Letters in the State Papers, all dated from March 19th while London resounded from the councillors' election, show that Zachary Crofton had been a bit of a celebrity lately. "J.S." wrote that "Mr Crofton prosecuted his argument last Lord's day, and there were more people than could get into the church." J.S. also heard "that the Bishop [of Exeter] has published a large book against him". That he did, Anonymous letter No. 116 adds that it's catchingly entitled "Anti-Baal-Bench", and that Crofton "preaches against him [the bishop of Exeter, John Gauden] every Sunday night, with an infinite auditory, itching and applause". "Wm. Beauchamp" explains that Crofton "preaches that bishops are a human institution, and led to the papacy".
And so, that's a tad too much noise. Crofton didn't just preach, he wrote two books, "The fastening of St. Peter's Fetters by Seven Links or Propositions" and "Berith Anti-Baal" (Baal's the Vatican, for sure). They're not just rants on points of religion or against rival clerics, but, as the Solicitor General explains today (March 23) in a letter to the king's secretary, in case Nicholas isn't keeping up with the bishops' latest, Crofton "offers to prove, by Scripture, the people's power to be above that of the King". For that, obviously "he will deserve to be secured".
And so he's been. It's big enough to rate a mention in the French Gazette, in a dispatch dated April 7 (new style, March 28 old style): "le Sieur Zacharie Crofton, Ministre, a été mis dans la Tour, pour avoir écrit et presché contre le Gouvernement" [has been put into the Tower, to have written and preached against the Government].
From his cell, Crofton promptly petitions the King for pardon, protesting of his loyalty, of how he really wants to "share in the joy of the approaching happy coronation", and regretting "his late inconsiderate expression on matters out of his sphere". The books' printer, Ralph Smith, who's been dragged in as well, will write next month from (presumably) another cubicle that he was "not [even] privy" that Crofton's tract was in his press but, "being ill, allowed it to be printed in his name, for support of his family during the illness". That tear-jerker, plus bail, will soon allow Smith to get out, but Crofton's case is more complicated, and on May 6 another minister, Tho. Swadlin, will also write to the King, to ask for the return of "his poor Benefice of St. Botolph without Aldgate", from which he's been ejected by Cromwell and, ho-hum, "kept out by Zachary Crofton". Yep, looks like Zach's gonna miss the coronation.
April 4, new style: Quirini reports from Madrid that "Their lordships here (...) sent to London, the day before yesterday, letters of exchange for 100,000 crowns at sight, these having been granted by Pichinotti, to be repaid on the arrival of the galleons from the Spanish Main. Thus when this money comes into the hands of the Ambassador Batteville he has the most explicit orders to employ it all in the satisfaction of the ministers and councillors of state there".
Cue the merry dance of the London courtiers: "Hoo-ray, huzzah! The riches of Perú and the Potosí, into our pockets will tumble! What need we do? Let's have a look at the Spanish ambassador's instruction, hmmm... 'to draw them away as much as possible from the secret correspondence with Portugal and to approach the more to the reasonable advantages of this crown'."
Laughter all around. The dance becomes more frantic: "For a nod, we charge 500 pounds! For a raising an eyebrow, 100! For a significant look, fifty! For harrumphing, thirty! Drag this along, drag this along, it's only once in a lifetime!"
... And, as anyone kind enough to honor us with his or her Attention may have noticed and frown'd at, we had a little editing accident, and the last, our second posting, should be read first. As if this marriage business wasn't complicated enough already.
There is actually quite a lot going on around the king's marriage plans, which would worry Sam if he was cleared into it and which the great Venetian intelligence network is closely following, from abundant court chatter that - alas - is still beyond him.
The latest is that, as Giacomo Quirini, Venice's ambassador to Madrid, writes on March 16 (new style, March 7 Pepys Standard Time), "letters have arrived from that monarch [Charles] in which he pledges himself clearly not to consent to the marriage with Braganza or to the offers of the Portuguese, as he desires nothing better than good friendship and perfect correspondence between the kingdoms of Spain and England". Based on these and other pledges of eternal love and faithfulness, "they decided in the [Spanish] Council of State to send letters of credit to London for 200,000 pieces of eight, for the purpose of buying the greedy ministers there".
The money (actually "cash", not just LoC), Quirini's colleague in London, Francesco Giavarina, reports two days later, is now on standby "at Paris in the hands of merchants, who can, at a moment's notice, have it sent to London in notes of exchange". And so all is muy excellente y feliz. Until, Quirini also reports on the 16th, the Spanish ambassador in London, the increasingly impatient and faithful baron di Bateville, is told by "one of the commissioners deputed for him by the government, rendered cheerful or heated by wine at one of the frequent banquets which are held with magnificence at his house, (...) that the English could take advantage in every possible way with Spain since King Charles felt certain that they would not lose the trade". Quirini quotes from a cable by Bateville, now making the rounds in Madrid and likely prompting great "carrambas" and table-thumps.
