to be on


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the back-side of Marke-lane at the farthest; but being unused to
such fires as followed, I thought it far enough off: and so went
to bed again and to sleep. About seven rose again to dress
myself, and there looked out at the window and saw the fire
not so much as it was and further off. So to my closett to set
things to rights after yesterday's cleaning. By and by Jane
comes and tells me that she hears that above 300 houses have
been burned down to-night by the fire we saw, and that it is
now burning down all Fish-street, by London Bridge. So I made
myself ready presently, and walked to the Tower, and there got
up upon one of the high places, Sir J. Robinson's little son going
up with me; and there I did see the houses at that end of the
bridge all on fire, and an infinite great fire on this and the other
side the end of the bridge; which, among other people, did
trouble me for poor little Michell and our Sarah on the bridge.
So down, with my heart full of trouble, to the Lieutenant of the
Tower, who tells me that it begun this morning in the King's
baker's house in Pudding-lane, and that it hath burned St. Mag-
nus's Church and most part of Fish-street already. So I down
to the water-side, and there got a boat and through bridge, and
there saw a lamentable fire. Poor Michell's house, as far as the
Old Swan, already burned that way, and the fire running further,
that in a very little time it got as far as the Steele-yard, while
I was there. Everybody endeavouring to remove their goods,
and flinging into the river or bringing them into lighters that
lay off; poor people staying in their houses as long as till the
very fire touched them, and then running into boats, or clamber-
ing from one pair of stairs by the water-side to another. And
among other things, the poor pigeons, I perceive, were loth to
leave their houses, but hovered about the windows and balconys
till they were some of them burned, their wings, and fell down.
Having staid, and in an hour's time seen the fire rage every
way, and nobody, to my sight, endeavouring to quench it, but to
remove their goods, and leave all to the fire, and having seen
it get as far as the Steele-yard, and the wind mighty high and
driving it into the City; and everything, after so long a drought,
proving combustible, even the very stones of churches, and among
other things the poor steeple by which pretty Mrs. —
lives,
and whereof my old schoolfellow Elborough is parson, taken fire
in the very top, and there burned till it fell down: I to White
Hall (with a gentleman with me who desired to go off from the
XIX-707


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SAMUEL PEPYS
Tower, to see the fire, in my boat); to White Hall, and there up
to the King's closett in the Chappell, where people come about
me, and I did give them an account dismayed them all, and
word was carried in to the King. So I was called for, and did
tell the King and Duke of Yorke what I saw, and that unless
his Majesty did command houses to be pulled down nothing
could stop the fire. They seemed much troubled, and the King
commanded me to go to my Lord Mayor from him, and command
him to spare no houses, but to pull down before the fire every
way. The Duke of York bid me tell him that if he would have
any more soldiers he shall; and so did my Lord Arlington after-
wards, as a great secret. Here meeting with Captain Cocke, I in
his coach, which he lent me, and Creed with me to Paul's, and
there walked along Watling-street, as well as I could, every creat-
ure coming away loaden with goods to save, and here and there
sicke people carried away in beds. Extraordinary good goods
carried in carts and on backs. At last met my Lord Mayor in
Canning-street, like a man spent, with a handkercher about his
neck. To the King's message he cried, like a fainting woman,
"Lord! what can I do? I am spent: people will not obey me.
I have been pulling down houses; but the fire overtakes us faster
than we can do it. " That he needed no more soldiers; and that,
for himself, he must go and refresh himself, having been up all
night. So he left me, and I him, and walked home, seeing people
all almost distracted, and no manner of means used to quench
the fire. The houses, too, so very thick thereabouts, and full
of matter for burning, as pitch and tarr, in Thames-street; and
warehouses of oyle, and wines, and brandy, and other things.
Here I saw Mr. Isaake Houblon, the handsome man, prettily
dressed and dirty, at his door at Dowgate, receiving some of his
brothers' things, whose houses were on fire; and, as he says, have
been removed twice already; and he doubts (as it soon proved)
that they must be in a little time removed from his house also,
which was a sad consideration. And to see the churches all
filling with goods by people who themselves should have been
quietly there at this time. By this time it was about twelve
o'clock; and so home, and there find my guests, which was Mr.
Wood and his wife Barbary Sheldon, and also Mr. Moone: she
mighty fine, and her husband, for aught I see, a likely man. But
Mr. Moone's design and mine, which was to look over my closett
and please him with the sight thereof, which he hath long desired,


