What Sam "hears" and duly relays on how Catherine de Braganza is really truly the Queen now, is an echo from a slightly panicky show of Queenness that the Portuguese have organized in recent weeks. On October 8 (new style, Sept 28 Pepys time), the Gazette de France reported, in a dispatch from London and so reflecting some of what Sam would have heard, that "whereas the rumor has circulated that this Wedding was delayed, or broken, mainly in Lisbon, His Majesty [Alfonso IV] of Portugal was forced to have this Princess [Catherine] shown in public, in her quality as Spouse of the King of Great Britain, to appease the People, who were beginning to murmur, that they had been informed of this Alliance only to give them the hope of gaining a great support, against their Enemies".
The latter being, of course, the Spaniards, whom the Portuguese are currently pitted against in an increasingly ferocious war of independence, and the "support" presumably expected to be shiploads of English soldiers. Some of the anxiety comes from Sandwich, expected to arrive in grand style to whisk Catherine off to Westminster Abbey, still not showing up as he's delayed by the business in Algiers, and by being in Spain - a detail which must have resonated quite a bit around the Lisbon taverns - for his "health". As early as September 9 (new style), Francesco Giavarina, the Venetian ambassador in London, had noted how "the Court [in London] wonders at the delay and is anxiously waiting for certainty (...) about the marriage". British officialdom seems to have a reputation for slowness and procrastination, but the stasis, as it followed the wedding's tonitruant initial announcement is of course not lost on the Spaniards, who could be expected to throw more gold and a bit of disinformation at the problem. On September 21 his colleague in Madrid, Giovanni Cornaro, noted that "some glimmerings of hope survive about the execution of the agreements between Portugal and England", i.e. that they could still fall through. Two days later, Giavarina reports "nothing from Portugal in spite of favourable winds, causing suspicion and much talk". One week later, "the absence of news from Portugal continues amid the usual astonishment and suspicion".
... And in the State Papers today, we can't resist quoting this summary of a letter from Jonas Shish to the Navy Commissioners, for being (involuntarily) worthy of the Surrealists, or of the BBC's wartime messages: "The Mermaid is worm-eaten".
Letters such as Sam has found in his in-tray (we phant'sy he has one; his "letterbox" is 200 years in the future) are rebounding all over Europe, from Genoa to Marseilles to Cordoba to points north, bringing more or less vague news that may not be first-hand, compleat or sincere, and of course are several weeks late. At least, his mail doesn't seem to include the sad tidings of a "great defeat" which had separately reached the Venetian embassy in London two weeks ago (and which we noted at https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/…)
On September 30 (new style), ambassador Giavarina saw some corroboration in that reinforcements seemed to be "haste[ned]" from Portsmouth, suggesting "that the English have received some hurt", and reported being told by "the duke of York himself (...) that the vessels now at Algiers should return to England, from which one may conclude that they are not in a very good state".
But perhaps he was over-interpreting and the bad news were all untrue. On October 15 (new style), the French Gazette will publish a week-old dispatch from London, reporting letters sent "from our fleet" (the English fleet, in the gazette's style) in early September, which relate a string of "Turkish" ships sunk or captured: one forced ashore on July 20, two captured on the 21st, two sunk and two ran aground sometime before the 23rd, one sunk in Algiers harbor on the 24th, and another captured on the 27th. It's a bit ambiguous if the dates are converted to new style from the gazette's English sources, but it all happened while Sandwich was in Spain, having apparently left Adm. John Lawson in command. Indeed his diary mentions none of this, and reports engagements only on July 31 and September 10, making Sandwich look more like a diplomat than a war commander, notwithstanding the martial cuirass in his portraits.
Maybe there is more to come in the mail. For now, it seems doubtful if the loss or impairment of six to nine ships will make any difference to the Barbary pyrates, to say nothing of their Turkish masters. In such cases it can be a good idea to just declare victory (maybe with a big "Mission Accomplished" banner on the quarterdeck) and to go home before anyone gets hurt. Alvise Grimani, the Venetian ambassador to France, also reports today (October 4, new style) that the Dutch are happy to capture ships but not with shore bombardments such as Sandwich has overseen, "out of respect for the Grand Turk, because of the trade and the fear of upsetting it" - the military Art of Not Getting Too Far, which future Ages will perhaps see at play in, perhaps, the Caspian. And there's also a beautiful Portuguese princess to deliver; it would be sad if an actual "great defeat" was to interfere.
On this day, John Evelyn also tells his diary, apart from the presentation of his great Fumifugium as already noted, of this being "An exceedingly sickly, wet autumn".
At this point Evelyn is not a particularly prolix diarist, or much given to weather reports; he lives close enough to experience the same weather systems as Sam, and in a generally wet and turbulent climate (which we explored at https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/…) so if he finds the conditions worth mentioning, and in these terms, then exeeding the wetness must be. And it takes a certain taste for adventure (or boredom) to take to the roads in these conditions. And the "very last dirty of all" of the mire must be deep indeed.
Ah, the "gundaloes", the two gondolas (and four gondoliers) which the Republic of Venice has gifted to Charles in the hope of getting his help against the Turks. Shipping them had been a massive undertaking, in which Sam even had a hand last year (see the "kayak affair" at https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/… and https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/…) But their official delivery today was the Venetian embassy's finest hour. We were wondering if Sam would miss the show. Well, he did, and to make it worse it seems after-dinner stuff so he was probably in the Gridiron at the time (nervously looking around). But, being on the river every day, and being who he is, of course he'd still get to see them.
Venetian ambassador Giavarina will have a detailed account in his weekly dispatch dated tomorrow, which Sarah (who beat us to it, from her westerly time zone) has just reposted at https://www.pepysdiary.com/encycl… ("original" at https://www.british-history.ac.uk…) To sum up, the king is besides Himself with excitement, and the court is appropriately fawning. Giavarina, who personally had to spend a fortune to repair shipping damage on the gondolas, puts the account at the end of his dispatch, as always very professionally composed and calibrated, after the "serious" diplomatic material.
Everybody take note: Charles "enjoys nothing so much as going on the water". Indeed, the "pleasure boat" Sam also sees is another gift from nervous neighbors. John Evelyn, who gets to sail in it with H.M., will say to his own diary on October 1 that it's from the Dutch East India Company, which is presently contemplating its expulsion from India by England and, at the time it must have dispatched the yacht, was expecting this to turn into full-blown war. Will it work, and India remain a Dutch colony? No spoilers!