Being so taken for granted would be bad enough for the proud Spaniards, but this comes on top of the bizarre news that Charles may, after all, marry into the Italian house of Parma. Which Spain wouldn't especially care about, but is taken by Bateville as another delaying tactic to just fob him off until the Portuguese marriage does happen. He threatens, Giavarina writes, that "if they do not abandon Portugal (...) he will withdraw from the Court and will declare war". He "made such vigorous and searching remonstrances that the ministers here were alarmed", Giavarina will add on the 25th (new style).
Declaring war may be beyond an ambassador's pay grade, but later dispatches show the stakes only getting higher. Quirini, on the 30th (new style), will report being told by Don Luis (of Austria, heir to the throne) that "the conquest of Portugal has already been published a war of religion and not of state because the tyrant Braganza [John IV of Portugal], in addition to all the shameful proposals which they offer to the king of England for the marriage, has bound himself for the House of Braganza not to marry, so that, leaving no posterity, Portugal may be united to England, and one of Spain's own limbs torn away from her and those people for ever separated from the bosom of the Church after being conquered with the blood of the Spaniards and upheld for so many years". Oh the bloody vision. As incendiary a case for war as you can spin up.
And so, war with Spain could be looming, out there just beyond Sam's earshot. It's court talk in Paris, where Alvise Grimani, the ambassador to France, will report on the 29th being told by "the Cardinal" (not sure who, Mazarin being dead) that an alliance of England with Portugal "would mean (...) a great war of enormous consequences with the Spaniards". It is seeping into the State Papers, to wit this letter on March 19 (old style) from "___ to his brother, Tho. Everard of Norwich", mentioning that "there is fear of war with Spain".
And war with Spain would be especially bad news for anyone whose patron is about to command a great naval expedition in the Med...
On the thrills of Minette's union with Monsieur, of course the great Venetian intelligence network has something to say (at https://www.british-history.ac.uk…) A dispatch of March 29 (new style) from Alvise Grimani, the ambassador to France, reports that after he offered condolences to the Queen (of England, in her French retreat) for the latest family deaths (of the princess and of Gloucester), she "replied that it had pleased God to deal her heavy blows, as [apart from deaths] she was disturbed by her strong feelings over a marriage that was neither of sufficient rank nor suitable, although she ought not to complain about this". "Suitable" just cries out to be italicized. Perhaps worse than being gay, M. is totally sidelined by Louis, a geopolitical dead-end as alliances go. But not of "sufficient rank", excuse me; if Louis was to fall down the stairs, at this time Philippe duc d'Anjou would still be next in line.
So, it's good for the Government, or not? Those who opine, think so: "The men chosen are loyal to the King" (from Anonymous, letter No. 125), "of firm principles to King, Church and State" (from "Thos. Cooper"), "love the king in sincerity" (from "William Gibbes"), &c. Only "Tho. Powell" remarks that "the Royalists are put into a wonderful maze", whatever that means. Indeed, "bishops have no power to impose, till the jurisdiction taken from them by the Long Parliament is restored", writes "J.S." And so, for a day, a whiff of the spirit of the pre-Restoration Long Parliament did blow a little through Guildhall...
Sam must have been busy with stuff, because the four City councillors' election was really yesterday, and it was big newes, and we had wonder'd at not reading of it here. Letters about the event fill nearly eight pages in our compilation of the State Papers; there may be an element of preservation bias - one particular file of letters having luckily made it through 1860 - but it's still a lot, as most days take a page or less.
Most of the letters, dated March 19, rejoice that such outstanding citizens were chosen to cleanse the city of that gaudy Popish filth. They applaud this choice of "Independents and Presbyterians" (from "Henry Worster" and "Nich. Roberts"), "sober and moderate men" (from "Richard Royle"), "no friends to bishops" (from "Jos. Tilly"), "four honest, sound Presbyterians" (from "Thos. Quincia"; "Alderman Foulke and three other Presbyterians" in the diagnostic of another ornithologist, "Edw. Bradshaw"). Letter No. 105 notes that Foulke is "not much noted for religion", so the affair probably shouldn't be reduced to just that.
&c, &c, &c. "The lawn sleeves [slang for 'bishops'] will not like the election" (from "J.C."), and "the Episcopal men are not pleased" (from "J.S."). Indeed, from the other side a Mr. "S.R." does lament the choice of "two frantic Presbyterians, and two fanatic Independents", but he's a lonely voice.
But 'twas the voice of that unruly Citty, it seems: "The City was very unanimous" (from Anonymous, letter No. 95). "The City members were chosen so unanimously that the contrary party did not even demand a poll (...) Never saw so general a union of Presbyterians, Independents, and Anabaptists, crying down the Episcopalians, who went away cursing and swearing, and wishing they had never come" (from Anonymous, letter No. 103). That may be understood if, as "Q" (letter No. 104) tells his pal "John Blewet", the Guildhall was indeed packed with "10,000 in their liveries", plus "2,000 in the streets who could not get in to the Tantling meeting-house".