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was wholly disappointed; for we were in great trouble and dis-
turbance at this fire, not knowing what to think of it. However,
we had an extraordinary good dinner, and as merry as at this
time we could be. While at dinner Mrs. Batelier come to enquire
after Mr. Woolfe and Stanes (who, it seems, are related to them),
whose houses in Fish-street are all burned, and they in a sad
condition. She would not stay in the fright. Soon as dined, I
and Moone away, and walked through the City, the streets full of
nothing but people and horses and carts loaden with goods, ready
to run over one another, and removing goods from one burned
house to another. They now removing out of Canning-streete
(which received goods in the morning) into Lumbard-streete,
and further; and among others I now saw my little goldsmith,
Stokes, receiving some friend's goods, whose house itself was
burned the day after. We parted at Paul's; he home, and I to
Paul's Wharf, where I had appointed a boat to attend me, and
took in Mr. Carcasse and his brother, whom I met in the streete,
and carried them below and above bridge to and again to see the
fire, which was now got further, both below and above,
and no
likelihood of stopping it. Met with the King and Duke of York
in their barge, and with them to Queenhithe, and there called
Sir Richard Browne to them. Their order was only to pull down
houses apace, and so below bridge at the water-side; but little
was or could be done, the fire coming upon them so fast. Good
hopes there was of stopping it at the Three Cranes above, and
at Buttolph's Wharf below bridge, if care be used; but the
wind carries it into the City, so as we know not by the water-
side what it do there. River full of lighters and boats taking
in goods, and good goods swimming in the water, and only I
observed that hardly one lighter or boat in three that had the
goods of a house in, but there was a pair of Virginalls in it.
Having seen as much as I could now, I away to White Hall by
appointment, and there walked to St. James's Parke, and there
met my wife and Creed and Wood and his wife, and walked to
my boat; and there upon the water again, and to the fire up and
down, it still encreasing, and the wind great. So near the fire as
we could for smoke; and all over the Thames, with one's face in
the wind, you were almost burned with a shower of fire-drops.
This is very true; so as houses were burned by these drops
and flakes of fire, three or four, nay, five or six houses, one
from another. When we could endure no more upon the water,


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we to a little ale-house on the Bankside, over against the Three
Cranes, and there staid till it was dark almost, and saw the fire
grow; and as it grew darker, appeared more and more, and in
corners and upon steeples, and between churches and houses,
as far as we could see up the hill of the City, in a most horrid
malicious bloody flame, not like the fine flame of an ordinary fire.
Barbary and her husband away before us. We staid till, it being
darkish, we saw the fire as only one entire arch of fire from
this to the other side the bridge, and in a bow up the hill for
an arch of above a mile long: it made me weep to see it. The
churches, houses, and all on fire and flaming at once; and a hor-
rid noise the flames made, and the cracking of houses at their
ruine. So home with a sad heart, and there find every body dis-
coursing and lamenting the fire; and poor Tom Hater come with
some few of his goods saved out of his house, which is burned
upon Fishstreete Hill. I invited him to lie at my house, and
did receive his goods, but was deceived in his lying there, the
newes coming every moment of the growth of the fire; so as we
were forced to begin to pack up our owne goods, and prepare
for their removal; and did by moonshine (it being brave dry,
and moonshine, and warm weather) carry much of my goods.
into the garden, and Mr. Hater and I did remove my money
and iron chests into my cellar, as thinking that the safest place.
And got my bags of gold into my office, ready to carry away,
and my chief papers of accounts also there, and my tallys into
a box by themselves. So great was our fear, as Sir W. Batten
hath carts come out of the country to fetch away his goods this
night. We did put Mr. Hater, poor man, to bed a little; but he
got but very little rest, so much noise being in my house, tak-
ing down of goods.
[February 16th, 1666-67. ] To Mrs. Pierce's, where I took up
my wife, and there I find Mrs. Pierce's little girl is my Valen-
tine, she having drawn me; which I was not sorry for, it easing
me of something more that I must have given to others. But
here I do first observe the fashion of drawing of mottos as well
as names; so that Pierce, who drew my wife, did draw also a
motto, and this girl drew another for me. What mine was I have
forgot: but my wife's was, "Most virtuous and most fair; " which,
as it may be used, or an anagram made upon each name, might
be very pretty. Thence with Cocke and my wife, set him at
home, and then we home. To the office, and there did a little