Comic twist: the Gondoliers innocently mention that gondolas built for serene canals aren't really optimized for sailing the Thames (indeed not), but there's another Venetian model that would fit, the fisolere. Lol, immediately the king wants one, you can see him biting his lip and finally blurting it out. Giavarina must have repressed a big sigh before agreeing to, of course your majesty, having one custom-built a.s.a.p. Everybody else ("many other lords of the Court") suddenly also wants a fisolere (we phant'sy at least one of them calls it a "fistula").
To his credit, the Duke of York says he will pay for his. Now Venetian eyebrows are twitching; you mean there's a market? Hmmmm.
Oh, and, Sir Edward... This message, so obligingly delivered by French hands as their settee just happened to drop by, on its way from Algiers (perhaps) back to France by way of Lisbon -- the direct route to Marseille is sooo boring -- it is... completely genuine, without any doubt, yes? Nay, my Lord, never would I think you naive. But, from the comfort of your Portuguese palace, you are in a position to order reinforcements, should not everything be hanky-dory out there, yes? And in that case, just conceivably, it may not be in the interest of every Mediterranean power that you should know, hmm?
You talkin' to mee? We like this Vision of Sir Edward, earl of Sandwich, sailing the wine-dark seas on his magic sofa, by Tritons propelled and reclining on silk cushions, with figs and grapes at hand. He's in the land of flying carpets after all. Why, we might commission an engraving and have it sold in the taverns.
But we find at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Set… that a settee is also "a sharp-prowed, single-decked merchant sailing vessel found in the Mediterranean"; also known (to the OED, copied at https://english.stackexchange.com…) as a settea, sattie, satty, satia, sett(y)e, sattee, cettee, saetia, saettia (Italian), setye, scétie, scitie, and seemingly derived from the xebec (Catalan) or the شباك (šabbāk, Arabic) of the Barbary pirates, among a thousand variants in the polyglot Mediterranean (listed at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Xeb…) And lol, there's also a type of sofa known to the furniture trade as a vessel (https://www.gammarr.com/en/sofas/…)
To be clear, 'tis also not Sandwich who's in the settee, but, conveyed from Algiers, this happy message of carnage. Nice of the French to play the couriers, all in the common cause. It's still dated news, but any tidbit helps, given a bit of confusion in the Venetian diplomatic traffic that is our other main current source (at at https://www.british-history.ac.uk…) Thus on the 17th (new style), the resident in Florence related a skirmish in which five Barbary galleys had been sunk or captured, the Christian slaves releas'd while "all the Turks were put in irons, to be sold later at the first opportunity" (a naval manoeuver known as a switcharoo).
But we'll also shortly see a letter from Venetian ambassador Giavarina (dated Sept 23, new style), relaying the rather diff'rent newes "that the English at Algiers have suffered a great defeat with the loss of several ships", a canard perhaps, but with the detail that "two ships certainly, very roughly handled, have been forced to take refuge at Malaga". Wise of My Lord to have left Algiers right after a victory and presently to keep away from the mess, and in the (politically) much safer business of hand-kissing and international queen-hauling.
"I pray God give me grace to begin now to look after my business, but it always was, and I fear will ever be, my foible..."
**Samuel Pepys!**
Sam gives a start; almost makes a blotch in the diary; looks around - no one. "Qui va là?"
"Ye needs to ask? 'Tis Me, the Lord your onely God!"
"Ah! Oh! Mon Dieu!"
(chuckle) **Will you quit nagging Me with the puritan guilt? You're rich, you silly goose. You're meant to carouse. Count your money and go to the theatre.**
"Ah, er, Thy will shalt be done... but they're closed, today."
**OK, tomorrow. And get a key for the front door. And put a lock on that window.**
Quiet. After a while, great comfort. Is that a faint whiff of sulphur? Gotta have that drain cleaned.
The letter which the French Gazette - to whom a month-old dispatch is practically live news - is preparing to reproduce, was, it says, written in Toulon on August 22 (new style), so would indeed pertain to the July/early August events that Sandwich's log, his letter and Dimond's letter (whoever he is) refer to. What events will pass in the future are indeed mysteries we refuse to intrude upon, but those were firmly in the past. I mean, our past, the past of the past, okay?
And so De Ruyter is in the Straits too: Extraordinary. You rightly point out, Sarah, that there also happens to be a lot of gold afloat in the same sector: The first Spanish treasure fleet to arrive from the gold and silver mines of America in several years is indeed on its way, and it's humongous. In letters on July 20 Giovanni Cornaro, the Venetian ambassador in Madrid, said "it is worth 20 millions" (no need even to specify of what) and comprises no less than "forty or fifty [vessels] with cargo", with an escort of 15 warships. Just 15 for around 45, every pyrate, corsair and beribboned admiral between Tortuga and Tangiers must have run the odds of nailing the Heist of the Century. And indeed, Cornaro wrote, "divers nations are interested, the Dutch in particular" (July 20), but the Spaniards have also been "much afraid of the English ships" (he wrote on June 15). On July 16 his colleagues in London, Correr and Morosini, picked on "the suspicions entertained by the merchants", who noted that the galleons "are much more heavily freighted with gold than usual, though their armed escort is less". The Venetians, merchants to whom the bullion market matters not a little, are tracking this quite keenly. On August 28, Cornaro reports that "French ships and a certain number of Dutch ones" are also joining the common fight against those barbarous Algerine pyrates. So everybody is there.
England and the United Provinces are, in principle, making peace and discussing treaties with Spain, but there's enough loot, and still enough casus belli here and there (in the East Indies for the Dutch, in the West Indies and potentially in Portugal for England, in Europe for both of them) for a bit of double-crossing. On July 22 however Correr and Morosini, freshly arrived in England, met in Dover "the vice admiral" (can't be Sandwich, who's long gone), who "assured us that those [vessels] which had already sailed had no intention of meeting the Spanish fleet". And on August 28 Cornaro even reported that "[De] Ruiter, has offered his squadron to the duke of Medina Celi [Medinacelli, a top Spanish grandee] to protect the fleet". Cornaro, perhaps passing on Spanish musings, adds that "the English being diverted against the corsairs" is still a reassurance.
