dine with Pepys, addressing his wife with much familiarity, and assuming all the manners of a hearty friend. A sad and serious national calamity, however, threw a damp upon his spirits. The "London," a magnificent vessel with an armament of eighty brass guns, and manned with a chosen crew, blew up while passing the Nore, and sunk, a shattered wreck. Twentyfive souls were all that survived the catastrophe, which filled the city at the time with a general gloom. But nothing appears equal to the task of dispelling that jovial spirit which supported Pepys under the most melancholy circumstances. The lightest breath of pleasure or profit served to dissipate the heaviest cloud of gloom that ever hung upon his soul; and, while the public mind was filled with misgiving and apprehension, he pursues his joyous course, happy in his home, his wife, his wealth, his consequence, and all the other blessings which fortune had showered upon him. Numerous circumstances combined about this time to raise Pepys in his own estimation, as well as that of the numerous individuals who watched his every action, and hoped or feared as fortune appeared favorable or contrary to him. The king himself held a long conversation with him, asked his opinion on various naval matters, and spoke to him in a familiar manner. The Duke of Albermarle, too, walked alone with him in his garden, expressing great approbation of his measures, and calling him the right hand of the navy, and saying that nothing could be done without him; "at which," says he, "I am not a little proud."

There is an old proverb which says that good fortune is the sure presage of ill-luck. In a limited sense this was true in the case of Pepys. He was disturbed from his complacent dreams by the reflection that, while extending the power and efficiency of the navy, he had also lavished sums of money for which he was in no way inclined to be called to account. Not that he had dishonestly appropriated the sums, but that occasionally he had not been careful enough in their disbursement, and had been guilty in some instances of reckless profusion :

"27th (April, 1665), Creed dined with me; and, after dinner, walked in the garden, he telling me that my Lord Treasurer now begins to be scrupulous, and will want to know gins to be scrupulous, and will want to know what became of the £26,000 saved by my Lord Peterborough, before he parts with any more money, which puts us into new doubts, and me into a great fear that all my cake will be dough still."

His frequent absence from the office, too, began to be noticed, and he feared that it would

incur for him the displeasure of his superiors in power. Walking in the Park one afternoon, he saw the king, and immediately hurried away lest he should be observed, for he knew there were those who, having the king's ear, and jealous of his attentions to the new favorite, would not fail to turn these trifling circumstances to the disadvantage of one of whose successes they were jealous.

The long-expected plague, which had appeared for a considerable period to hang as a threatening cloud over the metropolis, now began to show itself in London, and daily was the number of those doors increased on which the red cross attested the presence of death. A gloom was shed over the city, and all its inhabitants seemed to feel that the pestilence had only showed itself, preparatory to spreading through the whole population. The deadcarts began to creak along almost deserted streets, and wagons and coaches filled the highways which led from the metropolis, burthened with those whom terror had driven to seek refuge in the country. Seventeen or eighteen hundred perished every week. Friends shunned each other's presence; the father feared the son, the son feared the father

every one fearing that communication brought death along with it. In the last week of August, 1665, the mortality of London increased to seven thousand, and in the first week of September it rose to nearly nine thousand. The inhabitants knew not what to do-where to seek safety. Thousands would have fled but possessed not the means; thousands had not the energy to fly, and thousands fell victims to the disease almost ere they were aware of its approach. It seemed as if a curse had fallen on the city. Men issued from their homes in vigorous health and died ere they reached their destination. To-day a family was complete, and to-morrow, perhaps, most of its members were carried forth to their graves. The social meeting was dispersed by a whisper of the plague, and the few passengers in the streets went out of their way to avoid meeting the cart that conveyed the victims to their unconsecrated graves. Nearly every one holding of the nation to be ruled by chance, or by iga public office fled the town, and left the affairs norant and inexperienced deputies. This was peculiarly unfortunate in times so anxious and important, and it was then that Pepys enjoyed the opportunity of affording an evidence of his unflinching and fearless character. He remained at his post as a true soldier remains under his standard when his companions have either fallen or fled, and exerted his utmost energies to support the heavy burthen of business which pressed upon his department of the