The anonymous writer of letter No. 105 doth wonder that he "never knew so small an affair create such prattle". Indeed, Mercurius Politicus doesn't even mention it, but it's the sort of prattle that can easily degenerate in the London tinder-box. There is a hint of the mob rule in that overheated, crowded hall, as "popular men that are for them [the hated bishops] were proposed, but hissed and cried down with 'No bishops!'" (from Anonymous, letter No. 113; tho' only "some shouting", writes "Anth. Phillips"). In fact, "the Episcopal party would fain have left out Capt. Jones, but the court never left off crying 'A Jones! A Jones!' till it was otherwise resolved" (from "Edw. Gaell"). A lot of shouting, liveries or not.
A bit strange, isn't it, My Lord giving Sam his George, if that's really it, "to keep" while at sea. How are Sam's lodgings, with their street/roof accesses and creepy neighbors, any more secure than the Sandwich suite at Westminster?
And here's an odd coincidence. We have information - proofs from Mercurius Politicus, so let's keep this to ourselves, hm? - that next week, the king will "hold a chapter with those persons conserned in the order of St. George", to invite them to a grate "feast of St. George to be holden at Windsor in Aprill next (...) the 15 of Aprill by noone, that they may proceed to the installation accordinge to the statutes of the said order in the afternoone and on the 16 and 17 of the same month."
That will be something to see. All these lords and grandees... ah, but pish, My Lord will be at sea. Unless? Mr Pepys, you know, of the Naval office, in his best, as official rep for My Lord with My Lord's George and utter, utter trust on careful display on a velvet cushion? Would that be allowed?
We'll see. But as for tonight, we phant'sy that Sam, alone in front of the mirror in his dressing room, is sorely tempted to put on the George, and some airs. Aye, against law and tradition, but no one will ever know, will they. Hmm, those diamonds, how they are set off by the watered moyre of my morning wastecoate, don't ye think, honey?
Fortunate Mrs Hinton! She could have fallen under the clyster of a real doctor, who would have pumped her full of mercury, then prescribed an intensive course of bleeding, if not fumigation for the whole tavern. And still conceivably made medical errors, such as miscalculating her horoscope.
And why, pray, do you disbelieve in the king getting married, Sam?
Aye, not today perhaps, if that's what you meant, and I'll allow you might know him better than we do - tho' we might know stuff too, I know you don't believe either in my coming from the Future, but... no, no, stay. So, married? All kings do, and you know he needs the money, and he's getting crowned in six weekes, so how phantastickal would it be?
And the succession, uh? A litter of little Stuarts running around. Because now, it would be James, no? King James II... ha ha ha. Scared you. Only a jest! (Shudder)
"Nor that it is known who he", the king, "will have", for a queen. Once again we count ourselves fortunate to be so well tapped into the best intelligence network of Europe, that of Venice of course. And so we know better, and allow ourselves a smug half-smile as we listen to Sam and Slingsby from the next table (we'll pretend, if they ask, being amused by the cleavage of that gipsy girl over there).
For tomorrow Giacomo Quirini, the republic's ambassador in Spain, will write (but he's already drafting today, for sure) that the Portuguese are so sure of their candidate, Catherine de Braganza, being picked, that "in Lisbon they have had illuminations, processions and public games, the people being pleased and the whole country rejoicing", and "they have also begun to give the Princess Caterina the title of Majesty".
In two fascinating dispatches at https://www.british-history.ac.uk…, Quirini adds, sourcing it to "a great personage who frequents the king's apartments" in Madrid, that Queen Caterina's dowry is to include "all the East Indies and the fortress of Tangier", among other things, such as half a million ducats in cash. True, the bargaining does go on, with "the English claim[ing] a part of Brazil and the Tercere Islands [one of the Azores] with two million ducats", while Francesco Giavarina, Quirini's colleague in London, will chime in on March 4 (new style, three days from now) that a mysterious envoy from Madrid made a quick dash to the Spanish embassy and, he heard, before rushing back to Spain left "notes of exchange for 5 to 600,000 crowns, for the use of the king here, to constrain him". Not yet a dowry, in this case - a bribe. We phant'sy the Spanish courier had a cloak with a deep cowl and the curtains in his coach were drawn tight.
Of course, nothing is decided, as Slingsby says. But, according to Giavarina, "many of the Council, who are Presbyterians, which means irreconcileable enemies of the Spanish monarchy, favour [the Portuguese ambassador, count de Ponte], forwarding and pushing his proposals". And, for now, the feverish haggling is the toast of the diplomatic scene; Giavarina notes that the courier's visit to the Spanish ambassador "is known to all the foreign ministers, though they have tried to keep it secret". Alas, it's not known to Sam; but it does concern him, already the name Tangiers imprints itself as a faint palimpsest in his life.
Oh and, there's madeira wine hanging in the balance, and the future independence of Portugal, and those inconsequential little bastions in India, which England so disdains right now - mere confettis, when the future is so clearly in Brazil. What do you call them again? Bombay? Hooghly? Chittagong? What could Englishmen possibly do with that?