And "the duke [in question] writes expressing his mortification at seeing things reduced to this pass". Because, you see, the fleet was expected in early August, and it's still nowhere in sight, and Spanish palms are getting quite sweaty.
Sandwich isn't telling us quite everything, in that terse nautical log of his. For instance, of late he has "taken Algiers", says a letter dated of this day (in the State Papers) from Capt. Dimond of the "Martin", presently in Lisbon. Did we know that? Surely Sam would have had another drink if the letter he received a few days ago mentioned it. But all of Europe is talkin' about it, the French Gazette being just now typesetting an Extraordinary, to appear on September 23 (new style), that reproduces a letter from Toulon which says it happened after failed negotiations on July 10 prompted a 10-hour gun battle with the Algerine fleet - of which Dimond, calling them "Turks" to keep things simple, says "the Earl of Sandwich is said to have burned 14 of their ships". Collateral damage on shore from the 10-hour bombardment is not mentioned.
Sandwich's journal mentions nothing special for July 10 and only a few inconclusive broadsides "for 2 or 3 hours" on July 31, which he called off to save ammo though "our shot killed them many men". The Gazette will also note that, after the battle, the wind came up and the English fleet almost ran aground, finding itself "in peril of perishing"; imagine if a few hundred "Turks" had used the moment to swarm aboard. Sandwich's journal says nothing of this, noting only humdrum until August 8 when "the whole fleet sailed out of Algier bay".
Dimond's letter also suggests a measure of chaos in the expeditionary fleet, noting a dispute with a rival captain "guided by one or two reformado captains who were cashiered for their disaffection, and the old servants of the King are in no regard". So the fleet is full of Cromwellian holdovers (reformados were deprived of their commands but allowed to keep their rank), who sneer at the new Royalist appointees and use the cruise to go off on their own business: Those one or two "are gone to assist the King of Portugal's fleet home from Brazil, and have their gold chains and large sums of money", while those who stuck to their orders just look on. The admiral being sick and on shore in Alicante for a few weeks can't have helped that situation.
Susan, what a gem you've found there.The full article (published in Shakespeare Studies , vol. 41 (2013), p77-93) is at https://hcommons.org/deposits/ite…, and surely a gathering of the 600 people who have downloaded it would make for an entertaining colloquium. Holly Dugan has also worked on the history of smell, and authored "Coriolanus and the “Rank-Scented Meinie”: Smelling Rank in Early Modern London", published in 2010 as part of "Masculinity and the Metropolis of Vice, 1550–1650" - pre-Diary, alas, but far from irrelevant to our debates (full text at https://www.academia.edu/2398486/…)
A side trip in the stranger alleyways of Mr Google's book-shop plunges us into a rich vein: a study of "the bizarre phenomenon known as the ‘Monkey Drama’ in the British theatre" of the early 19C (by Bernard Ince in New Theater Quarterly, doi:10.1017/S0266464X18000428, full text at https://www.researchgate.net/publ…) and a French version, "'Des singes, c’était le narcisse’: class, imitation and performing monkeys in late-eighteenth century Paris" (by Ignacio Ramos-Gay in Studies in Theatre and Performance, doi:10.1080/14682761.2018.1451946, ditto at https://www.academia.edu/11196495…) None of this exactly contemporary with Sam's theater experience, but then the theater, with Charles' courtiers in the balconies, is perhaps rowdy enough for the monkeys to go unnoticed.
But for now the Venetians, diplomats that they are, blame it all on a few rogues. It's also a long way from Cyprus to Algiers, and may not have been all champagne parties among those 12 ships. However, so many powers have found the "Barbarians" useful - one source quoted at https://theonomyresources.blogspo… notes how France let them drive English captives taken in the Channel, where they did venture in the 1640s, across the length of its territory for transshipment in Marseilles. It won't be the last time, we predict, that Europeans will cut deals with evil "Barbarians", then revoke them at a whim. But, if we were the pyrates of Algiers, we'd wish my lord a full recovery, and see what his king's got to offer this time...
Getting the English captains and their Barbarian friends up to speed is part of Sandwich's mission, which isn't all cannonballs but also occasionally mentioned to feature "negotiations"; for instance, in his diary for July 29, when he sent "proposals" to Algiers, to which the reply was (on the next day) that "they would have no peace without liberty to search our ships". Search them for what? So far, it's been for non-English passengers and cargo, which had been fair game under the old rules, and even with provision for dividing the spoils as just happened to the six Venetians.
The whole Mediterranean has been watching, with more or less apprehension. The Spaniards are relieved that Sandwich's fleet was not going at them. The Italians are happy that England is hitting the pirates. The British merchants in Constantinople fret that it will cause problems with the Turk, patron to the pyrates. The Pyrates ain't keeping diaries that we know of - alas - but may recall that, as recently as 1655, Cromwell's envoy Robert Blake had bombarded them in Tunis, but had also cut deals with some of them, along the lines of "leave our ships alone, and everything else is fair game".
The deals seem to have lived on, and at least some English captains, oblivious or not of the new policies in London, to have become quite cozy. On June 25 (new style), the Venetian consul in Genoa complained to the Doge that "six English ships off Cape Gatta [off Cyprus] encountered six Barbary caravels by whom, they allowed themselves to be run aboard without any resistance and taken to Algiers, where all the goods were taken from them belonging to every nation except the English, to whom, indeed they paid double hire and allowed them to keep what they asserted to be on their own account"; and not only that, but they let Italian passengers, including a Venetian diplomat, be taken as slaves. On July 9, the Venetian Senate voted to send a complaint to London about the 90,000 ducats thereby lost to this "devilish and iniquitous arrangement with the Turks of Algiers". At the receiving end in London, ambassador Mocenigo writes on August 5 of the "former stipulations". On August 8 it's Sandwich himself (quoted at https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/…) who reports obliquely of "certain expected envoys from Algiers" being "detain[ed] at Constantinople, until confirmation had been made (...) of the ancient English capitulations". These mysterious "capitulations" could be many things, but in context they suggest that the infamous six English captains, and others in cahoots with the Algerine, weren't just a few rogues, but were acting on still-unrepealed official policy that co-opted the pyrates against other European powers. As did happen all the time, 'cept here they be heathen slave-takers.