public service. He, however, sent his family to Greenwich, whither he himself also repaired as soon as the calls of business had been satisfied. The Dutch were on the English coast, and threatened a descent upon Margate. Pepys resolved that for no fault of his should his country lose a particle of its honor, and he applied himself with vigor to the task of regulating the affairs of the English navy; and his steady application counterbalanced many of the evils which would otherwise have resulted from the absence or negligence of the other officials. And all this while the plague was devastating the city, death striking down hundreds of human beings every day; and all the bells of London tolled in dismal chime, the dull echoes never ceasing to sound in the ears of those who feared every moment to be seized with the frightful disease.*

"Mr. Marr tells me how a maid-servant of Mr. John Wright's, who lives thereabouts, falling sick of the plague, she was removed to an outhouse, and a nurse appointed to look to her, who being once absent, the maid got out of the house at the window, and run away. The nurse coming and knocking, and having received no answer, believed she was dead, and went and told Mr. Wright so, who and his lady were in great straight what to do to get her buried; at last resolved to go to Burntwood, hard by, being in the parish, and there get people to do it. But they would not; as

way

he went home full of trouble, and in the met the wench walking over the common, which frightened him worse than before; and was forced to send people to take her, which they did, and they got one of the pest-coaches and put her into it to carry her to a pest-house. And passing in a narrow lane, Sir Anthony Broune, with his friends in the coach, met this coach with the curtain drawn close. The latter being a young man, and believing there might be some lady in it that would not be seen, and the way being narrow, thrust his head out of his own into her coach to look, and there saw somebody looking very ill, and in as ill dress, who stunk mightily, which the coachman also cried out upon. And presently they came up to some people that stood looking after it, and told our gallants that it was a maid of Mr. Wright's carried away sick of the plague; which put the young gentleman into a fright that nearly cost him his life, but he is now well again.'

*The pestilence is thus spoken of in the curious work from which we have already quoted::-"But the anger of the Lord was kindled against the king and against the people of England, and he smote the land with a dreadful pestilence, insomuch that there died in one year upwards of sixty and seven thousand persons.'

We perceive that our limits are rapidly drawing in ; we must, therefore, with whatever regret we may do so, pass on rapidly through the diary, and leave unnoticed numerous interesting and curious passages. The plague grew upon the city; the river was deserted, and the silent and melancholy streets were covered with grass. In the beginning of Oc-i tober, however, the bills of mortality de creased, and this fact, together with the intelligence of several victories over the Dutch, contributed to shed a little light upon the general gloom which hung upon the public mind. But this was but a temporary respite, for the disease recovered strength, and continued to rage with greater fury than ever; and so the year 1665 ended, and left Pepys in a better condition than he ever was before. He had succeeded Mr. Pary as commissioner for the affairs of Tangiers, and had, moreover, been nominated to the post of surveyor of the victualling department. His savings had increased from £1300 to £4400. One fact, however, troubled

him. Lord Sandwich had fallen in the estimation of the Court, and was sent as ambassador to Spain, and the Duke of Albermarle had not risen in popularity. The pestilence now be gan to weaken, and the weekly average of deaths sank to a comparatively insignificant London resumed by slow degrees amount. its wonted aspect, and, to his great joy, Pepys was enabled to establish his family again in town, and to resume his usual manner of living.

Of his domestic life, Pepys allows us from time to time to catch many detached glimpses, which, however, are too scattered and slight to allow us to form any very accurate idea of his manner and mode of life at home. He арpears to have been, after a fashion, fond of his wife, though he never allowed her to express an opinion contrary to his own, or to transact any affairs to which he was not privy. For instance, read the following :

"12th. I and my wife to her closet, to examine her kitchen accounts, and then I took occasion to fall out with her for her buying a broad-laced handkerchief and a pinner, without my leave. For this we both began to be angry and so con- || tinued till bed.