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business, troubled that I have so much been hindered by matters
of pleasure from my business, but I shall recover it I hope in a
little time. So home and to supper, not at all smitten with the
musique to-night, which I did expect should have been so extraor-
dinary.
Tom Killigrew crying it up, and so all the world,
above all things in the world, and so to bed. One wonder I
observed to-day, that there was no musique in the morning to
call up our new-married people.
[February 25th, 1666-67. ] Lay long in bed, talking with pleas-
ure with my poor wife, how she used to make coal fires, and
wash my foul clothes with her own hand for me, poor wretch!
in our little room at my Lord Sandwich's: for which I ought for
ever to love and admire her, and do; and persuade myself she
would do the same thing again, if God should reduce us to it.
So up and by coach abroad to the Duke of Albemarle's about
sending soldiers down to some ships, and so home, calling at a
belt-maker's to mend my belt, and so home and to dinner, where
pleasant with my wife, and then to the office, where mighty busy
all the day, saving going forth to the 'Change to pay for some
things, and on other occasions, and at my goldsmith's did observe
the King's new medall, where, in little, there is Mrs. Steward's
face as well done as ever I saw anything in my whole life, I
think and a pretty thing it is, that he should choose her face
to represent Britannia by. So at the office late very busy and
much business with great joy dispatched, and so home to supper
and to bed.
[July 24th, 1667. ] Betimes this morning comes a letter from
the Clerke of the Cheque at Gravesend to me, to tell me that
the Dutch fleete did come all into the Hope yesterday noon, and
held a fight with our ships from thence till seven at night; that
they had burned twelve fire-ships, and we took one of their's,
and burned five of our fire-ships. But then rising and going to
Sir W. Batten, he tells me that we have burned one of their
men-of-war, and another of their's is blown up; but how true this
is, I know not. But these fellows are mighty bold, and have had
the fortune of the wind easterly this time to bring them up, and
prevent our troubling them with our fire-ships; and indeed have
had the winds at their command from the beginning, and now
do take the beginning of the spring, as if they had some great
design to do. I to my office, and there hard at work all the
morning, to my great content, abstracting the contract book into


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my abstract book, which I have by reason of the war omitted for
above two years, but now am endeavouring to have all my books
ready and perfect against the Parliament comes, that upon ex-
amination I may be in condition to value myself upon my per-
fect doing of my own duty. At noon home to dinner, where my
wife mighty musty, but I took no notice of it, but after dinner
to the office, and there with Mr. Harper did another good piece
of work.
[October 10th, 1667. ] All of us, my sister and brother, and
W. Hewer, to dinner to Hinchingbroke, where we had a good
plain country dinner, but most kindly used; and here dined the
Minister of Brampton and his wife, who is reported a very good
but poor man. Here I spent alone with my Lady, after dinner,
the most of the afternoon; and anon the two twins were sent
for from schoole, at Mr. Taylor's, to come to see me, and I took
them into the garden, and there, in one of the summer-houses,
did examine them, and do find them so well advanced in their
learning, that I was amazed at it: they repeating a whole ode
without book out of Horace, and did give me a very good
account of any thing almost, and did make me very readily very
good Latin, and did give me good account of their Greek gram-
mar, beyond all possible expectation; and so grave and manly
as I never saw, I confess, nor could have believed; so that they
will be fit to go to Cambridge in two years at most. They are
both little, but very like one another, and well-looked children.
Then in to my Lady again, and staid till it was almost night
again, and then took leave for a great while again, but with
extraordinary kindness from my Lady, who looks upon me like
one of her own family and interest. So thence, my wife and
people by the highway, and I walked over the park with Mr.
Shepley, and through the grove, which is mighty pretty, as is
imaginable, and so over their drawbridge to Nun's Bridge, and
so to my father's, and there sat and drank, and talked a little,
and then parted. And he being gone, and what company there
was, my father and I, with a dark lantern, it being now night,
into the garden with my wife, and there went about our great
work to dig up my gold. But, Lord! what a tosse I was for
some time in, that they could not justly tell where it was; that
I begun heartily to sweat, and be angry, that they should not
agree better upon the place, and at last to fear that it was gone:
but by and by poking with a spit, we found it.