Where is my lord? Is he in Malaga? Well, last *we* heard, having access to his log (as per https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/…) he was in the bay of Algiers.
What the rest of the world knows is a bit more confused: The Spaniards would know that he's left Alicante on July 23 (as he writes in his diary), after so advising Chancellor Coventry in a letter that's probably still on its way to London. Indeed, as per the Venetian ambassador to London, Giavarina, the news that he's been sick won't make it there before sometime next week.
Beyond that, my kingdom for a telegraph! As of August 17 (new style; today, in Pepys standard time), the Venetian resident in Florence, a lot closer to the action but still relying on old letters, still had him in Alicante; two days from now, Giavarina in London will quote the Dutch on Sandwich being at Gibraltar; it will take another week, until August 27 (new style) for Florence to catch up, from letters that went all the way to Leghorn and back, with Sandwich having left Spain on "the 22nd instant [of July]". And that's a fairly large fleet, on a high-profile mission watched by all the courts.
Indeed, El Generallissimo Sandwich de Mountuagu (as he was called yesterday, at https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/…) has been in Alicante for some time; since the 11th according to el generallissimo's journal, with the detail that he dropped anchor "about noon", but, curiously, since at least the 10th, according to letters dated from that day, which the French Gazette will say on August 6 (new style) it obtained from a Dutch vessel. The fleet took shelter from "a furious tempest, fifteen leagues from Algiers", it says.
And at some point My Lord became sick enough to go ashore, not only to pay his respects but to obtain better care than was available from the fleet. "A high fever", he relates in his journal for the 12th. "A slight indisposition", that should be cured by "one or two days' rest", the Venetian Resident at Florence will report on August 17 (new style), quoting "letters from Marseilles". Sandwich will in fact not return to his ship, "my health much bettered", before July 19. On August 26 (new style), the Venetian ambassador to London will chime in that "by the last letters from the fleet they have learned with great regret of the serious illness of General Montagu". So, not a "slight indisposition", but the bullet was dodged. Let's not tell Sam, as he happily plays the farmer; it could only distract him badly from sorting out uncle's papers.
Breaking news: Our Sam is in the news-paper, with a flood of articles in the UK press exposing the masses to his lace-cuffs and ribbons. The occasion is a study by Marlo Avidon of Christ's College, "‘Instructive types’ or mere ‘fancies’: assessing French fashion prints in the library of Samuel Pepys", in The Seventeenth Century (a journal, worth perusing). And it's open-access, at https://www.tandfonline.com/doi/f….
Parental advisory: Some of those French fashion prints reproduced in the article may be distressing.
Now we're wondering how many of us are fiddling with time converters right now. Sam, like all god-fearing denizens of the 17C, must indeed be on solar time. Plugging 8:53pm into a solar-time calculator, such as https://koch-tcm.ch/en/uhrzeit-so…, along with the longitude of Brampton and the Gregorian date of 30 July, and taking into account that 8:53 is sunset in a London that lives in a GMT+1 timezone and is on daylight saving time... shows that the Sun itself thinks it's really setting at 6:35 pm.
But wait! What doth matters when one is setting through the fields, to some vaguely familiar destination and after a day's drinking, is the astronomical twilight, the most uncompromising of several variants thereof and the time when the Sun is really, truly down, and the horizon becomes invisible, and the stars come out in splendor, and the church's spire is invisible too, and so is that ditch down there, and that forgotten rake, and... aww, ouch, ahh! And that, according to https://www.timeanddate.com/sun/@…, will happen in Brampton on July 30 at 12 minutes past midnight, modern UK time (but refraction taken into account!) or 9:54 pm solar time. Which leaves Sam time for at least another one at Goody Gorum's.
One variable that escapes us, is the quality of Sam's night-vision. The diary will supply evidence that it's pretty good, and has plenty of training in the obscure, winding lanes of thoroughly unlit London nights, link-boys or not. But we encourage anyone to talk a walk in the countryside at the dead of night (away from them electrickall Lamps of course), and find for themselves that, unless under a forest canopy, the sky is never so dark or your instincts so deeply buried as to make careful walking impossible.
"A few of those dimonds are sure to have gotten loose", we had surmised. Presently we find in the State Papers how much there is indeed to sift past yesterday's cavalcade, in a warrant dated June 29 to pay a jeweller, Wm. Gomeldon, for sundry gems he had provided; including "the loan of £1,200 worth of stones, which were lost out of the bosses provided for the coronation" in the king's equipage.
How many dimonds could that be? Gomeldon had also sold £730 worth of other stones, some on a picture frame and 320, probably, for the king's stirrups. So, it's small stones we're talking, maybe £2 apiece or less; if they truly be literal diamonds, at that price. But, there may be at least a couple of thousands for the picking, every one of them enough to buy lunch for weeks or months. Worth sending Will on all four with a sieve?
How do you dress as the Thames, we asked. We asked, and of course the French Gazette answers, in yet another Extraordinary from London on 7 July (new style). It details the maelstrom of allegories and symbols that Sam beheld today - the writhing hydras of past discord, the purple-mantled dignity of restored monarchy, useful to think about in Paris too.
And yes, there's the Thames, "represented by a great old man, who had clothes strewn with white and blue, the head crown'd with the Bridge of London, with the Flags of Ships and cables [oziers; our tentative translation] falling on his shoulders, in the manner of hair, an Oar in his right hand, a Ship in his left, & and an Urn on his side, whence issued water: attended by four Servants, figuring the four Waterways, which fall into that river."
Comments
Third Reading
About Wednesday 25 September 1661
Stephane Chenard • Link
What Sam "hears" and duly relays on how Catherine de Braganza is really truly the Queen now, is an echo from a slightly panicky show of Queenness that the Portuguese have organized in recent weeks. On October 8 (new style, Sept 28 Pepys time), the Gazette de France reported, in a dispatch from London and so reflecting some of what Sam would have heard, that "whereas the rumor has circulated that this Wedding was delayed, or broken, mainly in Lisbon, His Majesty [Alfonso IV] of Portugal was forced to have this Princess [Catherine] shown in public, in her quality as Spouse of the King of Great Britain, to appease the People, who were beginning to murmur, that they had been informed of this Alliance only to give them the hope of gaining a great support, against their Enemies".
