in his pocket to beguile the way in
case the nightingales were silent; and even along the streets of London,
with so many pretty faces to be spied for and dignitaries to be saluted,
his trail was marked by little debts "for wine, pictures, etc.," the true
headmark of a life intolerant of any joyless passage. He had a kind of
idealism in pleasure; like the princess in the fairy story, he was
conscious of a rose-leaf out of place. Dearly as he loved to talk, he
could not enjoy nor shine in a conversation when he thought himself
unsuitably dressed. Dearly as he loved eating, he "knew not how to eat
alone;" pleasure for him must heighten pleasure; and the eye and ear must
be flattered like the palate ere he avow himself content. He had no zest
in a good dinner when it fell to be eaten "in a bad street and in a
periwig-maker's house;" and a collation was spoiled for him by
indifferent music. His body was indefatigable, doing him yeoman service
in this breathless chase of pleasures. On April 11, 1662, he mentions
that he went to bed "weary, _which I seldom am_;" and already over
thirty, he would sit up all night cheerfully to see a comet. But it is
never pleasure that exhausts the pleasure-seeker; for in that career, as
in all others, it is failure that kills. The man who enjoys so wholly
and bears so impatiently the slightest widowhood from joy, is just the
man to lose a night's rest over some paltry question of his right to
fiddle on the leads, or to be "vexed to the blood" by a solecism in his
wife's attire; and we find in consequence that he was always peevish when
he was hungry, and that his head "aked mightily" after a dispute. But
nothing could divert him from his aim in life; his remedy in care was the
same as his delight in prosperity; it was with pleasure, and with
pleasure only, that he sought to drive out sorrow; and, whether he was
jealous of his wife or skulking from a bailiff, he would equally take
refuge in the theatre. There, if the house be full and the company
noble, if the songs be tunable, the actors perfect, and the play
diverting, this old hero of the secret Diary, this private self-adorer,
will speedily be healed of his distresses.

Equally pleased with a watch, a coach, a piece of meat, a tune upon the
fiddle, or a fact in hydrostatics, Pepys was pleased yet more by the
beauty, the worth, the mirth, or the mere scenic attitude in life of his
fellow-creatures. He shows himself throughout a s