Stephane Chenard

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Third Reading

About Tuesday 17 December 1661

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

Disorderly books, why, there has to be a few. But while a quick riffling of the Bodleian's holdings of 1661 imprints turns up large piles of "panegyricks to His Sacred Majesty" and the like, in the frankly subversive category we only find "An epitaph upon the Solemn League and Covenant". It had the honor of being "Condemned to be burnt by the common hangman", but it seems at least one copy slipped through (and lives at https://ota.bodleian.ox.ac.uk/rep…) Of course there could be a hundred more hiding under less explicit titles.

The State Papers did mention, in an "Examination of Thomas Creake" dated June 29, that the fiend had printed and delivered 660 copies of "The Phoenix of the Solemn League and Covenant", and was printing 2,000 of "Several Prodigies and Apparitions seen in the Heavens, from Aug. 1, 1660, to the end of May, 1661". The hunt for the Prodigies has been going on for months (it's around this time that L'Estrange is lobbying to be created Surveyor of the Press) and is explained by secretary Nicholas in a letter of October 4 to the Keeper of the Gatehouse, as he sends in yet another printer, that they "prognosticat[e] mischievous events to the King (...) instilling into the hearts of subjects a superstitious belief thereof, and a dislike and hatred of His Majesty's person and government".

The UCSB ballads collection (at https://ebba.english.ucsb.edu) has only four that are unambiguously from 1661. However one of them is the quite prominent "Cavaleers Complaint" (at https://ebba.english.ucsb.edu/bal…) it's about an old cavalier, who visits at Court and finds none of the king's true friends of olde, but only "swarmes of Those/Who lately were our chiefest Foes/Of Pantaloons and Muffes/Whilst the Old rusty Cavaleer/Retires, or dares not once appear/For want of Coyne, and Cuffes". Disorderly, that one? We'll let the publick judge.

About Saturday 7 December 1661

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

Sarah, not reading ahead we only now come across your enquiry concerning Mme de l'E. We incline toward her being L'Espervanche (a later spelling will be L'Éspervanche, with a so-French acute accent). Googling her first leads us to abundant Canadian records of a captain Charles François Mésière (or Mézières), écuyer sieur de [squire lord of] Lespervanche, born 1695 in his fief the still-extant village of Boisset-les-Prévanches, a small village in Normandy, close enough to Paris.

The family manor seems cozy enough - tho' with these old houses and their leaky roofs you never know - and according to https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boi… was built in the early 17C by someone still known only as Louis de Mézières. In any case there would have been a Mme de l'Espervanche, whom we can imagine by a first-floor window, drafting the letters she would send from Paris.

But it was apparently too small for Charles, who joined the Navy and went to Louisiana, then to Canada, where he left traces recapped in great detail at https://www.wikitree.com/wiki/De_…. His parents are listed there as [unknown], but research posted by Josiah de la Motte, a descendant, at https://groups.google.com/g/soc.g…, goes deep into the rabbit hole of birth records and marriage contracts.

Long story short: It leads to the captain's granny on the Méziéres/Lespervanches side, a certain Jeanne de Lux, daughter of the late Jacques de Lux, Seigneur de Vantelet and, as per the source Josiah links at https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148…, "gentilhomme ordinaire de la Feüe Reine Mère du Roy de la Grande Bretagne" [ordinary gentleman to the late Queen Mother of England, Henrietta, who by the time of that 1684 record was indeed long dead]. And so, bingo.

Tho', in fairness it was Jacques' wife, Marguerite Courtin, Madame de Vantelet, who provided the connection to Henrietta, of whom she was a great favorite (according to https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mar…; the de Lux still didn't come from nowhere, they had provided a butler for Louis XIII). In 1653 Jeanne's wedding, to a de Mézières who was himself butler to Louis XIV, was even attended by the exiled Charles II. By another source (at https://gw.geneanet.org/jksir?lan…) she was born in 1630, and so is still in her prime as she seals the letters. It's unclear how she came to know my lord, if she did and isn't just writing on behalf of "his lordship's friends"; perhaps in Holland after the exiled court moved there?