The latter being, of course, the Spaniards, whom the Portuguese are currently pitted against in an increasingly ferocious war of independence, and the "support" presumably expected to be shiploads of English soldiers. Some of the anxiety comes from Sandwich, expected to arrive in grand style to whisk Catherine off to Westminster Abbey, still not showing up as he's delayed by the business in Algiers, and by being in Spain - a detail which must have resonated quite a bit around the Lisbon taverns - for his "health". As early as September 9 (new style), Francesco Giavarina, the Venetian ambassador in London, had noted how "the Court [in London] wonders at the delay and is anxiously waiting for certainty (...) about the marriage". British officialdom seems to have a reputation for slowness and procrastination, but the stasis, as it followed the wedding's tonitruant initial announcement is of course not lost on the Spaniards, who could be expected to throw more gold and a bit of disinformation at the problem. On September 21 his colleague in Madrid, Giovanni Cornaro, noted that "some glimmerings of hope survive about the execution of the agreements between Portugal and England", i.e. that they could still fall through. Two days later, Giavarina reports "nothing from Portugal in spite of favourable winds, causing suspicion and much talk". One week later, "the absence of news from Portugal continues amid the usual astonishment and suspicion".
About Tuesday 24 September 1661
Stephane Chenard • Link
... And in the State Papers today, we can't resist quoting this summary of a letter from Jonas Shish to the Navy Commissioners, for being (involuntarily) worthy of the Surrealists, or of the BBC's wartime messages: "The Mermaid is worm-eaten".
About Tuesday 24 September 1661
Stephane Chenard • Link
Letters such as Sam has found in his in-tray (we phant'sy he has one; his "letterbox" is 200 years in the future) are rebounding all over Europe, from Genoa to Marseilles to Cordoba to points north, bringing more or less vague news that may not be first-hand, compleat or sincere, and of course are several weeks late. At least, his mail doesn't seem to include the sad tidings of a "great defeat" which had separately reached the Venetian embassy in London two weeks ago (and which we noted at https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/…)
On September 30 (new style), ambassador Giavarina saw some corroboration in that reinforcements seemed to be "haste[ned]" from Portsmouth, suggesting "that the English have received some hurt", and reported being told by "the duke of York himself (...) that the vessels now at Algiers should return to England, from which one may conclude that they are not in a very good state".
But perhaps he was over-interpreting and the bad news were all untrue. On October 15 (new style), the French Gazette will publish a week-old dispatch from London, reporting letters sent "from our fleet" (the English fleet, in the gazette's style) in early September, which relate a string of "Turkish" ships sunk or captured: one forced ashore on July 20, two captured on the 21st, two sunk and two ran aground sometime before the 23rd, one sunk in Algiers harbor on the 24th, and another captured on the 27th. It's a bit ambiguous if the dates are converted to new style from the gazette's English sources, but it all happened while Sandwich was in Spain, having apparently left Adm. John Lawson in command. Indeed his diary mentions none of this, and reports engagements only on July 31 and September 10, making Sandwich look more like a diplomat than a war commander, notwithstanding the martial cuirass in his portraits.
Maybe there is more to come in the mail. For now, it seems doubtful if the loss or impairment of six to nine ships will make any difference to the Barbary pyrates, to say nothing of their Turkish masters. In such cases it can be a good idea to just declare victory (maybe with a big "Mission Accomplished" banner on the quarterdeck) and to go home before anyone gets hurt. Alvise Grimani, the Venetian ambassador to France, also reports today (October 4, new style) that the Dutch are happy to capture ships but not with shore bombardments such as Sandwich has overseen, "out of respect for the Grand Turk, because of the trade and the fear of upsetting it" - the military Art of Not Getting Too Far, which future Ages will perhaps see at play in, perhaps, the Caspian. And there's also a beautiful Portuguese princess to deliver; it would be sad if an actual "great defeat" was to interfere.
About Wednesday 18 September 1661
Stephane Chenard • Link
On this day, John Evelyn also tells his diary, apart from the presentation of his great Fumifugium as already noted, of this being "An exceedingly sickly, wet autumn".
At this point Evelyn is not a particularly prolix diarist, or much given to weather reports; he lives close enough to experience the same weather systems as Sam, and in a generally wet and turbulent climate (which we explored at https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/…) so if he finds the conditions worth mentioning, and in these terms, then exeeding the wetness must be. And it takes a certain taste for adventure (or boredom) to take to the roads in these conditions. And the "very last dirty of all" of the mire must be deep indeed.
About Thursday 12 September 1661
Stephane Chenard • Link
Ah, the "gundaloes", the two gondolas (and four gondoliers) which the Republic of Venice has gifted to Charles in the hope of getting his help against the Turks. Shipping them had been a massive undertaking, in which Sam even had a hand last year (see the "kayak affair" at https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/… and https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/…) But their official delivery today was the Venetian embassy's finest hour. We were wondering if Sam would miss the show. Well, he did, and to make it worse it seems after-dinner stuff so he was probably in the Gridiron at the time (nervously looking around). But, being on the river every day, and being who he is, of course he'd still get to see them.
Venetian ambassador Giavarina will have a detailed account in his weekly dispatch dated tomorrow, which Sarah (who beat us to it, from her westerly time zone) has just reposted at https://www.pepysdiary.com/encycl… ("original" at https://www.british-history.ac.uk…) To sum up, the king is besides Himself with excitement, and the court is appropriately fawning. Giavarina, who personally had to spend a fortune to repair shipping damage on the gondolas, puts the account at the end of his dispatch, as always very professionally composed and calibrated, after the "serious" diplomatic material.
Everybody take note: Charles "enjoys nothing so much as going on the water". Indeed, the "pleasure boat" Sam also sees is another gift from nervous neighbors. John Evelyn, who gets to sail in it with H.M., will say to his own diary on October 1 that it's from the Dutch East India Company, which is presently contemplating its expulsion from India by England and, at the time it must have dispatched the yacht, was expecting this to turn into full-blown war. Will it work, and India remain a Dutch colony? No spoilers!
