Perhaps, however, the finest work of all is found in the descriptions of
the Fire of London. From that night when he is awakened by the red glare
of the fire in his bedroom window, on through the days and weeks of
terror, when no man knew how long he would have a home, we follow by the
light of blazing houses the story of much that is best and much that is
worst in human nature. The fire, indeed, cleanses the city from the last
dregs of the plague which are still lingering there, but it also stirs
up the city until its inhabitants present the appearance of ants upon a
disturbed ant-hill. And not the least busy among them, continually
fussing about in all directions, is the diarist himself, eagerly
planning for the preservation of his money, dragging it hither and
thither from hiding-place to hiding-place in the city, and finally
burying it in bags at dead of night in a garden. Nothing is too small
for him to notice. The scrap of burnt paper blown by the wind to a
lady's hand, on which the words are written, "Time is, it is done," is
but one of a thousand equally curious details.

His own character, as reflected in the narrative of these events, is
often little to his credit, and the frank and unblushing selfishness of
his outlook upon things in general is as amusing as it is shameful. And
yet, on the other hand, when most men deserted London, Pepys remained in
it through the whole dangerous time of the plague, taking his life in
his hand and dying daily in his imagination in spite of the quaint
precautions against infection which he takes care on every occasion to
describe. Through the whole dismal year, with plague and fire raging
around him, he sticks to his post and does his work as thoroughly as the
disorganised circumstances of his life allow. If we could get back to
the point of view of those who thought about Pepys and formed a judgment
of him before his Diary had been made public, we should be confronted
with the figure of a man as different from the diarist as it is possible
for two men to be. His contemporaries took him for a great Englishman, a
man who did much for his country, and whose character was a mirror of
all the national and patriotic ideals. His public work was by no means
unimportant, even in a time so full of dangers and so critical for the
destinies of England. Little did the people who loved and hated him in
his day and afterwards dream of the contents of that small volume, so
carefully writt