d of its pins--with what grace I myself acted Aladdin--these
things must be written by a vain and braggart pen.

Mr. Pepys Sits in the Pit

When it happens that a man has risen to be a member of Parliament, the
Secretary of the British Navy and the President of the Royal Society, when
he has become the adviser of the King and is moreover the one really bright
spot in that King's reign, it is amazing that considerably more than one
hundred years after his death, when the navy that he nurtured dominates the
seven seas, that he himself on a sudden should be known, not for his larger
accomplishments, but as a kind of tavern crony and pot-companion. When he
should be standing with fame secure in a solemn though dusty niche in the
Temple of Time, it is amazing that he should be remembered chiefly for
certain quarrels with his wife and as a frequenter of plays and summer
gardens.

Yet this is the fate of Samuel Pepys. Before the return of the Stuarts he
held a poor clerkship in the Navy Office and cut his quill obscurely at
the common desk. At the Restoration, partly by the boost of influence, but
chiefly by his substantial merit, he mounted to several successively higher
posts. The Prince of Wales became his friend and patron and when he became
Lord High Admiral he took Pepys with him in his advancement. Thus in 1684,
Pepys became Secretary of the Navy. When later the Prince of Wales became
King James II, Pepys, although his office remained the same, came to quite
a pinnacle of administrative power. He was shrewd and capable in the
conduct of his position and brought method to the Navy Office. He was a
prime factor in the first development of the British Navy. Later victories
that were to sweep the seas may be traced in part to him. Nelson rides upon
his shoulders. These achievements should have made his fame secure. But
on a sudden he gained for posterity a less dignified although a more
interesting and enduring renown.

In life, Samuel Pepys walked gravely in majestical robe with full-bottomed
wig and with ceremonial lace flapping at his wrists. Every step, if his
portrait is to be believed, was a bit of pageantry. Such was his fame, that
if his sword but clacked a warning on the pavement, it must have brought
the apprentices to the windows. Tradesmen laid down their wares to get a
look at him. Fat men puffed and strained to gain the advantage of a sill.
Fashionable ladies peeped from brocaded curtains and ogled f