By an amusing coincidence perhaps, according to Josiah's research (citing a record at https://bit.ly/3yHxMzR, which alas links to a paywalled site), Charles was to marry in 1725 in "the parish of L'Assomption de Sandwich de Windsor" in Detroit.

About Wednesday 4 December 1661

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

Oh, and Sam has mail today. Edward Gregory writes from Chatham, and it will be in the State Papers, that "the officers and company of the St. George will punctually observe the time and place appointed for their paying off. [So the paying off had better be punctual too, comprende?] The hemp bought from Alderman Barker is coarse and rotten, and will spoil any better wrought in with it".

We (and maybe Sam) thereby learn a valuable nugget about rope-making. ("And not a single one of these mouldy strands, pray, or it can rot the whole cable, ye know", Sam says, finger-wagging. "Whoa", the clerk thinks, "Master knows about rope-making too. I luv him so much").

We predict that soon the State Papers will offer us one of these letters almost every day - and we phant'sy it will still be a sliver of his in-tray traffic. But for now they're still a rarity. Why? Maybe the Pepys Rational Method for Safekeeping Archives isn't there yet, and so the letters end up wrapping the day's takeaway mince pie.

About Wednesday 4 December 1661

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

Who put' im there, the Man on the Stairs? Why, it be the Thames' hundred hands, after some of its thousand eyes did spye him! "Look there", says Jack the cable-thief, "a dead bod! Good clothes, too!" Jack, Dick and Bob forget all about stealing another piece of rope and fish out the poor guy to drag him to the stairs and strip him. All they get out of his pockets is a farthing and a rotten herring.

For background, ask - if ye know how - the head of Cromwell, which from its perch atop Westminster sees all and smirks at the ways of the world. On that night the wind had turned it just to the right direction. "'Twas another stupid wager, 'I can run the bridge at night'. Bing, into the piling. Two of them this month already", the head told us on WhatsApp.

In the gilded halls of Parliament there was actually quite a bit of gossip and shudder; only, the official record doesn't include hallway gossip and shudder. You see, when some traitor's entrails are burned "before his eyes" and his quarters thereafter "hung in the usual places", as the papers then say, 'tis one thing. But here... Not a criminal or traitor, but some Christian brother... We're not some monsters inured to suffering, ye know. And then, having to step over that thing, on your way to work... And, so soon after the king ordered to tidy up and make nice our little Westminster. So, shudder.

About Tuesday 3 December 1661

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

Reflecting on the Poisonous airs of these Times, apart from all the nitpicking on property claims exposed above by Sarah, we also happen'd upon two letters in the State Papers. One, dated December 2, is from a Serjeant Thos. Brown to none other than John Evelyn, reporting accusations uttered by a Mr. Christmas, of "saying that the late King was an arrant juggler" and the present one "an idle, ignorant man", and that Sir John "would as soon kiss a sow as go to Whitehall to kiss the King's hand". Which seems comicall to anyone who knows Evelyn (or checked his Wiki), on whom Charles II calls from time to time to discuss the rings of Saturn. Evelyn has a property deal gone sour with this Mr. Christmas, and jots on the letter "that this accusation was only made in revenge". Tomorrow he's due at the Duke of York, where (he says in his diary) he will discuss the case of "a woman who swallowed a whole ear of barley", and perhaps the late slander against his innocent gardening person.

Today it's the turn of Roger L'Estrange, to "vindicate himself" in a letter to Chancellor Clarendon, "from the charge of James Whitelock, that he was a traitor, and had received £600 from Cromwell". Roger is anything but an innocent gardening person, but in this case he was so sanguine about his vindication as to have it printed. At this time he is fast rising as Charles II's propaganda master and will soon, we expect, be his most zealous censor of subversive books and pamphlets.

We resolve, on the next occasion when we feel like calling someone nasty names, to call the rogue "you arrant juggler". That should stop him cold ("you what??") and give us a second or two before he smashes a bottle on the bar.