13th. Up, without being friends with my wife, nor yet great enemies, being both quiet and silent."

We find them, however, soon reconciled. We find him one day recording the fact, that she was out of temper on account of his having checked her with some abruptness for telling long stories in the coach. She do find with with reason," he says, "that in the company

of Pierce, Knipp, and other women that I love, that I do not value or mind her as I ought." Nevertheless, his private life appears to have been chequered with few crosses, and he seems to glide on, borne by a smooth current, enjoying a happy and prosperous existence.

The Dutch fleets, about the middle of the year 1666, met with some important reverses, being on several occasions driven to flight by the efforts of the English commanders. But a sudden alarm spread through London upon the news that a great armament, fitted out by Holland, was about to advance upon our coasts, and recover the ground lost in their recent defeats. However, good preparations were made to meet this attack, and something of the spirit of enthusiasm at last warmed the heart of London. When, however, an engagement at length took place, although the result showed a victory on the English side, yet the success was not so great as to warrant any triumph, and the country was disappointed of its hopes. We now approach the great catastrophe which struck London, ere it had recovered from the weakening effects of the plague. On the 2d of August, 1666, Pepys was awakened from his sleep at three o'clock in the morning, by one of his maid-servants, who told him that a great fire had broken out in the city. Rising, and looking forth from the window, he saw a mighty flame appearing in the direction of Mark-Lane, and, as it then seemed to him, retreating rather than advancing to his quarter. He then retired to rest again, and at seven o'clock again looked out. The blaze had now reached Fish street, and was making rapid progress towards London Bridge. Dressing, and walking out, he repaired to the scene of the conflagration, and then, for the first time, understood its serious nature. Thousands of

people thronged the streets, the inhabitants of the houses were flinging their goods either into the street or into the river, or into the barges that lay ready at hand. The poor clung to their homes until they were scorched by the flames, and multitudes of pigeons, unwilling

to leave the houses, circled about them, or fluttered at the windows until they dropped amid the burning mass. All the city was in a tumult. The plague was a silent enemy; it came stealthily, and did its noiseless work, exerting a sickening influence on the minds of the people; but the fire continued its progress, sending forth a loud and prolonged roar. The crowds were wild with fear and excitement. The calamity was as sudden as it was alarming.

As yet none had proposed any measures of safety; none had thought of the possibility of arresting the flames; all alike seemed paralyzed

with horror. The mayor of the city wept like a child; and when a command was sent to him, at the suggestion of Pepys, that he should pull the houses down, and thus endeavor to stop the fire, he cried, "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."

Carts laden with furniture, sick persons carried away in their beds, thousands of halfclothed men, women, and children, pale with fear, and scarcely knowing whither to turn, filled the streets, some going one way, some another; others rushing wildly, with no object in view save that of escaping with life from the mighty calamity. Pepys now began to occupy himself for the public safety. He went amidst the crowds, directed the efforts of those employed to pull the houses down, encouraged them, assisted them, and labored like a hero wherever he found an opportunity. The scene which presented itself to his view is vividly described :—

"We went as near to the fire as we could

for smoke; and all over the Thames, with one's faces in the wind, you were nearly burned with houses were burned by these drops and flakes a shower of fire-drops. This is very true, for of fire-three or four, nay five or six houses, one from another. When we could endure no more upon the water, we to a little alehouse on

the Bankside, over against the Three Cranes, and there staid till it was dark almost, and there saw the fire grow and as it grew darker and 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. We staid till we saw the fire as only one entire arch of fire from this to the for an arch above a mile long; it made me other side of the bridge, and in a line up the hill weep to see it. The churches, houses and all the flames made, and the crackling of houses at on fire, and flaming at once, and a horrid noise

their ruin."