## p. 11303 (#523) ##########################################

SAMUEL PEPYS
11303
[February 27th, 1667-68. ]
All the morning at the office, and
at noon home to dinner, and thence with my wife and Deb. to
the King's House, to see 'The Virgin Martyr,'* the first time it
hath been acted a great while: and it is mighty pleasant; not
that the play is worth much, but it is finely acted by Becke
Marshal. But that which did please me beyond any thing in the
whole world was the wind-musique when the angel comes down,
which is so sweet that it ravished me, and indeed, in a word, did
wrap up my soul so that it made me really sick, just as I have
formerly been when in love with my wife; that neither then, nor
all the evening going home, and at home, I was able to think of
any thing, but remained all night transported, so as I could not
believe that ever any musick hath that real command over the
soul of a man as this did upon me: and makes me resolve to
practice wind-musique, and to make my wife do the like.
[May 1st, 1669. ] Up betimes. Called up by my tailor, and
there first put on a summer suit this year: but it was not my
fine one of flowered tabby vest, and coloured camelott tunique,
because it was too fine with the gold lace at the hands, that I
was afeard to be seen in it; but put on the stuff suit I made
the last year, which is now repaired; and so did go to the Office
in it, and sat all the morning, the day looking as if it would be
fowle. At noon home to dinner, and there find my wife extraor-
dinary fine, with her flowered tabby gown that she made two
years ago now laced exceeding pretty; and indeed, was fine all
over; and mighty earnest to go though the day was very lower
ing; and she would have me put on my fine suit, which I did.
And so anon we went alone through the town with our new
liveries of serge, and the horses' manes and tails tied with red
ribbons, and the standards there gilt with varnish, and all clean,
and green reines, that people did mightily look upon us; and
the truth is, I did not see any coach more pretty, though more
gay, than ours all the day. But we set out, out of humour — I
because Betty, whom I expected, was not come to go with us;
and my wife that I would sit on the same seat with her, which
she likes not, being so fine: and she then expected to meet
Sheres, which we did in the Pell Mell, and against my will, I
was forced to take him into the coach, but was sullen all day
almost, and little complaisant: the day also being unpleasing,
*A tragedy by Massinger and Dekker.


## p. 11304 (#524) ##########################################

SAMUEL PEPYS
11304
though the Park full of coaches, but dusty and windy, and cold,
and now and then a little dribbling rain; and what made it
worst, there were so many hackney-coaches as spoiled the sight
of the gentlemen's; and so we had little pleasure. But here was
W. Batelier and his sister in a borrowed coach by themselves,
and I took them and we to the lodge; and at the door did
give them a syllabub, and other things, cost me 12s. , and pretty
merry. And so back to the coaches, and there till the evening,
and then home, leaving Mr. Sheres at St. James's Gate, where he
took leave of us for altogether, he being this night to set out for
Portsmouth post, in his way to Tangier, which troubled my wife
mightily, who is mighty, though not, I think, too fond of him.
But she was out of humour all the evening, and I vexed at her
for it, and she did not rest almost all the night.