About Saturday 30 November 1661

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

Like so many good things in life, that bit on the duke came from Venetian ambassador Giavarina. On December 2 (new style, November 22 old style) he writes that "the duke of York has been at Dunkirk and is momentarily expected back at Court". Indeed, on November 20-21 he is unlisted on the attendence roll of the House of Lords, where he reappears on November 22.

As for why he went there, apart from reviewing the troops before they go to Tangiers, in the same message Giavarina reports being told by royal secretary Nicholas "that he had intelligence with [from] the governor of Dunkirk [on plans] for the revolt of that fortress". Given frequent remarks on the difficulty of paying the troops, this seems more likely to be about money than restoring the Commonwealth, so perhaps the duke went with a few heavy bags.

Yes Sarah, you're quite right that Gravelines is no longer an English base (or problem). Reading ahead, we came across what seems to be the Venetian embassy's end-of-year report (undated, listed as Cod. 1490/11 at https://www.british-history.ac.uk…) which helpfully notes that "the garrison of Dunkirk consists of 6,000 foot and 600 horse, all English except a few Walloons. In the fort of Mardich there will be about 3,000 Irish".

So, given Mardike's monthly payroll of £3,500 cited at https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/… above, those Irish make a grand 17s. (£0.86) a month; and we wager that the proper English troops are paid even more. But they're all fed, lodged and clothed (aren't they? hmm), and maybe they'll get to see the sensuous mysteries of the Orient.

About Saturday 30 November 1661

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

Tho' the very Angels sing of His Majesty's incomparable wisdom, &c., in this matter of the coinage perhaps he, and those adulating MPs as they fall over each other to demonstrate their love, should heed this "Remonstrance by Alderman Blackwell to the King and Council", which forever shakes his head in the State Papers for November 27 current, on how not everything can be improvised.

Retiring the Commonwealth money as soon as the end of the month, Blackwell wrote, "would be an injury to trade, because the Mint would be glutted with 500,000£. worth of coin, having already 100,000£, and being unable to coin more than 10,000£. a week".

To put this last number in perspective, pray consider this note seen back in March (at https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/…) which put the Navy's debts as of February 1 at £1,284,452, and even more usefully the "charge of setting forth and maintaining a fleet of 13,065 men, for 9 month's service" at £470,340. So, £52,260 per month, or one-third more than the Mint can supply, just for victualling the Navy. On November 28, a warrant directs the treasurer for the garrison of Dunkirk to pay £3,500 just for the monthly salary of the Mardike regiment. So, one-third of the weekly output just for one regiment, and we're not sure how many make up the garrison but we suspect there's at least two others, at Dunkirk proper and Gravelines.

And this, at a time when the entire New Model Army is being disbanded and paid off, and the Duke of York himself has had to jet off to, precisely, Dunkirk to check into rumors of plots and mutiny. Of course kicking the can down to March 1662 isn't going to change the picture. Instead Blackwell concludes with the sensible suggestion "that no time may be limited for its calling in, but that it may be taken gradually". Advice that would spare Sam a lifetime of tally-sticks, IOUs, defaults and angry sailors, but which we fear even many modern States will disregard in the future...

About Thursday 24 October 1661

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

Ah yes, so quiet and humdrum this English political scene. Nothin' is on. So boring! Zzzzz...

Fortunately, there's always an Episcopalian plot to amuse us. The latest is apparently so interesting that it seems to have prompted Venetian ambassador Giavarina to write his weekly report today (at https://www.british-history.ac.uk…) rather than to wait for the quiet of Sunday as usual. It was, he says, "discovered in the present week", and "when the king heard of it he immediately devoted himself with the Council" to emergency action, ordering the arrest of nine officers, "all of the land forces now in the metropolis [the London trained bands, right at the Westminster doors], some from Monk's own companies", plus "at Hertford some colonels".