What with all the hoohay on whether English is like Latin, no-one seems to have noticed the odd little endocyte in Sam's first sentence: "the Coronacion". Now, that is not the accepted horttograf, not even in 1661; Thos. Rugge for instance records that this week's Mercurius Politicus writes of "Greate preparations in the Citty of London, makeinge of pagion and triumphall arches againge the coronation of his Majesty", with a T as in Tudor, and we could not finde a single instance of a coronacion, with a C as in Carrambas, in other English discourse.
So is it "la coronación", and thus Sam's first (maybe one thereof) use of Spanish in the Diary? It did survive the Diary's transcription and translation into 19th and 20th century English, unlike all the endearing Olde English which of course is Sam's language at this time, 1661 (and in which we do wish for an edition of Sam his Diurnall). There must be a reason, and not the saucy reasons for which Sam will later avail of forraigne tongues, or a slip of the quill which we deem improbable.
Is this a subtle allusion, written perhaps in disapproval, to the rumors swirling around Sam in his taverns that Charles will marry with a Spanish beauty and into the Catholic house of Habsburg?
The law's heavy emphasis on inns, butchers &c. could also give one the impression that the private man is, in the sanctity of his castle, free to gorge on rumpsteaks as long as prepared by his Wife - not his "Cook", though we doubt if the hundreds of private Cooks, such as Sam's own, are to come up with that £60 deposit. But nay, the law applies to "all Our subjects, of what degree or quality soever within this Realm". Well, Sam is a Justice of the Peace, so he can police his own home.
But dry your tears, rich and mighty members of the Upper Crust, for there's a cop-out for ye in this case also, provision for "a special Licence first obtained from the Bishop of the Diocess". And indeed, we are pleased to find in the State Papers, on February 11, a "License from the Archbishop of Canterbury to Sec. Nicholas, Anne his wife, and ten persons to be chosen by him to eat meat at his table during Lent, provided he pays 13s. 4d. to the poor chest in his parish". We phant'sy a merry banquet, in which the Archibshop himself cracks the wishbone with a big grin on his face.
Indulgences, anyone? Cheap enough, here; the king's secretary may even struggle to provide exact change on less than a full pound; and we'd love to see the calculation that determin'd those stupendously generous alms.
Eat fish! Will it work? Well, as this proclamation appears, so does a usefull compilation of the six others that Englishmen have seen swim across their plates since 1537, including two within just three years from poor Edward VI - read them at https://www.anglican.net/works/th…, and ponder the meaning in terms of strict observance of The Law.
The present one is the longest by far and can be read in the full glory of its 12 paragraphs at https://quod.lib.umich.edu/e/eebo…. First, it came out on January 12, so it took a month (admittedly a busy one) to make enough buzz for Sam to mention it. Then, if one thought it's about religion, eat flesh = go to the sulphur lakes of Hell, &c, §1 explains instead that those fish-days are "for the maintenance of the Navy and Shipping of this Realm" and "the encouragement of Fishermen" - an important bunch, economically and as accessories to the Navy (and, if not taken good care of, of pyrates, smugglers, the French, &c.) The apparent multitude of flesh-eaters-on-Lent so being "so great an Enemy to the Plenty of this Our Kingdome".
Future Ages will perhaps resurrect that Proclamation (if it ever should lapse), as they deal with the grievous effects of overindulgence in meat for one's health, the ravages inflicted on Nature by the soy industry, the many bounties (and dwindling stocks) of Fish-flesh, synthetic meat, &c.; but we stray.
Now, how to enforce? The proclamation reaches for the easiest targets, "Inholders, Keepers of Ordinary Tables, Cooks, Butchers, Victuallers, Alehouse-keepers, and Taverners", who are not to get involved in Flesh-on-Lent, and so guarantee by depositing with a Justice of the Peace "two sufficient Sureties of every of them (viz.) the Principal in Forty pounds, and their Sureties in Twenty pounds apiece", plus another £20 every year. Those are no trifling amounts for even a successful innkeeper, but those refusing to lay the deposits are "not to Victual, or sell Beer or Ale from henceforth", then go to prison, for an unspecified amount of time.
Stern indeed, and the proclamation says nothing of what would await the lawbreakers/flesh-eaters. On this point, we find a dispatch from London in the French Gazette, dated February 17, which mentions "a fine, for the first offence, & corporeal punishment, for the second" (the Gazette is also under the impression that it's all "for the encouragement of Fishermen & Merchants who traffick in Fish", the only motive cited in that Catholic mouthpiece). And it's easy to cross the line, because not only is meat not to be sold or eaten, but the Proclamation says it should not even be "uttered" on the dreaded Fish-Days.
Good grief, of course duels are illegal. It's only last August that Charles issued "By the King, A proclamation against fighting of duels", thumping the table on how "every person that shall offend against the said Command (...) shall be incapable of holding any office in his Majesties service, and never after be permitted to come to the Court" (https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/…) And it's Sandwich, already on slighly shaky ground, who issued the challenge, here - and to a duke.
Ah, but not on English soil. And what happens in Le Havre de Grace, stays in Le Havre de Grace.