## p. 11305 (#525) ##########################################

11305
JOSÉ MARIA DE PEREDA
(1834-)
BY WILLIAM HENRY BISHOP
Sugar
EREDA was born February 7th, 1834, at Polanco, a village of
Northern Spain, near Santander, the capital city of the prov-
ince of the same name, popularly termed also La Montaña,
or the Mountain. This is the region to which he has especially
devoted himself in his literary work. He is generously named by the
younger men of distinguished ability, like Galdós and Valdés, as the
most original of the contemporary Spanish writers of fiction, and as
the most revolutionary, in the sense of having cast off the conven-
tional influence of the romantic and classical traditions of the earlier
half of the century. His influence is a distinct and valuable element
in the work of the other leaders; and yet, unlike them,- owing to the
local raciness, the idiomatic difficulties of his style,- he has been
scarcely translated into any other of the modern languages, and into
English not at all; except in some fugitive short stories, rendered for
the periodical press by Mr. Rollo Ogden. Pereda is properly to be
named as the pioneer and standard-bearer of the best kind of modern
realism in Spain.
He is a country gentleman of good descent and liberal means,
resident, at no great distance from Santander, at the village of Po-
lanco, where his modern villa adjoins the casa solar or ancestral home-
stead of his family, with the arms heavily carved above the door in
mediæval fashion. He has never had to know the conflict between
poverty and literary aspiration, which is so common a feature in
the history of writers; yet this has in no way detracted from the
masculine vigor, the evidence of assiduous labor, and the notable
air of conscientiousness, in his work. In appearance he is of the
spare ascetic type we are accustomed to associate with the Span-
ish hidalgo. The distinguished French traveler and novelist, René
Bazin, in an account in the Revue des Deux Mondes of a visit to him
at Polanco, says: "As he drew near, one might have taken him for
Cervantes himself. " Galdós speaks of him as "the most amiable, the
most excellent of men. " He seems to have in a high degree the fac-
ulty of inspiring warm personal regard. This is well exemplified in
two most laudatory essays on two of his books,- the one by Galdós,
the other by Menendez y Pelayo, the eminent critic. Frankly colored


## p. 11306 (#526) ##########################################

11306
JOSÉ MARIA DE PEREDA
as these are by friendly admiration, they yet state convincingly the
reasons for their opinions; and these reasons can be accurately veri-
fied by whoever will have recourse to the text.
Pereda's literary work began in 1859 with the publication, in a
local journal, of the sketches of manners and customs afterwards gath-
ered into a volume called 'Escenas Montañeses' (Scenes in Mon-
taña). A number of these are marked by the triviality of their
origin; but several others, like 'La Leva' (The Conscription) and
'El Fin de Una Raza' (The Last of his Race), are esteemed equal to
the best of his later work. 'La Leva' is a picture, both touching
and humorous, of the poor fisherman Tuerto-an Adam Bede of a
rougher sort—and his drunken wife. The naval conscription finally
takes him out of his misery, but leaves his children to the mercies
of a cold world. The second story is in a measure a continuation of
the first, showing the return of Tuerto to find his children vagrants
and outcasts; but it is chiefly devoted to Uncle Tremontorio, an old-
school tar of a type that has now disappeared. The province of San-
tander is an almost equal combination of the mountains belonging to
the Cantabrian chain, and the coasts of the formidable Bay of Biscay:
both are affectionately referred to in the literary phraseology as
Cantabria, from the old Roman name of the province. Pereda divides
his interest impartially between sea and shore; between the life of
the farmers in the hilly interior and that of the hardy fisherman
on the coast; and notably Santander, with its tall squalid tenement
houses clustering round the park, which is the capital and the centre
of all the enterprises of these latter. This is the domain which the
author has chosen so exclusively for his own that he scarce wishes
ever to make any excursion outside it, literary or personal; for he
will not even live outside of it. He is hailed with especial pride by
its inhabitants, as the vindicator of the Northern race of people,
who had had no champion in literature from the very earliest times.
The grateful inhabitants of Santander paid him the compliment of
naming a fine street after one of his books, 'Sotileza' (Fine Spun),
choosing for the purpose the site at which a principal part of the
action of the book took place; and also presented him a large paint-
ing, showing a scene from the book: while Torrelavega, the small
town nearest his village, presented him with a piece of plate.
Though literature may not bring very large money returns in a coun-
try with comparatively so few readers as Spain, it receives many
places and preferments, and graceful honors of this kind.
manner Zorilla, the poet, was publicly crowned, with a crown made
of gold from the sands of the Darro at Granada.
Pereda's first novel, 'Los Hombres de Pro' (Respectable Folks),
was completed in 1874. It describes the rise in the world of Simon