Plots and plotters are so omnipresent that perhaps Sam heard of it but dismissed the news as too routine to mention. We find an echo in the State Papers, which have several minutes dated October 24 from witness examinations, reporting fifth columns of "3,000 men about the City, maintained by Presbyterian ministers", or of "6,000 men with arms in London" - vast, rounded numbers that read like what a witness would say just to make him stop, the guy holding the pliers. But details will also pop up in the French Gazette dated November 19 (new style), in a London dispatch of November 10 which, between a marriage and a medal, notes that the conspirators included, uh-oh, a former Republican ambassador to Holland ("le Sieur Olivier S. Jean", unlisted in Wikipedia's seamless chronology at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lis…, or among the names that also appear in this week's Mercurius Politicus). Henry Vane and a couple of other Rep heavies have also been relocated to remoter and safer places than the Tower. The State Papers on October 21 had a warrant to Capt. Thomas Allin "to receive Sir Henry Vane, [and] transport him safe prisoner to the Isle of Scilly".

Giavarina adds that the plot "was discovered only six hours before it was to take effect". So we were *this close* to getting a so-much-more interesting Diary.

About Friday 18 October 1661

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

"The Queen's provision"; ah yes, maybe it's about time to worry about that, eh? The fleet to fetch her up has been wallowing at anchor for months, to everyone's puzzlement, and is supposed to sail any day. Sam at the Office's Department of Cheese and Biscuits isn't the only one to get busy, as we saw on October 14 in the State Papers a "warrant to pay to the Earl of Sandwich (...) £1,920 on account, for making provision of bedding, sheets, and other necessaries, for fitting the ship that is to bring over the Infanta of Portugal".

On this day however, Venetian ambassador Giavarina also sends in his weekly report a rather less glamorous update on the pre-nuptials: "There is said to be some difficulty about the letters of exchange" sent by Portugal to pay the dowry, "so that for some days the preparations for the marriage seem to have slackened". More reason to favor durables like Cheshire cheese and pickles - we suggest Long Keeping cheese, good for 6-12 months (details at https://www.cheeseshopnantwich.co…)

And one consequence: "The earl of Peterborough [Henry, Lord Mordaunt, bio at https://www.queensroyalsurreys.or…] was all ready to start for Tangier, but waited because he had not received cash to pay the men he has enlisted and was to take for the garrison there. They assigned to him some of the money which the Portuguese are to pay on account of the dowry, but with a glance at the difficulties and fearing that it will be impossible for the duke of Braganza to fulfil his promises, he will not move before he is paid." You don't get quality soldiers in such conditions, either, so "he has got together 1,000 foot here, but all inexperienced country men who will die fast", plus a bunch of stray Irishmen.

We've seen, should add, a multitude of told-you-so reports in Paris and Venice tut-tutting on how wretchedly poor Portugal would never make good on the dowry. Various Spanish operatives have been happy to confirm. Up to Portugal to dispel the rumors, and get past the panicky "what do you mean my card's rejected" moment, to fishing out another one that doth work.

Meanwhile, in the quiet of her Lisbon palace the Infanta is re-re-reading the menu. Neats' tongues and anchovies for a month? "On odd days your majesty could switch to oysters and cheese".

About Sunday 13 October 1661

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

Indeed, it was most prudent and usefull to check. We saw and forgot that September minute. "On account" is in the October minute, but must refer to some reckoning agreed with Portugal in the 6+ weeks since the ships arrived.

The cargo may or may not be for Alfonso to gift to Charles; if owned by private merchants, good luck to them for getting full value for its sale in England. Apart from broker's fees, stuff falling off the truck and the reliability of letters of credit, the royal warrant of September 9 mentions "customs both English and Portuguese" being due; that could add up.

And now, senhores capitãos, just to confirm us in the supreme confidence we have in your navigation skills, pray explain again, to us the ministers of Portugal and representative of o grande Inquisidor, by what strange Accident you set sail for Portugal, and ended over 850 miles nauticall away in England, the land of so many Andrews, Johnses and Anthonies?