Bravo Sam, my Lord Treasurer's swearing-in, where you casually just happen to wander, was precisely the place to be seen today. Mercurius Politicus (in Thos. Rugge his summation, pp. 146-147) relates it drew "most and the chiefest of the nobility in coatches, about 60 in number". Which is a lot of coatches; back in September the Spanish ambassador extraordinary's super-flash grand entry had set a benchmark at about 50 (https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/…)
Mercurius has this report: "(...) his commission beeing' read, his Lordship took his oath and then went to his place upon the bench where, after some motiones heard, he removed into the Exchequer Chamber and there sate upon erroures [huh?] and received the keyes of the Receipt. Thence hee went to the Receipt side, viewed the officers, and returned backe into the Exchequer Court where, haveinge sate with the Barons, hee also tooke a viewe of the severall officers belonging' to the Kings Rememberancer, the Treasurer's] Rememberancer, and the other houses of record". And maybe, in the crowd, glimpsed the Clerk of the Acts, looking pretty.
We also find, at http://transpont.blogspot.com/201…, (a) a portrait of Venner, with an amusing inset of a Quaker who chose to appear naked before the judge, and (b) notice of a re-enactment of Venner's rising. This, a rather modest affair that will have been held on location in January 2013, is further documented at https://www.brh.org.uk/site/artic…, with another, even more sinister portrait of Venner and some rather strange photographs. A film was made and screened at the Bristol Anarchist Bookfair 2014, which regrettably we missed. Did anyone go?
Allow us to opine on whether living in such a violent century as this XVII has dulled the sensitivities of the People, and they just shrug at the cartloads of smoking bowels they pass on their way to the theater. We're not inside their heads, and inner feelings leave few fossils, but surely this gruesome justice is meant to horrify! It's not meant to be nice or routine, if it didn't sap the appetite (OK, not Sam's) and cause nightmares what would be the point? And so, watch in fascination and cheer on as they may, we phant'sy that the citizen do find it horrific.
Now, to business. We daily receive news on the sheer audacity of this Venner plot, of the sort which would send a shiver up any king's spine, and make him sign a few more HD&Q orders. In the State Papers today (19 Jan.), a "Geo. Bushfield", mercer in Paternoster Row, confesses hearing "George Tutchins" say that, since Venner did fail, the phanaticks "would rise the next moonshiny night, and bring up all their powder, 55 barrels, now at Deptford, to Whitehall". Nice touch, the werewolfy rising by moonshine; and, if not an idle boast, that would supply quite a boom, given estimates that Guy Fawkes' 36 barrels already amounted to one or two tons of explosive.
Also today, Sir John Maynard MP, a lawyer, writes to Lord Mordaunt (why him?) that, not only "so many persons were committed at the last sessions [of the bench in Croydon, Surrey] who will not take the Oath of Allegiance that they are puzzled what to do", but their chief, "Dr. Bradley", is allowed by the gaoler to vent his damnable doctrines among his proselytes". Surely future centuries will not suffer their jailhouses to be where inmates become, er, "radicalized"?
On the Fifth Monarchists' grand vision, the French Gazette (at https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148…, pages 109-120) is about to reprint (on 4 Feb., new style) a "Letter of an Englishmen, to one of his friends", which provides a fascinating, blow-by-blow reportage of last week's events. It alleges, from a Fifth Monarchist "Manifest" - possibly an actual document - that the idea was, after felling "Babyllon, it is the name they give to the Monarchy", to "go to the other States, to make their triumph general; to this end, they will gather their Brothers, to detach them from all the Monarchists: & being disposed to die or vainquish (...) they will rise against all the Carnals, who, they say, only seek the possession of the World, & will put their Kings into irons". This in Louis XIV's propaganda journal, but we thought the idea of exporting the revolution being on the plotters' agenda to be worth mentioning.
On the excesses of repression noted by George Fox, as quoted by Susan, a royal proclamation can be expected in a few days to dial it down a little, and Mercurius Politicus will add this backgrounder: "Now heare in London many abuses was commited upon the acount of the serchinge for armes in the houses of the Fift Monorchy men, Quakers, and Anabaptists, that many were very ill delt withall; for that they robed them, sorely wounded others, and draged some to prison, and all this done without orders."
But on this day, royal secretary Edward Nicholas will note sternly in a letter to Henry Bennet (State Papers, at https://play.google.com/books/rea…) that, apart from the Fifth Monarchists being so violent and irreducible, "The nation is too sensible of their principles not to secure the public peace against them". In other words, they're not a tiny fringe of crazies. We like it when officialdom is so frank.
Comments
Third Reading
About Saturday 23 March 1660/61
Stephane Chenard • Link
Letters in the State Papers, all dated from March 19th while London resounded from the councillors' election, show that Zachary Crofton had been a bit of a celebrity lately. "J.S." wrote that "Mr Crofton prosecuted his argument last Lord's day, and there were more people than could get into the church." J.S. also heard "that the Bishop [of Exeter] has published a large book against him". That he did, Anonymous letter No. 116 adds that it's catchingly entitled "Anti-Baal-Bench", and that Crofton "preaches against him [the bishop of Exeter, John Gauden] every Sunday night, with an infinite auditory, itching and applause". "Wm. Beauchamp" explains that Crofton "preaches that bishops are a human institution, and led to the papacy".