While working for the public safety, Pepys did not neglect his own stores of gold, and those which were under his charge at the office; but conveyed them, with many valuable papers and much plate, that same night by moonlight to a deep cellar. The next day, he, with several of his friends, busied themselves in digging holes in the garden, where they deposited their wines, with some Parmesan cheeses, and numerous articles of value. But his chief employment during the continuance of the fire consisted in endeavoring to check its progress,

and prevent it from extending its ravages to those quarters of the city as yet uninjured. Through his efforts, together with those of the men who took a pride in following his honorable example, it was at length subdued, and by slow degrees died away for lack of food. The city, however, presented a wretched appearance. It looked like an extinguished furnace, and huge clouds of damp smoke rose up from the blackened masses of buildings. St. Paul's stood a shattered ruin, and numerous other public edifices formed its companions in the general scene of destruction. Those, however, who, during the continuance of the fire, had been too startled, too alarmed, too irresolute to adopt any precautionary measures, now, when the devastation had been accomplished, applied their energies to the task of renovation, and a new city began to rise from the ashes of the old.

Compliments and panegyrics crowded upon Pepys. His society was courted, his conversation sought, and every mark of admiration bestowed on him. But these empty honors, though they flattered his vanity, would not have brought much satisfaction to his mind, had they not been accompanied by a continued, though gradual increase of his worldly wealth. At the end of 1666, he finds himself worth £6,200, more than he had hoped for. Himself and his family were in the perfect enjoyment of health, and he, moreover, luxuriated in the pleasure, great as it was to him, of taking his meals off silver plates. Public affairs, however, were in not so prosperous a condition, and there were even those who prophesied the immediate and entire ruin of the kingdom"from which," says Pepys, "God deliver us!"

Of the following year we cannot pause to make much mention. One curious fact is spoken of as far on as March, when Pepys says he saw the smoke issuing from cellars that had not been uncovered since the fire. Towards the middle of the year, the city began to grow into shape again, streets were marked out, and the work of renovation was carried on with some vigor. At the close of the year, he lost his mother, whose last words were, "God bless my poor Sam!"-words which affected him to tears. Another incident which he mentions as important is a fierce quarrel between himself and Sir W. Pen.

he held one of the most honorable posts in that department. Our readers will have perceived that he was a man of eccentric character, and they will also have observed that the times in which he lived were well calculated to allow a man of his energy and ability to distinguish himself above his peers. While we owe to Pepys a debt of gratitude for the rare and curious information he has bequeathed to us, for the graphic and well-colored pictures which he has presented us, of the times and the men among whom he lived, we cannot help regretting that weakness which led him to the commission of numerous actions which history cannot record otherwise than with blame. But he has written his own character, his own praises, and also his own condemnation. We see him as he was. He has given us a faithful reflection of his mind, and the praise of sincerity is due to him. Those, therefore, who wish to acquire a just idea of him and his period will do well to consult the volume before us.

With regard to the form in which this diary has been laid before the public, we shall only remark, that for the care, ability, and judgment with which its highly gifted editor, Lord Braybrooke, has performed his task, our thanks - the thanks of all who read the work

are due to him. Nothing could be more admirable than the introduction and notes, which have transformed the rough diaries of Samuel Pepys into one large and consecutive, and clear and comprehensive narrative. Pepys has been fortunate in his editor, and Lord Braybrooke's valuable services will, without doubt, be appreciated in the literary world.

Tait's Edinburgh Magazine.

WOODEN GUNPOWDER. A correspondent (of Douglas Jerrold's Newspaper) writes: Seeing from a paragraph in your paper that it is stated the making of gunpowder from sawdust, sulphuric and nitric acid, is a modern American discovery, which it is wonderful was not discovered before, I should be glad if you would make it known that it is an English discovery, and was discovered a little after guncotton was found out, viz., Oct., 1846, by, I believe, Mr. Deck, a chemist at Cambridge.

INCRUSTATION IN STEAM-BOILERS. — M. Cavé, the eminent French engineer, announces that he has ascertained that a number of small oak blocks, thrown into steam boilers, has the effect of completely preventing incrustation, and that it is sufficient to renew them about twice a fortnight.-Builder.