About Sunday 13 October 1661

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

On the Sandwich logg, as posted by Sarah: A future Age will perhaps believe, on reading of these "3 night's rejoicing in Tangier for the match with Portugal", that Algeria won 2-1, as they in fact will in 1989 (not usually the case, however; see http://dzfootball.free.fr/EN/Pays…)

But on this occasion, we suspect that Tangier went wild not only for "the match", but also for the apparently still recent arrival of the Portuguese treasure fleet from Brazil, laden with an estimated "12 million" (currency unstated), including 4,200 "crates of sugar". So will advise the French Gazette on November 5 (new style), quoting a London dispatch from October 27 - which, given the time news take to travel and the 10-day difference between new- and old-style calendars, would seem to refer to events from early October at the latest. Tangiers may be better informed than London of the Lisbon news, but we phant'sy those came in good time to further elevate the publick mood.

A few pinches of this sugar will now presumably make their way to Sam's Rhenish wine. Indeed we see that the Portuguese are so eager to be nice to their new English friends that three of their Brazilian ships sailed straight up the Thames, without even stopping in Portugal, to pay customs duties to English customs. A memo from the Treasury, dated October 15 (at https://www.british-history.ac.uk…) suggests a bit of bewilderment among the Customs Commissioners, who were reassured by the "Portuguese ministers" that "it may be for their master's service that the moneys due for the Portugall customes should be paid to our use, upon accompt betwixt us and that King [Afonso VI of Portugal]".

About Tuesday 24 September 1661

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

Ah yes, there was more to come in the mail: On October 20 (all dates new style), the same Gazette will publish in a long Extraordinary a letter "from a Gentleman of England", himself quoting updates from the Mediterranean dated through September 18 - perhaps copies of all or some of those "letters from the Sea" that Sam has received. It gives a slightly greater tally, adding two Algerine ships sunk and two driven to the coast under Sandwich's command in early September (again, without confirmation in the latter's own diary), plus two sunk, one beached and eight captured by Lawson after Sandwich went away. So 15 more, to a total of 21-25, evenly split between My Lord and his able vice-admiral in case anyone pays attention to that.

Perhaps this level of damage could begin to enter "considerable" territory? The Barbarian pyrates do not have an unlimited fleet; a further Gazette dispatch, dated October 10 (new style) from London, says that Algiers "has 40 Ships at sea", so a score of sunk, beached or captured vessels could already have taken out 20-25% of their strength. In principle plenty of reinforcement could come from other "Turkish" dominions, or even from Constantinople should the Sultan be truly aggrieved, but he's far, he has an even bigger conflict going in Cyprus, and he may not care that much about a bunch of irregulars.

The October 10 report adds that "those of Algiers have, recently, killed their Chief, being quite at odds among themselves [fort broüillez entr'eux], in particular over the proposals for Settlement, that had been made to them by (...) Admiral Montagu". Possibly true; sadly there's no source, and "those of Algiers" ain't writing letters to the Gazette.

About Sunday 6 October 1661

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

And it's been nearly a week since the entourages of the ambassadors of France and Spain had their bloody encounter in London, to Sam's great boyish entertainment. In Fontainebleau today, Louis XIV had his full briefing, conceivably including the report by John Evelyn which Charles had, just four days ago, instructed him to rush to St. Albans, the English ambassador in Paris.

King Louis seems to have gone fairly ballistic about it, and "had word sent on the instant" [envoya, sur le champ, dire] to the Spanish ambassador in Paris, count Fuensaldaña, "to be gone from this kingdom" [qu'il sortit de ce royaume]; to the marquess de la Fuente, who was on his way to replace him, that he stay out; and to the governor of the Spanish Netherlands, Caracena, that his visa (his "Passeport") was revoked - an annoyance, as he has orders to repair a.s.a.p. to Spain on a new assignment against Portugal, and will now have to go by boat (tho', French roads being what they are, that may be quicker). This will be publicized, as part of a dispatch dated October 20 (new style) in the French Gazette to appear next week (on the 22nd, new style), so we're meant to know.