And so, that's a tad too much noise. Crofton didn't just preach, he wrote two books, "The fastening of St. Peter's Fetters by Seven Links or Propositions" and "Berith Anti-Baal" (Baal's the Vatican, for sure). They're not just rants on points of religion or against rival clerics, but, as the Solicitor General explains today (March 23) in a letter to the king's secretary, in case Nicholas isn't keeping up with the bishops' latest, Crofton "offers to prove, by Scripture, the people's power to be above that of the King". For that, obviously "he will deserve to be secured".
And so he's been. It's big enough to rate a mention in the French Gazette, in a dispatch dated April 7 (new style, March 28 old style): "le Sieur Zacharie Crofton, Ministre, a été mis dans la Tour, pour avoir écrit et presché contre le Gouvernement" [has been put into the Tower, to have written and preached against the Government].
From his cell, Crofton promptly petitions the King for pardon, protesting of his loyalty, of how he really wants to "share in the joy of the approaching happy coronation", and regretting "his late inconsiderate expression on matters out of his sphere". The books' printer, Ralph Smith, who's been dragged in as well, will write next month from (presumably) another cubicle that he was "not [even] privy" that Crofton's tract was in his press but, "being ill, allowed it to be printed in his name, for support of his family during the illness". That tear-jerker, plus bail, will soon allow Smith to get out, but Crofton's case is more complicated, and on May 6 another minister, Tho. Swadlin, will also write to the King, to ask for the return of "his poor Benefice of St. Botolph without Aldgate", from which he's been ejected by Cromwell and, ho-hum, "kept out by Zachary Crofton". Yep, looks like Zach's gonna miss the coronation.
About Saturday 9 March 1660/61
Stephane Chenard • Link
April 4, new style: Quirini reports from Madrid that "Their lordships here (...) sent to London, the day before yesterday, letters of exchange for 100,000 crowns at sight, these having been granted by Pichinotti, to be repaid on the arrival of the galleons from the Spanish Main. Thus when this money comes into the hands of the Ambassador Batteville he has the most explicit orders to employ it all in the satisfaction of the ministers and councillors of state there".
Cue the merry dance of the London courtiers: "Hoo-ray, huzzah! The riches of Perú and the Potosí, into our pockets will tumble! What need we do? Let's have a look at the Spanish ambassador's instruction, hmmm... 'to draw them away as much as possible from the secret correspondence with Portugal and to approach the more to the reasonable advantages of this crown'."
Laughter all around. The dance becomes more frantic: "For a nod, we charge 500 pounds! For a raising an eyebrow, 100! For a significant look, fifty! For harrumphing, thirty! Drag this along, drag this along, it's only once in a lifetime!"
About Saturday 9 March 1660/61
Stephane Chenard • Link
... And, as anyone kind enough to honor us with his or her Attention may have noticed and frown'd at, we had a little editing accident, and the last, our second posting, should be read first. As if this marriage business wasn't complicated enough already.
About Saturday 9 March 1660/61
Stephane Chenard • Link
There is actually quite a lot going on around the king's marriage plans, which would worry Sam if he was cleared into it and which the great Venetian intelligence network is closely following, from abundant court chatter that - alas - is still beyond him.
The latest is that, as Giacomo Quirini, Venice's ambassador to Madrid, writes on March 16 (new style, March 7 Pepys Standard Time), "letters have arrived from that monarch [Charles] in which he pledges himself clearly not to consent to the marriage with Braganza or to the offers of the Portuguese, as he desires nothing better than good friendship and perfect correspondence between the kingdoms of Spain and England". Based on these and other pledges of eternal love and faithfulness, "they decided in the [Spanish] Council of State to send letters of credit to London for 200,000 pieces of eight, for the purpose of buying the greedy ministers there".
The money (actually "cash", not just LoC), Quirini's colleague in London, Francesco Giavarina, reports two days later, is now on standby "at Paris in the hands of merchants, who can, at a moment's notice, have it sent to London in notes of exchange". And so all is muy excellente y feliz. Until, Quirini also reports on the 16th, the Spanish ambassador in London, the increasingly impatient and faithful baron di Bateville, is told by "one of the commissioners deputed for him by the government, rendered cheerful or heated by wine at one of the frequent banquets which are held with magnificence at his house, (...) that the English could take advantage in every possible way with Spain since King Charles felt certain that they would not lose the trade". Quirini quotes from a cable by Bateville, now making the rounds in Madrid and likely prompting great "carrambas" and table-thumps.