## p. 11307 (#527) ##########################################

JOSÉ MARIA DE PEREDA
11307
Cerojo, who kept a little cross-roads grocery. It is a story of char-
acter, the elements of which might be found in almost any country.
He finds that the men who "give life and character to communities
in our day are not richer, wiser, of better origin, nor even much
stronger in their spelling, than himself. " He is elected to the Con-
gress, makes a foolish speech, sees his pretty daughter Julieta elope
with a young adventurer of a journalist, is tricked out of the greater
part of his fortune, and drops back again, disillusionized, to the lower
level. The episode of the glib journalist, the humors of Don Simon's
canvas, the rude mountain hidalgo in his isolation, the dialogue of
the children teasing the unpopular Julieta, are some of the more
pleasing passages of a book which is everywhere graphic and enter-
taining. 'Don Gonzalo Gonzalez de la Gonzalera' (Mr. Gonzalo Gon-
zalez of Gonzalez-town), 1878, is a continuation of the above, in the
sense that politics is a strong element of interest in both, and the
abuses of popular suffrage, parliamentary misrule, and other modern
social tendencies, are vividly and amusingly satirized in both. Don
Gonzalo is one of those persons, returned after acquiring a small
fortune in the Spanish colonies, who are called Indianos. Very little
good is usually said of them. This one, besides being vulgar, is base
at heart; and does much mischief. He is refused by the refined
daughter of the impoverished hidalgo, whom he had aspired to marry,
and is left severely alone in the vulgarly pretentious house he built
to dazzle the community with. But the worst part of his deserts is
meted out to him by an incorrigible shrew; for such is the wife he
finally marries. Free and progressive as he is in literature, Pereda
is singularly conservative, or frankly reactionary, both in his books
and out of them, in all that relates to government and modern con-
ditions. He favors the absolute form of monarchy; and he has even
sat as a Carlist deputy in the Cortes. Galdós says of him in friendly
mockery that he would support even the restoration of Philip II. in
Spain. He recalls one of those, on our own side of the water, who
should still see only the better side of slavery, and sigh over the dis-
appearance of that genial, charming system. It is a striking contrast
between practice and theory; it testifies to the literary conscience of
the writer, and may fairly be considered, too, as a heightening touch
to his originality, now that nearly all the world is of an opposite
way of thinking.
The titles of his books at once give a clue to their vigorous and
homely character. 'De Tal Palo Tal Astilla' (A Chip of the Old
Block) belongs to 1879; 'El Sabor de la Tierruca' (Redolent of the
Soil), 1881; 'Pedro Sanchez,' 1883; 'Sotileza' (Fine Spun), 1884; La
Montalvez,' 1887; La Puchera' (The Family Board) and 'El Buey
Suelto (The Unruly Steer), 1888; Al Primer Vuelo' (The First


## p. 11308 (#528) ##########################################

11308
JOSÉ MARIA DE PEREDA
Flight from the Nest), 1890; Nubes de Estio' (Summer Clouds), 1890;
'Peñas Arriba' (The Upper Peaks), 1894. There have also appeared
three other volumes of miscellany, in the style of the Scenes in
Montaña': namely, Tipos y Paisajes' (Typical Figures and Land-
scapes), 1870; 'Bocetos al Temple' (Sketches in Distemper), 1873:
and 'Esbozos y Rasgunos (Scrawls and Scratches), 1880.
>
'Sotileza' is particularly the idyl of the sea; 'El Sabor de la
Tierruca' that of the rustic folk of the shore; others again, like 'La
Puchera,' are amphibious, dealing in an almost equal measure with
both. Around the central figure of the fisher-girl in the first, and
the young village squire in the second, are grouped a multitude of
very real and living types; and yet, owing to a certain rhythmic,
poetic feeling in the treatment, there is something of the eclogue
about them,—a quality that recalls Theocritus, 'Evangeline,' and Mis-
tral's 'Mirèio. Tal Palo Tal Astilla' has something of the religious
problem, like Galdós's 'Gloria,' and is less realistic than the others.
'El Buey Suelto' defends the institution of marriage and the family
against certain dangerous subversive tendencies. 'Pedro Sanchez,'
again, deals with political evils, in a tone of serene melancholy,
which however is pessimistic rather about institutions than human
nature itself. In 'La Montalvez,' for once, he abandons his mountain
province, and treats with his usual ability- for he touches nothing
that he does not adorn-of the society at Madrid; though society
not of a pleasing cast.
Pereda's style is a treasury of forcible, idiomatic language; he is
a master of dialogue, and excels in representing the racy talk of the
lower orders of people. He has taken a long step towards realizing
the ideal of many writers of our own day,- that of uniting the lan-
guage of daily life with that of literary expression. He is genuinely
humorous; and this humor, a legitimate continuation of the tradition
of humor so long established in Spain, makes him everywhere enter-
taining, and keeps him, in spite of his idealizing proclivities, both
from imposing upon us unreal Arcadias and from sinking into any
hopeless depression of spirits.
William Henry Bishof
>