Not so incendiary as long as it only impacts their lordships the ambassadors, but, more ominously, Louis also recalls his delegation at the conference which, post-Treaty of the Pyrénées, was in charge of drawing the border between France and Spain.

Prelude to war? We'll see. Louis takes the pain of sending an envoy to London, the "sieur du Cateux" (huh?) to personally inform Charles II. So, Sam and most Englishmen may prefer Spain to France, but apparently that's not how the chips are falling.

About Tuesday 8 October 1661

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

Oftentimes our Society has marvelled at the quantities of oysters, entire pecks and barrels, that Sam quaffs when on a frolique, as a later Age will salted peanuts, or even as his sole meal. We have posted, at https://www.pepysdiary.com/encycl…, an Encyclopedia entry on whether this ravenous appetite risks exhausting the resource, according to the most recent research in oyster history. We surmise it wouldn't improve Sam's mood, which seems a bit melancholy today.

About Oysters

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

The field of oyster history has just been enriched by a vast and rigorous study led by the University of Exeter, on the European oysterbeds of yore. Using over 1,600 sources going back to the 16th century, it maps huge coastal fields spreading from Scandinavia to the Mediterranean, covering over 1.7 million hectares.

Given an estimated 75% of oysterbeds went undocumented, it suggests that 6.5 million hectares of European seabed were covered with mounds of billions upon billions of oysters - we calculate on the order of 4,000 trillion of them, assuming 10×5×1-centimeter oysters packed in the 5-meter-high reefs that seem to have been commonplace. Some of the richest fields were in the Thames estuary, just where Sam would want them. If his "barrels" were "the size of a large tin can" as Phil informs us above, they may have contained perhaps 100 de-shelled oysters; Sam could have had a barrel for dinner and supper everyday for 55 billion years, or 3.6 times the age of the universe.

The authors note, as if that was truly necessary, that these marvels' "vulnerability to human-induced pressures means many have deteriorated in quality, declined in extent or vertical relief, or been rendered functionally extinct by fishing, coastal development, eutrophication and pollution, disease and the effects of climate change". Sam's appetite, fostered in part by the dirt-low prices which such abundance would command, was thus not entirely to blame.

The full paper, "Records reveal the vast historical extent of European oyster reef ecosystems" by Ruth H. Thurstan et al., was accepted by Nature Sustainability and is available at https://www.nature.com/articles/s…. A usefull summation is at https://www.sciencedaily.com/rele….

About Wednesday 2 October 1661

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

John Evelyn's report on the clash of ambassadorial convoys of two days ago would be an interesting document to read. Evelyn wrote it with his usual care, interviewing a number of the English officials who had been there. A toned-down version was to be printed, but we find in today's State Papers (at https://www.google.co.id/books/ed…) what seems a usefull summary sent to Joseph Williamson.

The summary differs on a few important points from the other sources we had tried to parse on that day (at https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/…) viz. the Venetian ambassador and (writing long after the facts) master of ceremonies John Finett. To wit:

(a) The fight broke not on the coaches' return trip, but as soon as the Swedish ambassador had boarded his, on the way to the royal audience - implying a riot wending its way toward Westminster, not safely out on the Tower grounds. That is discrepant with John Finett's version, but Sam's account did make clear that the action went on for hours and was all over the place.

(b) The French opened fire on the Spanish escort after the latter "drew their weapons, shouted", and dislodged them from the coveted first place after the Swedish coach where they had wedged themselves - making it look like the French were the offended party, and suggesting it could have been up to the Spaniards to avoid the fight. This could matter if the French did stage the incident as a pretext for war, for instance around Dunkirk where, as it happens, Spain has recently removed some of its troops to send them to the war with Portugal.

(c) Evelyn mentions "the tumultous numbers of French issuing from several houses". So the "rabble" which French ambassador d'Estrades had paid to come, were not walking alongside his convoy to guard it from Spanish mischief, but waiting in ambush, ah ha.