Comic twist: the Gondoliers innocently mention that gondolas built for serene canals aren't really optimized for sailing the Thames (indeed not), but there's another Venetian model that would fit, the fisolere. Lol, immediately the king wants one, you can see him biting his lip and finally blurting it out. Giavarina must have repressed a big sigh before agreeing to, of course your majesty, having one custom-built a.s.a.p. Everybody else ("many other lords of the Court") suddenly also wants a fisolere (we phant'sy at least one of them calls it a "fistula").
To his credit, the Duke of York says he will pay for his. Now Venetian eyebrows are twitching; you mean there's a market? Hmmmm.
About Tuesday 10 September 1661
Stephane Chenard • Link
Oh, and, Sir Edward... This message, so obligingly delivered by French hands as their settee just happened to drop by, on its way from Algiers (perhaps) back to France by way of Lisbon -- the direct route to Marseille is sooo boring -- it is... completely genuine, without any doubt, yes? Nay, my Lord, never would I think you naive. But, from the comfort of your Portuguese palace, you are in a position to order reinforcements, should not everything be hanky-dory out there, yes? And in that case, just conceivably, it may not be in the interest of every Mediterranean power that you should know, hmm?
About Tuesday 10 September 1661
Stephane Chenard • Link
You talkin' to mee? We like this Vision of Sir Edward, earl of Sandwich, sailing the wine-dark seas on his magic sofa, by Tritons propelled and reclining on silk cushions, with figs and grapes at hand. He's in the land of flying carpets after all. Why, we might commission an engraving and have it sold in the taverns.
But we find at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Set… that a settee is also "a sharp-prowed, single-decked merchant sailing vessel found in the Mediterranean"; also known (to the OED, copied at https://english.stackexchange.com…) as a settea, sattie, satty, satia, sett(y)e, sattee, cettee, saetia, saettia (Italian), setye, scétie, scitie, and seemingly derived from the xebec (Catalan) or the شباك (šabbāk, Arabic) of the Barbary pirates, among a thousand variants in the polyglot Mediterranean (listed at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Xeb…) And lol, there's also a type of sofa known to the furniture trade as a vessel (https://www.gammarr.com/en/sofas/…)
To be clear, 'tis also not Sandwich who's in the settee, but, conveyed from Algiers, this happy message of carnage. Nice of the French to play the couriers, all in the common cause. It's still dated news, but any tidbit helps, given a bit of confusion in the Venetian diplomatic traffic that is our other main current source (at at https://www.british-history.ac.uk…) Thus on the 17th (new style), the resident in Florence related a skirmish in which five Barbary galleys had been sunk or captured, the Christian slaves releas'd while "all the Turks were put in irons, to be sold later at the first opportunity" (a naval manoeuver known as a switcharoo).
But we'll also shortly see a letter from Venetian ambassador Giavarina (dated Sept 23, new style), relaying the rather diff'rent newes "that the English at Algiers have suffered a great defeat with the loss of several ships", a canard perhaps, but with the detail that "two ships certainly, very roughly handled, have been forced to take refuge at Malaga". Wise of My Lord to have left Algiers right after a victory and presently to keep away from the mess, and in the (politically) much safer business of hand-kissing and international queen-hauling.
About Sunday 8 September 1661
Stephane Chenard • Link
"I pray God give me grace to begin now to look after my business, but it always was, and I fear will ever be, my foible..."
**Samuel Pepys!**
Sam gives a start; almost makes a blotch in the diary; looks around - no one. "Qui va là?"
"Ye needs to ask? 'Tis Me, the Lord your onely God!"
"Ah! Oh! Mon Dieu!"
(chuckle) **Will you quit nagging Me with the puritan guilt? You're rich, you silly goose. You're meant to carouse. Count your money and go to the theatre.**
"Ah, er, Thy will shalt be done... but they're closed, today."
**OK, tomorrow. And get a key for the front door. And put a lock on that window.**
Quiet. After a while, great comfort. Is that a faint whiff of sulphur? Gotta have that drain cleaned.
About Wednesday 28 August 1661
Stephane Chenard • Link
The letter which the French Gazette - to whom a month-old dispatch is practically live news - is preparing to reproduce, was, it says, written in Toulon on August 22 (new style), so would indeed pertain to the July/early August events that Sandwich's log, his letter and Dimond's letter (whoever he is) refer to. What events will pass in the future are indeed mysteries we refuse to intrude upon, but those were firmly in the past. I mean, our past, the past of the past, okay?
And so De Ruyter is in the Straits too: Extraordinary. You rightly point out, Sarah, that there also happens to be a lot of gold afloat in the same sector: The first Spanish treasure fleet to arrive from the gold and silver mines of America in several years is indeed on its way, and it's humongous. In letters on July 20 Giovanni Cornaro, the Venetian ambassador in Madrid, said "it is worth 20 millions" (no need even to specify of what) and comprises no less than "forty or fifty [vessels] with cargo", with an escort of 15 warships. Just 15 for around 45, every pyrate, corsair and beribboned admiral between Tortuga and Tangiers must have run the odds of nailing the Heist of the Century. And indeed, Cornaro wrote, "divers nations are interested, the Dutch in particular" (July 20), but the Spaniards have also been "much afraid of the English ships" (he wrote on June 15). On July 16 his colleagues in London, Correr and Morosini, picked on "the suspicions entertained by the merchants", who noted that the galleons "are much more heavily freighted with gold than usual, though their armed escort is less". The Venetians, merchants to whom the bullion market matters not a little, are tracking this quite keenly. On August 28, Cornaro reports that "French ships and a certain number of Dutch ones" are also joining the common fight against those barbarous Algerine pyrates. So everybody is there.
England and the United Provinces are, in principle, making peace and discussing treaties with Spain, but there's enough loot, and still enough casus belli here and there (in the East Indies for the Dutch, in the West Indies and potentially in Portugal for England, in Europe for both of them) for a bit of double-crossing. On July 22 however Correr and Morosini, freshly arrived in England, met in Dover "the vice admiral" (can't be Sandwich, who's long gone), who "assured us that those [vessels] which had already sailed had no intention of meeting the Spanish fleet". And on August 28 Cornaro even reported that "[De] Ruiter, has offered his squadron to the duke of Medina Celi [Medinacelli, a top Spanish grandee] to protect the fleet". Cornaro, perhaps passing on Spanish musings, adds that "the English being diverted against the corsairs" is still a reassurance.