## p. 11309 (#529) ##########################################

JOSÉ MARIA DE PEREDA
11309
TUERTO'S FAMILY LIFE
From La Leva'
B
EFORE going any further, the reader should be informed that
there existed from time immemorial, between the seagoing
folk of High Street [the street along the heights] and those
by the water-side, an inextinguishable feud.
Each quarter forms a separate fishing corporation, or guild;
and the two have not been willing even to adopt the same patron
saint. The High Street folks, or the Upper Guild, chose Saint
Peter, while those on Beach Street, or the Lower Guild, com-
mend themselves to the holy martyrs Emeterius and Celadonius;
and to those illustrious saintships- said to have miraculously
come to port in a bark made of stone-they have built, at their
own expense, a very pretty chapel, in the Miranda quarter, over-
looking a wide expanse of ocean.
So now we continue.
Tuerto ["Cross-Eyes "] enters his house. He tosses off his
sou'-wester or serviceable tarpaulin hat, throws down upon an old
chest his duck waterproof, which he had carried on his shoul-
der, and hangs up on a nail a basket with an oil-skin covering,
and full of fishing-tackle. His wife dishes up in an old broken
pan a mess of beans and cabbage, badly cooked and worse sea-
soned, sets it on the chest, and puts alongside it a big piece
of coarse brown bread. Tuerto, without letting fall a word, waits
till his infants have got around the board also, and then begins
to eat the mess with a pewter spoon. His wife and children
accompany him, taking turns with another spoon, of wood. The
beans and cabbage are finished. Tuerto has the air of expecting
something next, which does not come; he looks at the dish, then
into the bottom of the empty stew-pan, then finally at his wife.
The woman turns pale.
"Where is the meat? " he at length inquires, with the chronic
hoarse voice of the fisherman.
"The meat? " stammered his wife. "As the butcher's shop
was closed when I went to get it, I did not bring any. "
"That's a lie. I gave you the two reals and a half to buy it
yesterday noon, and the butcher's doesn't close till four. What
have you done with the money? "


## p. 11310 (#530) ##########################################

11310
JOSÉ MARIA DE PEREDA
"The money? - the money? It's in my pocket. "
"You thieving jade, if you've been drinking again, I swear
I'll let daylight through you," roared the enraged Tuerto, on
observing the continually increasing confusion of his wife. "Let
me see that money, and be quick about it, I say. "
The woman pulled forth tremblingly a few small coins from
her pocket, and held them out to her husband, without fully
opening her hand.
"Its only eight coppers you've got there, and I gave you
twenty-one. Where's the rest? »
"I must have lost-have lost them. I had twenty-one this
morning. "
"Don't tell me such a thing as that: the two reals I gave you
were in silver. "
――――
"Yes, but I changed them at the market. "
"What has your mother done this morning? " quickly demands
Tuerto, clutching his eldest child by the arm.
The child trembles in affright, looks alternately at father and
mother, and remains silent.
<< Speak out, I say. "
"Mother will go and beat me if I do," replied the poor little
brat, sniveling.
"And if you don't answer me, I'll give you a crack that will
spoil your face. "
The boy, who knows by hard experience that his father never
deals in vain threats, now, despite the signals his mother makes
him to keep still, shuts his eyes, and speaking as rapidly as if
he feared the words would burn his mouth, says:
"Mother brought home a pint of brandy this morning, and
has the bottle hidden in the straw mattress. "
Tuerto no sooner hears these words than he fells his culprit
spouse to the floor with a resounding whack, rushes to the
bed, rummages amid the contents of the poor mattress, pulls out
from it a small bottle which contains the remainder of the con-
traband liquor, and returning with it towards his wife, hurls it
at her head at the moment when she is just getting up from
the floor. It knocks her down anew, and the children are sprin-
kled with the flying spirits. The wretched woman, sorely hurt,
laments and groans; the frightened children weep; and the irate
mariner sallies forth to the balcony, cursing his wife and the
day that he was ever born.