(d) "As to the brickbats thrown", Evelyn says, they weren't hurled at the French by the Spanish guard as a desperate substitute for firearms, as the Venetian account had it, but "in self defence by some of the rabble, incensed by the wounds they received from the shots of the French". We read this as meaning the English rabble, of hundreds of onlookers (who had flocked in anticipation of just such a fight to look at), after French stray bullets hit the crowd.

Sam seems certain to want his copy of Evelyn's report, off the grapevine or when it's published. For now, it's interesting that Charles asks Evelyn to send it to the French side, but not to the Spaniards - perhaps their feelings don't matter as much, or they don't need the same royal chastisement, or they get it via another channel. At the same cabinet meeting which Evelyn attended the king also decrees that henceforth ambassadors will use only English coaches, not their own. Perhaps they won't jockey so much in the royal loaners; perhaps it's also to keep these refined diplomats from stashing guns in said coaches.

About Monday 30 September 1661

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

As for why the French and Spanish embassies went to all this trouble, and whether geopolitics were involved along with testosterone, nobody seems to know, and feverish consultations have started to find out if their respective kings had sent orders. Louis suspects that Philip IV did just that; everyone suspects that Louis, being anointed by God, assumes he always comes on top. As the Gazette says in closing, "a bit of time will enlighten us on what will happen in this business".

OK, and this pun on "il bat l'Estrade", that Bill had found and puzzled over a decade ago. "Battre l'estrade" ("beating the stage") is what a hawker will do at the fair, vulgarly and noisily crying up his merchandise; or perhaps a comedian, working up the audience before a show. So it's a bit insulting, but nothing to roll on the carpet with laughter. Thinking of it, it also rhymes with "balustrade", a balcony. There, we got the joke going for another 350 years.

About Monday 30 September 1661

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

This was not just the scum getting out of hand, however: Charles and everyone else could see it coming, and Giavarina says (detail No. 3) that he "heard his Majesty say" that both ambassadors "went some days before to the Tower on the pretext of a walk, to view the place where the skirmish would take place". Finett says the whole fight happened on the coaches' return trip, after the (bemused) Swede had been safely delivered to Westminster; until then, everyone had somehow contained his patriotic rage.

Detail No. 4: Giavarina says that at some point Charles had made both parties, West Side Story-style, "not to allow any of their household to carry firearms". The French, likely with the excuse that 'tis was not the "household" but the rabble doing it, "attacked the Spaniards, using muskets, pistols and carbines", while the law-abiding Spaniards were "armed with swords and sticks, without any firearms (...) Finding by chance some bricks where they took up their position they seized them pelting the French" - we trust that Sam had the sense to also look up. Giavarina gives the score as "six or seven (...) killed and many wounded, including the brother-in-law and son of the French ambassador, the first with a sword in the leg and the other with a stone in the stomach".

Amusing detail No. 5: Spanish envoy Bateville almost lost control of his rabble, which "followed the coach to the very embassy, where, to get rid of [them he] had to employ money"; Giavarina thinks Batteville blew over £1,000 in hiring and dispersing.

It that's any consolation to Bateville, our sources seem to agree on Spain being popular with Londoners even beyond what money can buy: He was "escorted by a crowd, which came out of all the shops, applauding the event with words and cries, showing great affection for Spain, even ringing the bells in some places". We do notice, in the State Papers, a pamphlet printed this very day which relates a "bloody conflict between the Spaniards and the French (...) in which the former were deservedly triumphant". Even Sam says "we do naturally all love the Spanish". Of course you can also pay for a pamphlet and some bell-ringing, but, hey Londoners, did you hear about Jamaica and do you know that your king has just married into the house of Portugal, presently fighting for its survival a bloody war with Spain? Ah, you do know, do you..? Hmm. Do you recall that, just a few months ago, a mini-panic had gripped you after the same Bateville, who does come across as a bit hot-headed, had threatened war on England if Charles married the Portuguese infanta? (Memories refreshed at https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/… and https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/…)

