I’ll occasionally pick out an entry from Samuel Pepys’s diary, which tickled me for some reason. This one highlights how very similar we are to Sam and his wife, Elizabeth, though existing many centuries apart. It’s an episode in which things go bump in the night…

Friday 29 November 1667

Waked about seven o’clock this morning with a noise I supposed I heard, near our chamber, of knocking, which, by and by, increased: and I, more awake, could, distinguish it better. I then waked my wife, and both of us wondered at it, and lay so a great while, while that increased, and at last heard it plainer, knocking, as if it were breaking down a window for people to get out; and then removing of stools and chairs; and plainly, by and by, going up and down our stairs. We lay, both of us, afeard; yet I would have rose, but my wife would not let me. Besides, I could not do it without making noise; and we did both conclude that thieves were in the house, but wondered what our people did, whom we thought either killed, or afeard, as we were. Thus we lay till the clock struck eight, and high day. At last, I removed my gown and slippers safely to the other side of the bed over my wife: and there safely rose, and put on my gown and breeches, and then, with a firebrand in my hand, safely opened the door, and saw nor heard any thing. Then (with fear, I confess) went to the maid’s chamber-door, and all quiet and safe. Called Jane up, and went down safely, and opened my chamber door, where all well. Then more freely about, and to the kitchen, where the cook-maid up, and all safe. So up again, and when Jane come, and we demanded whether she heard no noise, she said, “yes, and was afeard,” but rose with the other maid, and found nothing; but heard a noise in the great stack of chimnies that goes from Sir J. Minnes through our house; and so we sent, and their chimnies have been swept this morning, and the noise was that, and nothing else. It is one of the most extraordinary accidents in my life, and gives ground to think of Don Quixote’s adventures how people may be surprised, and the more from an accident last night, that our young gibb-cat did leap down our stairs from top to bottom, at two leaps, and frighted us, that we could not tell well whether it was the cat or a spirit, and do sometimes think this morning that the house might be haunted. Glad to have this so well over, and indeed really glad in my mind, for I was much afeard, I dressed myself and to the office both forenoon and afternoon, mighty hard putting papers and things in order to my extraordinary satisfaction, and consulting my clerks in many things, who are infinite helps to my memory and reasons of things, and so being weary, and my eyes akeing, having overwrought them to-day reading so much shorthand, I home and there to supper, it being late, and to bed. This morning Sir W. Pen and I did walk together a good while, and he tells me that the Houses are not likely to agree after their free conference yesterday, and he fears what may follow.

If this is your first glimpse of Pepys’s writing, the 17th century construction of sentences – what we term Early Modern English – can be a little overwhelming. Just take your time, re-read if necessary, and after a while your brain starts to rearrange the grammar to make sense to the modern reader.

Sam’s woken up in bed with his wife, Elizabeth, hearing noises. I love his, “I then waked my wife,” and, “I would have rose, but my wife would not let me.” As a major-league coward also, those ring huge bells. There’s also the bit where he imagines the servants (“our people”) must be murdered in their beds, or at the very least, terrified, “Thus we lay till the clock struck eight”, i.e., did precisely nothing about it.

It turns out that the main commotion was due to his neighbour, Sir John Mennes, Comptroller of the Navy, having his chimney swept, and the footsteps up and down the stairs, which he thought was a ghost, were those of his tom-cat (“gibb-cat”).

I can so relate. And that’s the interesting point – it took me a while to ease into the 17th century and Sam’s world, and it was only when I began to realise that they were people just like you and me, that it started to click and I could write about them more freely. The inhabitants of 1666 London were us – but without telly and smartphones.

Today’s rabbit-hole link requires a Spotify subscription. If you don’t have one, the same audiobook version of the Pepys diary, read wonderfully by Kenneth Branagh can be found elsewhere (Audible, for one). It’s the perfect way to experience the diary for the first time; hearing it read aloud, rather then reading-while-translating, it is so much easier to sink into.

I should also mention that my photograph is from the pages of The Illustrated Pepys (Penguin Books 1979), edited by Robert Latham, which is how I first experienced Sam’s diary, and what hooked me in the first place.