## p. 11311 (#531) ##########################################

JOSÉ MARIA DE PEREDA
11311
Uncle Tremontorio, who arrived from the sea at the same
time with his mates Bolina [Billy Bowline] and Tuerto, had
been in his balcony knitting away at his fishing-nets (his custom-
ary occupation when at home) from the beginning of the dispute
between his neighbors. From time to time he would take a bite.
out of a hunk of bread, and another of dried codfish, the pro-
vision that constituted his usual dinner. Though he is perfectly
well posted about what has just taken place [across the narrow
street], it is not his way to mix himself up in what does not
concern him. But the furious husband, who needs an outlet for
venomous rage that still half chokes him, calls up his neighbor,
and the pair shout from one balcony to the other the following
dialogue: -
"Uncle Tremontorio, I can't stand this devil of a woman any
longer. One of these days you'll hear of some desperate deed
on my part; I suppose that's the way it will all end. "
"I have told you that it was your own fault, from the begin-
ning. She tacked your way a little, and you let go your whole
cable and thought your voyage was over. "
"What could I do? I thought then she was one of heaven's
own saints. "
"What could you do? Do? why, what I've always told you:
haul her taut, and make fast with a double turn. Rough wind
astern? all right, ahead you go. "
"But there's not a bone in her body I haven't already
tinkered at with a cudgel, as you might mend the ribs of a
boat. "
"You waited till the wood was rotten, my friend. "
"As God is my witness she's the worst villain unhung. What
is going to become of those poor brats of mine when I am taken
away from them? for the devil will never take that woman: he
has no place to put her. Last week I handed her twenty-four
reals to dress the children with.
Have you laid eyes on that
money? Well, neither have I. The drunkard spent them for
drink. I gave her a walloping that left her for dead, and yet
what does she do? Three days after that she sells a sheet from
our bed for a quart of rum. Yesterday I gave her twenty-one
cents for meat, and she drank them also. And with all this the
young ones are naked, I haven't a shirt to my back, and I never
dare think of treating myself to an honest glass of wine of a
fête-day. "


## p. 11312 (#532) ##########################################

11312
JOSÉ MARIA DE PEREDA
"Why don't you get an exorcism said over her? Maybe she's
bewitched by evil spirits, and that's the cause of it. "
"I've spent a small fortune in those very tomfooleries, Tre-
montorio. I took her to more than three leagues from here, to
get a parson that they said had the gift of such things, to chuck
the gospels at her. Well, he did; then he gave me a little card
he had said a prayer over, and a sprig of rue, sewed it all up in
a bag, hung it round her neck, charged me nearly four dollars
for it, and that was all the good it did - not the first blessed
thing. The very next day she had a jag on worse than ever,
and wanted to paint the town red. I've given her brandy with
gunpower in it, a thing, they say, that creates a distaste for
liquor, but that beast, did it affect her that way? Not much!
she seemed to like the drink after that better than ever. I've
laid out a treasure in candles alone, setting them up before the
Holy Martyrs, to see if they'd rid her of the vice; and it was
just the same as if I had not spent a farthing. I swear to you,
I don't know what to do, Uncle Tremontorio, unless it is to kill
her: there are no bounds to this vice of hers. Just tell me what
you say of this: When I gave her the brandy with powder in it,
she was taken with such a colic I thought she'd burst. I had
heard that flannels soaked in spirits, applied good and hot, was
a cure for that sort of pains in the stomach; so I heated up
about half a pint of liquor in a saucepan. When it was blazing
hot, I took it over to the bedside, where the thief of the world
was writhing about in contortions. I had to leave the saucepan
with her a minute while I went to the chest to get out some
rags; I turned around, and, man, what do you think I saw ? she
was just swallowing down the last drops of the spirits from the
saucepan, almost ablaze as it was. Man, man, was there ever a
worse curse of God?