that Pepys was a type, perhaps, of what was now called a
'Philistine'. We had no word in England which was equivalent to the
French adjective Bourgeois; but, at all events, Samuel Pepys was the
most perfect type that ever existed of the class of people whom this
word described. He had all its merits as well as many of its
defects. With all those defects, however perhaps in consequence of
them--Pepys had written one of the most delightful books that it was
man's privilege to read in the English language or in any other.
Whether Pepys intended this Diary to be afterwards read by the
general public or not--and this was a doubtful question when it was
considered that he had left, possibly by inadvertence, a key to his
cypher behind him--it was certain that he had left with us a most
delightful picture, or rather he had left the power in our hands of
drawing for ourselves some, of the most delightful pictures, of the
time in which he lived. There was hardly any book which was
analogous to it . .. . . If one were asked what were the reasons
for liking Pepys, it would be found that they were as numerous as
the days upon which he made an entry in his Diary, and surely that
was sufficient argument in his favour. There was no book, Mr.
Lowell said, that he knew of, or that occurred to his memory, with
which Pepys's Diary could fairly be compared, except the journal of
L'Estoile, who had the same anxious curiosity and the same
commonness, not to say vulgarity of interest, and the book was
certainly unique in one respect, and that was the absolute sincerity
of the author with himself. Montaigne is conscious that we are
looking over his shoulder, and Rousseau secretive in comparison with
him. The very fact of that sincerity of the author with himself
argued a certain greatness of character. Dr. Hickes, who attended
Pepys at his deathbed, spoke of him as 'this great man,' and said he
knew no one who died so greatly. And yet there was something almost