About Monday 30 September 1661

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

On October 14 (new style - so, in a week) Venetian ambassador Francesco Giavarina will run two inkpots dry and use five quills to their stumps to supply, on the Franco-Spanish fracas, the detail and color for which we love him. His account (at https://www.british-history.ac.uk…) differs a little from those reported by our other Annotators, as well as from that of master of ceremonies Sir John Finett, which Pedro had unearted in 2004 (and which remains accessible at http://www.thebookofdays.com/mont…)

First Giavarina notes that "foreseeing disorder", as the two ambassadors' rivalry was known, Charles II had sent them word "that he hoped they would not send their coaches", which given "the residue of evil humours in the city", could bring incidents. The French "replied that he could by no means obey his Majesty as he had precise orders from his king to send his coach, threatening his head if he did the contrary", no less. The Spaniard "expressed his readiness to do as his Majesty desired, but this was impossible if the other refused to keep his coach at home". Charles then said he would be neutral, as already reported.

New detail No. 1: 'tis not their official escorts that do most of the fighting. Finett says the French ambassador came with "one hundred footmen", actually a modest retinue as these things go, but Giavarina adds that he had also "got together all the French in London, no small number, and forming as it were an army of several hundreds (...) The Spaniard collected the Flemings and Walloons". And who knows what quarrels, perhaps going back to battles in Flanders, the two expat communities may have kept. Giavarina notes that "this [fight] happened also because a few days before the insolent footmen of [French envoy d']Estrades had had a scuffle with some watermen with some fatalities", whose (presumably English) friends claimed vendetta. Even he also sighs that another reason was that "a la mode de Paris, they will not let any one alone" - whatever it means; haughty musqueteers maybe?

A report, dated October 13 (new style) will also appear in the French Gazette on October 22. Evidently it's a bit more one-sided, 'tho the week's delay between the brawl and its sending suggest a bit of careful mulling-over. It says the Spanish embassy had "bought the assistance" of "a great number of Folks from the scum of the People, like Brewers, Butchers, Shoemakers & Boatmen (...) in the number of two thousand" (Finett only mentions an official retinue of 150; and a few butchers and shoemakers must have cancelled their subscriptions to the Gazette).

About Wednesday 25 September 1661

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

But so, all this horrible uncertainty has been blown away by just showing Catherine as the QoE. One week later the Gazette has got hold of yet another English dispatch, which reports news from Lisbon that the public showing has worked out, and "the Infant of Portugal having been shown to the People, as the Spouse of His Britannic Majesty, they felt so great a joy, that they expressed it for three days, by singular rejoicings". More proof that the Wedding hasn't been "broken": "the Queen Regent her Mother, even now gives her [Catherine] her right hand to hold, in all Ceremonies, where she [Catherine] is ordinarily dressed in the English style". The hand, the dress - what more do you need?

An appearance by the Earl of Sandwich in his admiral's cuirass, maybe? His diary records that he has in fact been in Portugal since September 9 (old style), and had already met Catherine at least twice while the envoys were still speculating on a broken alliance. But he seems to have kept a sufficiently low profile to not be mentioned in either the press (such as it is) or in diplomatic cables. We wonder why, given the politics and My Lord not being especially shy.

We'll let our Society's imagination run wild on those "singular rejoicings", but also wonder if Catherine was shown to the revelling crowd from a balcony - a tiny silhouette seen from the back of the Praça do Comércio, perhaps recognizable only by her distinctive hat and hand-wave - or just showed up in some salon in her "English style", and how widely Portuguese opinion really knew or cared about any of this. Filling the foreign gazettes with the news was certainly part of the job, however, and so that's done. The ordinary Joãos and Lourenços who do the independence war, also have good reason to care, as noted. That "the People (...) murmur[ed]" that all the hope-giving was just to trick them into taking that hill, suggest that of late, as the battles got bloodier, there had been less than perfect trust and confidence between them and Alfonso. Amazing what one photo of a smiling princess on the magazine covers can do, no?