One of the chief proofs of Shakspeare's wondrous power over our imagination, is the influence which a suddenly remembered passage of his will exercise upon us at any given moment. However gay the subject of conversation may be, however mirthful may be the actual train of thought, yet if the recollection of Othello's writhing exclamation, "Oh, misery!" that bursts with uncontrollable anguish from the depths of his wounded heart, suggest itself abruptly to the memory, who is there that would not feel at once smitten into gravity? And the theme of consideration must be serious indeed, which would not yield to an involuntary smile at an unexpected reminiscence of Falstaff's, "He that will caper with me for a thousand marks, let him lend me the money, and have at him!"

Shakspeare's sway is equally absolute throughout the realm of emotion-he compels our tears to spring at his bidding, alike from the profoundest sympathy with grief, or from the mysterious sources of laughter, and a sense of the ludicrous. He will even combine these appeals to our several feelings, forcing our throat to swell, and our eyes to fill, from mingled tenderness and humor; and we find our heart beating and our lip quivering with an undefined agitation, which we scarce know whether to trace to the origin of sobs or smiles. Such is the complex emotion that affects us in studying the character of the Fool in King Lear. In looking down the list of Dramatis Personæ to this play, we cannot but be struck with the world of thought, the epitome of tenderness, pity, attachment, gentleness, fancy, playfulness, wit, of constancy simply evinced, of gaiety affectionately assumed, of truth, faith, and native worth, all comprised in the image suggested to us by those four unpretending letters, F-0-0-l. It stands thus, a few slight italics, among the subordinate characters: Curan, a courtier; Old Mon, tenant to Gloster; Physician; Fool. No more formal announcement is deemed requisite to herald one of the most lovely creations that ever emanated from poet's brain. But the manner of his introduction in the play itself is as exquisite and artistically prepared as that of the most important among the characters. His royal master, Lear, first calls for him when he bids his attendants prepare dinner, as if he were associated in his mind with refreshment and relaxation; and afterwards, when chafing

at the first perceived inattention and "faint neglect," on the part of his daughter Goneril, he recurs to the thought of his fool, as a relief, and a pleasant comfort :

"But where's my fool? I have not seen him these two days.'

"Knight. Since my young lady's going into France, sir, the fool hath much pined away."

How beautifully this premises his gentle, faithful nature, preparing us for what comes after; how well this fond regret for his young mistress (affecting even his health) is followed by his attachment to her old father in his adverse fortune; and how the susceptibility of temperament thus indicated heightens the pathos of the sequel, when he clings to his old master through the wild inclemency of that night, abiding the "pelting of the pitiless storm" with him, seeking to beguile his misery, and "laboring to out-jest his heart-struck injuries!"

The tender interest with which Shakspeare has contrived to inspire us for this character, even before he appears, is sustained the moment he enters, by the old king addressing him in terms of kindness and fondling familiarity that convey an idea of youth and gentleness in the lad himself, as well as of affectionate solicitude on the part of his old master :—

"How now, my pretty knave, how dost thou?"-the word "knave" signifying boy.*

Indeed, one of the most exquisite things about this character, is not only its own beauty of conception, but the use which the poet has made of it in bringing out the best parts of that of Lear himself. The old king, imperious, resentful, and self-willed, is tolerant and considerate towards this lad, this humble companion, this permitted jester. He takes pleasure in his society, he gives his utmost familiarity license, and treats him as much like a petted child as a dependent; and, in the midst of his own misery and wild sense of wrong, he has still a kindly thought for his "pretty knave."

"Lear.
My wits begin to turn.-
Come on, my boy: How dost, my boy? Art cold?
I am cold myself.-Where is this straw, my fellow ?
The art of our necessities is strange,
That can make vile things precious. Come, your
hovel;
Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart
That's sorry yet for thee."

The German word is knabe; and Chaucer speaks of a knave-child when Griselda bears a male infant.