Being so taken for granted would be bad enough for the proud Spaniards, but this comes on top of the bizarre news that Charles may, after all, marry into the Italian house of Parma. Which Spain wouldn't especially care about, but is taken by Bateville as another delaying tactic to just fob him off until the Portuguese marriage does happen. He threatens, Giavarina writes, that "if they do not abandon Portugal (...) he will withdraw from the Court and will declare war". He "made such vigorous and searching remonstrances that the ministers here were alarmed", Giavarina will add on the 25th (new style).
About Saturday 9 March 1660/61
Stephane Chenard • Link
Declaring war may be beyond an ambassador's pay grade, but later dispatches show the stakes only getting higher. Quirini, on the 30th (new style), will report being told by Don Luis (of Austria, heir to the throne) that "the conquest of Portugal has already been published a war of religion and not of state because the tyrant Braganza [John IV of Portugal], in addition to all the shameful proposals which they offer to the king of England for the marriage, has bound himself for the House of Braganza not to marry, so that, leaving no posterity, Portugal may be united to England, and one of Spain's own limbs torn away from her and those people for ever separated from the bosom of the Church after being conquered with the blood of the Spaniards and upheld for so many years". Oh the bloody vision. As incendiary a case for war as you can spin up.
And so, war with Spain could be looming, out there just beyond Sam's earshot. It's court talk in Paris, where Alvise Grimani, the ambassador to France, will report on the 29th being told by "the Cardinal" (not sure who, Mazarin being dead) that an alliance of England with Portugal "would mean (...) a great war of enormous consequences with the Spaniards". It is seeping into the State Papers, to wit this letter on March 19 (old style) from "___ to his brother, Tho. Everard of Norwich", mentioning that "there is fear of war with Spain".
And war with Spain would be especially bad news for anyone whose patron is about to command a great naval expedition in the Med...
About Monday 18 March 1660/61
Stephane Chenard • Link
On the thrills of Minette's union with Monsieur, of course the great Venetian intelligence network has something to say (at https://www.british-history.ac.uk…) A dispatch of March 29 (new style) from Alvise Grimani, the ambassador to France, reports that after he offered condolences to the Queen (of England, in her French retreat) for the latest family deaths (of the princess and of Gloucester), she "replied that it had pleased God to deal her heavy blows, as [apart from deaths] she was disturbed by her strong feelings over a marriage that was neither of sufficient rank nor suitable, although she ought not to complain about this". "Suitable" just cries out to be italicized. Perhaps worse than being gay, M. is totally sidelined by Louis, a geopolitical dead-end as alliances go. But not of "sufficient rank", excuse me; if Louis was to fall down the stairs, at this time Philippe duc d'Anjou would still be next in line.
About Wednesday 20 March 1660/61
Stephane Chenard • Link
So, it's good for the Government, or not? Those who opine, think so: "The men chosen are loyal to the King" (from Anonymous, letter No. 125), "of firm principles to King, Church and State" (from "Thos. Cooper"), "love the king in sincerity" (from "William Gibbes"), &c. Only "Tho. Powell" remarks that "the Royalists are put into a wonderful maze", whatever that means. Indeed, "bishops have no power to impose, till the jurisdiction taken from them by the Long Parliament is restored", writes "J.S." And so, for a day, a whiff of the spirit of the pre-Restoration Long Parliament did blow a little through Guildhall...
About Wednesday 20 March 1660/61
Stephane Chenard • Link
Sam must have been busy with stuff, because the four City councillors' election was really yesterday, and it was big newes, and we had wonder'd at not reading of it here. Letters about the event fill nearly eight pages in our compilation of the State Papers; there may be an element of preservation bias - one particular file of letters having luckily made it through 1860 - but it's still a lot, as most days take a page or less.
Most of the letters, dated March 19, rejoice that such outstanding citizens were chosen to cleanse the city of that gaudy Popish filth. They applaud this choice of "Independents and Presbyterians" (from "Henry Worster" and "Nich. Roberts"), "sober and moderate men" (from "Richard Royle"), "no friends to bishops" (from "Jos. Tilly"), "four honest, sound Presbyterians" (from "Thos. Quincia"; "Alderman Foulke and three other Presbyterians" in the diagnostic of another ornithologist, "Edw. Bradshaw"). Letter No. 105 notes that Foulke is "not much noted for religion", so the affair probably shouldn't be reduced to just that.
&c, &c, &c. "The lawn sleeves [slang for 'bishops'] will not like the election" (from "J.C."), and "the Episcopal men are not pleased" (from "J.S."). Indeed, from the other side a Mr. "S.R." does lament the choice of "two frantic Presbyterians, and two fanatic Independents", but he's a lonely voice.
But 'twas the voice of that unruly Citty, it seems: "The City was very unanimous" (from Anonymous, letter No. 95). "The City members were chosen so unanimously that the contrary party did not even demand a poll (...) Never saw so general a union of Presbyterians, Independents, and Anabaptists, crying down the Episcopalians, who went away cursing and swearing, and wishing they had never come" (from Anonymous, letter No. 103). That may be understood if, as "Q" (letter No. 104) tells his pal "John Blewet", the Guildhall was indeed packed with "10,000 in their liveries", plus "2,000 in the streets who could not get in to the Tantling meeting-house".