And "the duke [in question] writes expressing his mortification at seeing things reduced to this pass". Because, you see, the fleet was expected in early August, and it's still nowhere in sight, and Spanish palms are getting quite sweaty.
About Wednesday 28 August 1661
Stephane Chenard • Link
Sandwich isn't telling us quite everything, in that terse nautical log of his. For instance, of late he has "taken Algiers", says a letter dated of this day (in the State Papers) from Capt. Dimond of the "Martin", presently in Lisbon. Did we know that? Surely Sam would have had another drink if the letter he received a few days ago mentioned it. But all of Europe is talkin' about it, the French Gazette being just now typesetting an Extraordinary, to appear on September 23 (new style), that reproduces a letter from Toulon which says it happened after failed negotiations on July 10 prompted a 10-hour gun battle with the Algerine fleet - of which Dimond, calling them "Turks" to keep things simple, says "the Earl of Sandwich is said to have burned 14 of their ships". Collateral damage on shore from the 10-hour bombardment is not mentioned.
Sandwich's journal mentions nothing special for July 10 and only a few inconclusive broadsides "for 2 or 3 hours" on July 31, which he called off to save ammo though "our shot killed them many men". The Gazette will also note that, after the battle, the wind came up and the English fleet almost ran aground, finding itself "in peril of perishing"; imagine if a few hundred "Turks" had used the moment to swarm aboard. Sandwich's journal says nothing of this, noting only humdrum until August 8 when "the whole fleet sailed out of Algier bay".
Dimond's letter also suggests a measure of chaos in the expeditionary fleet, noting a dispute with a rival captain "guided by one or two reformado captains who were cashiered for their disaffection, and the old servants of the King are in no regard". So the fleet is full of Cromwellian holdovers (reformados were deprived of their commands but allowed to keep their rank), who sneer at the new Royalist appointees and use the cruise to go off on their own business: Those one or two "are gone to assist the King of Portugal's fleet home from Brazil, and have their gold chains and large sums of money", while those who stuck to their orders just look on. The admiral being sick and on shore in Alicante for a few weeks can't have helped that situation.
About Saturday 24 August 1661
Stephane Chenard • Link
Susan, what a gem you've found there.The full article (published in Shakespeare Studies , vol. 41 (2013), p77-93) is at https://hcommons.org/deposits/ite…, and surely a gathering of the 600 people who have downloaded it would make for an entertaining colloquium. Holly Dugan has also worked on the history of smell, and authored "Coriolanus and the “Rank-Scented Meinie”: Smelling Rank in Early Modern London", published in 2010 as part of "Masculinity and the Metropolis of Vice, 1550–1650" - pre-Diary, alas, but far from irrelevant to our debates (full text at https://www.academia.edu/2398486/…)
A side trip in the stranger alleyways of Mr Google's book-shop plunges us into a rich vein: a study of "the bizarre phenomenon known as the ‘Monkey Drama’ in the British theatre" of the early 19C (by Bernard Ince in New Theater Quarterly, doi:10.1017/S0266464X18000428, full text at https://www.researchgate.net/publ…) and a French version, "'Des singes, c’était le narcisse’: class, imitation and performing monkeys in late-eighteenth century Paris" (by Ignacio Ramos-Gay in Studies in Theatre and Performance, doi:10.1080/14682761.2018.1451946, ditto at https://www.academia.edu/11196495…) None of this exactly contemporary with Sam's theater experience, but then the theater, with Charles' courtiers in the balconies, is perhaps rowdy enough for the monkeys to go unnoticed.
About 16, 17, 18, 19 July 1661
Stephane Chenard • Link
But for now the Venetians, diplomats that they are, blame it all on a few rogues. It's also a long way from Cyprus to Algiers, and may not have been all champagne parties among those 12 ships. However, so many powers have found the "Barbarians" useful - one source quoted at https://theonomyresources.blogspo… notes how France let them drive English captives taken in the Channel, where they did venture in the 1640s, across the length of its territory for transshipment in Marseilles. It won't be the last time, we predict, that Europeans will cut deals with evil "Barbarians", then revoke them at a whim. But, if we were the pyrates of Algiers, we'd wish my lord a full recovery, and see what his king's got to offer this time...
About 16, 17, 18, 19 July 1661
Stephane Chenard • Link
Getting the English captains and their Barbarian friends up to speed is part of Sandwich's mission, which isn't all cannonballs but also occasionally mentioned to feature "negotiations"; for instance, in his diary for July 29, when he sent "proposals" to Algiers, to which the reply was (on the next day) that "they would have no peace without liberty to search our ships". Search them for what? So far, it's been for non-English passengers and cargo, which had been fair game under the old rules, and even with provision for dividing the spoils as just happened to the six Venetians.
About 16, 17, 18, 19 July 1661
Stephane Chenard • Link
The whole Mediterranean has been watching, with more or less apprehension. The Spaniards are relieved that Sandwich's fleet was not going at them. The Italians are happy that England is hitting the pirates. The British merchants in Constantinople fret that it will cause problems with the Turk, patron to the pyrates. The Pyrates ain't keeping diaries that we know of - alas - but may recall that, as recently as 1655, Cromwell's envoy Robert Blake had bombarded them in Tunis, but had also cut deals with some of them, along the lines of "leave our ships alone, and everything else is fair game".
The deals seem to have lived on, and at least some English captains, oblivious or not of the new policies in London, to have become quite cozy. On June 25 (new style), the Venetian consul in Genoa complained to the Doge that "six English ships off Cape Gatta [off Cyprus] encountered six Barbary caravels by whom, they allowed themselves to be run aboard without any resistance and taken to Algiers, where all the goods were taken from them belonging to every nation except the English, to whom, indeed they paid double hire and allowed them to keep what they asserted to be on their own account"; and not only that, but they let Italian passengers, including a Venetian diplomat, be taken as slaves. On July 9, the Venetian Senate voted to send a complaint to London about the 90,000 ducats thereby lost to this "devilish and iniquitous arrangement with the Turks of Algiers". At the receiving end in London, ambassador Mocenigo writes on August 5 of the "former stipulations". On August 8 it's Sandwich himself (quoted at https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/…) who reports obliquely of "certain expected envoys from Algiers" being "detain[ed] at Constantinople, until confirmation had been made (...) of the ancient English capitulations". These mysterious "capitulations" could be many things, but in context they suggest that the infamous six English captains, and others in cahoots with the Algerine, weren't just a few rogues, but were acting on still-unrepealed official policy that co-opted the pyrates against other European powers. As did happen all the time, 'cept here they be heathen slave-takers.
