Some people have written as though Mr. Pepys, in confessing himself in his Diary, had confessed us all.  They profess to see in the Diary simply the image of Everyman in his bare skin.  They think of Pepys as an ordinary man who wrote an extraordinary book.  To me it seems that Pepys’s Diary is not more extraordinary as a book than Pepys himself is as a man.  Taken separately, nine out of ten of his characteristics may seem ordinary enough—­his fears, his greeds, his vices, his utilitarian repentances.  They were compounded in him, however, in such proportion as to produce an entirely new mixture—­a character hardly less original than Dr. Johnson or Charles Lamb.  He had not any great originality of virtue, as these others had, but he was immensely original in his responsiveness—­his capacity for being interested, tempted and pleased.  The voluptuous nature of the man may be seen in such a passage as that in which, speaking of “the wind-musique when the angel comes down” in The Virgin Martyr, he declares: 

    It ravished me, and indeed, in a word, did wrap up my soul so that
    it made me really sick, just as I have formerly been when in love
    with my wife.

Writing of Mrs. Knipp on another occasion, he says: 

She and I singing, and God forgive me!  I do still see that my nature is not to be quite conquered, but will esteem pleasure above all things, though yet in the middle of it, it has reluctances after my business, which is neglected by my following my pleasure.  However, musique and women I cannot but give way to, whatever my business is.

Within a few weeks of this we find him writing again: 

So abroad to my ruler’s of my books, having, God forgive me! a mind to see Nan there, which I did, and so back again, and then out again to see Mrs. Bettons, who were looking out of the window as I came through Fenchurch Streete.  So that, indeed, I am not, as I ought to be, able to command myself in the pleasures of my eye.

Though page after page of the Diary reveals Mr. Pepys as an extravagant pleasure-lover, however, he differed from the majority of pleasure-lovers in literature in not being a man of taste.  He had a rolling rather than a fastidious eye.  He kissed promiscuously, and was not aspiring in his lusts.  He once held Lady Castlemaine in his arms, indeed, but it was in a dream.  He reflected, he tells us,

that since it was a dream, and that I took so much real pleasure in it, what a happy thing it would be if when we are in our graves (as Shakespeare resembles it) we could dream, and dream but such dreams as this, that then we should not need to be so fearful of death, as we are this plague time.

He praises this dream at the same time as “the best that ever was dreamt.”  Mr. Pepys’s idea of Paradise, it would be seen, was that commonly attributed to the Mohammedans.  Meanwhile he did his best to turn London into an anticipatory harem.  We get a pleasant picture of a little Roundhead Sultan in such a sentence as “At night had Mercer comb my head and so to supper, sing a psalm and to bed.”