About Wednesday 7 August 1661
Stephane Chenard • Link
Where is my lord? Is he in Malaga? Well, last *we* heard, having access to his log (as per https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/…) he was in the bay of Algiers.
What the rest of the world knows is a bit more confused: The Spaniards would know that he's left Alicante on July 23 (as he writes in his diary), after so advising Chancellor Coventry in a letter that's probably still on its way to London. Indeed, as per the Venetian ambassador to London, Giavarina, the news that he's been sick won't make it there before sometime next week.
Beyond that, my kingdom for a telegraph! As of August 17 (new style; today, in Pepys standard time), the Venetian resident in Florence, a lot closer to the action but still relying on old letters, still had him in Alicante; two days from now, Giavarina in London will quote the Dutch on Sandwich being at Gibraltar; it will take another week, until August 27 (new style) for Florence to catch up, from letters that went all the way to Leghorn and back, with Sandwich having left Spain on "the 22nd instant [of July]". And that's a fairly large fleet, on a high-profile mission watched by all the courts.
About 16, 17, 18, 19 July 1661
Stephane Chenard • Link
Indeed, El Generallissimo Sandwich de Mountuagu (as he was called yesterday, at https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/…) has been in Alicante for some time; since the 11th according to el generallissimo's journal, with the detail that he dropped anchor "about noon", but, curiously, since at least the 10th, according to letters dated from that day, which the French Gazette will say on August 6 (new style) it obtained from a Dutch vessel. The fleet took shelter from "a furious tempest, fifteen leagues from Algiers", it says.
And at some point My Lord became sick enough to go ashore, not only to pay his respects but to obtain better care than was available from the fleet. "A high fever", he relates in his journal for the 12th. "A slight indisposition", that should be cured by "one or two days' rest", the Venetian Resident at Florence will report on August 17 (new style), quoting "letters from Marseilles". Sandwich will in fact not return to his ship, "my health much bettered", before July 19. On August 26 (new style), the Venetian ambassador to London will chime in that "by the last letters from the fleet they have learned with great regret of the serious illness of General Montagu". So, not a "slight indisposition", but the bullet was dodged. Let's not tell Sam, as he happily plays the farmer; it could only distract him badly from sorting out uncle's papers.
About Sunday 21 July 1661
Stephane Chenard • Link
Breaking news: Our Sam is in the news-paper, with a flood of articles in the UK press exposing the masses to his lace-cuffs and ribbons. The occasion is a study by Marlo Avidon of Christ's College, "‘Instructive types’ or mere ‘fancies’: assessing French fashion prints in the library of Samuel Pepys", in The Seventeenth Century (a journal, worth perusing). And it's open-access, at https://www.tandfonline.com/doi/f….
Parental advisory: Some of those French fashion prints reproduced in the article may be distressing.
About Saturday 20 July 1661
Stephane Chenard • Link
Now we're wondering how many of us are fiddling with time converters right now. Sam, like all god-fearing denizens of the 17C, must indeed be on solar time. Plugging 8:53pm into a solar-time calculator, such as https://koch-tcm.ch/en/uhrzeit-so…, along with the longitude of Brampton and the Gregorian date of 30 July, and taking into account that 8:53 is sunset in a London that lives in a GMT+1 timezone and is on daylight saving time... shows that the Sun itself thinks it's really setting at 6:35 pm.
But wait! What doth matters when one is setting through the fields, to some vaguely familiar destination and after a day's drinking, is the astronomical twilight, the most uncompromising of several variants thereof and the time when the Sun is really, truly down, and the horizon becomes invisible, and the stars come out in splendor, and the church's spire is invisible too, and so is that ditch down there, and that forgotten rake, and... aww, ouch, ahh! And that, according to https://www.timeanddate.com/sun/@…, will happen in Brampton on July 30 at 12 minutes past midnight, modern UK time (but refraction taken into account!) or 9:54 pm solar time. Which leaves Sam time for at least another one at Goody Gorum's.
One variable that escapes us, is the quality of Sam's night-vision. The diary will supply evidence that it's pretty good, and has plenty of training in the obscure, winding lanes of thoroughly unlit London nights, link-boys or not. But we encourage anyone to talk a walk in the countryside at the dead of night (away from them electrickall Lamps of course), and find for themselves that, unless under a forest canopy, the sky is never so dark or your instincts so deeply buried as to make careful walking impossible.
About Tuesday 23 April 1661
Stephane Chenard • Link
"A few of those dimonds are sure to have gotten loose", we had surmised. Presently we find in the State Papers how much there is indeed to sift past yesterday's cavalcade, in a warrant dated June 29 to pay a jeweller, Wm. Gomeldon, for sundry gems he had provided; including "the loan of £1,200 worth of stones, which were lost out of the bosses provided for the coronation" in the king's equipage.
How many dimonds could that be? Gomeldon had also sold £730 worth of other stones, some on a picture frame and 320, probably, for the king's stirrups. So, it's small stones we're talking, maybe £2 apiece or less; if they truly be literal diamonds, at that price. But, there may be at least a couple of thousands for the picking, every one of them enough to buy lunch for weeks or months. Worth sending Will on all four with a sieve?
About Monday 22 April 1661
Stephane Chenard • Link
How do you dress as the Thames, we asked. We asked, and of course the French Gazette answers, in yet another Extraordinary from London on 7 July (new style). It details the maelstrom of allegories and symbols that Sam beheld today - the writhing hydras of past discord, the purple-mantled dignity of restored monarchy, useful to think about in Paris too.
And yes, there's the Thames, "represented by a great old man, who had clothes strewn with white and blue, the head crown'd with the Bridge of London, with the Flags of Ships and cables [oziers; our tentative translation] falling on his shoulders, in the manner of hair, an Oar in his right hand, a Ship in his left, & and an Urn on his side, whence issued water: attended by four Servants, figuring the four Waterways, which fall into that river."