The anonymous writer of letter No. 105 doth wonder that he "never knew so small an affair create such prattle". Indeed, Mercurius Politicus doesn't even mention it, but it's the sort of prattle that can easily degenerate in the London tinder-box. There is a hint of the mob rule in that overheated, crowded hall, as "popular men that are for them [the hated bishops] were proposed, but hissed and cried down with 'No bishops!'" (from Anonymous, letter No. 113; tho' only "some shouting", writes "Anth. Phillips"). In fact, "the Episcopal party would fain have left out Capt. Jones, but the court never left off crying 'A Jones! A Jones!' till it was otherwise resolved" (from "Edw. Gaell"). A lot of shouting, liveries or not.
About Monday 4 March 1660/61
Stephane Chenard • Link
A bit strange, isn't it, My Lord giving Sam his George, if that's really it, "to keep" while at sea. How are Sam's lodgings, with their street/roof accesses and creepy neighbors, any more secure than the Sandwich suite at Westminster?
And here's an odd coincidence. We have information - proofs from Mercurius Politicus, so let's keep this to ourselves, hm? - that next week, the king will "hold a chapter with those persons conserned in the order of St. George", to invite them to a grate "feast of St. George to be holden at Windsor in Aprill next (...) the 15 of Aprill by noone, that they may proceed to the installation accordinge to the statutes of the said order in the afternoone and on the 16 and 17 of the same month."
That will be something to see. All these lords and grandees... ah, but pish, My Lord will be at sea. Unless? Mr Pepys, you know, of the Naval office, in his best, as official rep for My Lord with My Lord's George and utter, utter trust on careful display on a velvet cushion? Would that be allowed?
We'll see. But as for tonight, we phant'sy that Sam, alone in front of the mirror in his dressing room, is sorely tempted to put on the George, and some airs. Aye, against law and tradition, but no one will ever know, will they. Hmm, those diamonds, how they are set off by the watered moyre of my morning wastecoate, don't ye think, honey?
About Monday 25 February 1660/61
Stephane Chenard • Link
Fortunate Mrs Hinton! She could have fallen under the clyster of a real doctor, who would have pumped her full of mercury, then prescribed an intensive course of bleeding, if not fumigation for the whole tavern. And still conceivably made medical errors, such as miscalculating her horoscope.
About Friday 22 February 1660/61
Stephane Chenard • Link
And why, pray, do you disbelieve in the king getting married, Sam?
Aye, not today perhaps, if that's what you meant, and I'll allow you might know him better than we do - tho' we might know stuff too, I know you don't believe either in my coming from the Future, but... no, no, stay. So, married? All kings do, and you know he needs the money, and he's getting crowned in six weekes, so how phantastickal would it be?
And the succession, uh? A litter of little Stuarts running around. Because now, it would be James, no? King James II... ha ha ha. Scared you. Only a jest! (Shudder)
About Tuesday 19 February 1660/61
Stephane Chenard • Link
"Nor that it is known who he", the king, "will have", for a queen. Once again we count ourselves fortunate to be so well tapped into the best intelligence network of Europe, that of Venice of course. And so we know better, and allow ourselves a smug half-smile as we listen to Sam and Slingsby from the next table (we'll pretend, if they ask, being amused by the cleavage of that gipsy girl over there).
For tomorrow Giacomo Quirini, the republic's ambassador in Spain, will write (but he's already drafting today, for sure) that the Portuguese are so sure of their candidate, Catherine de Braganza, being picked, that "in Lisbon they have had illuminations, processions and public games, the people being pleased and the whole country rejoicing", and "they have also begun to give the Princess Caterina the title of Majesty".
In two fascinating dispatches at https://www.british-history.ac.uk…, Quirini adds, sourcing it to "a great personage who frequents the king's apartments" in Madrid, that Queen Caterina's dowry is to include "all the East Indies and the fortress of Tangier", among other things, such as half a million ducats in cash. True, the bargaining does go on, with "the English claim[ing] a part of Brazil and the Tercere Islands [one of the Azores] with two million ducats", while Francesco Giavarina, Quirini's colleague in London, will chime in on March 4 (new style, three days from now) that a mysterious envoy from Madrid made a quick dash to the Spanish embassy and, he heard, before rushing back to Spain left "notes of exchange for 5 to 600,000 crowns, for the use of the king here, to constrain him". Not yet a dowry, in this case - a bribe. We phant'sy the Spanish courier had a cloak with a deep cowl and the curtains in his coach were drawn tight.
Of course, nothing is decided, as Slingsby says. But, according to Giavarina, "many of the Council, who are Presbyterians, which means irreconcileable enemies of the Spanish monarchy, favour [the Portuguese ambassador, count de Ponte], forwarding and pushing his proposals". And, for now, the feverish haggling is the toast of the diplomatic scene; Giavarina notes that the courier's visit to the Spanish ambassador "is known to all the foreign ministers, though they have tried to keep it secret". Alas, it's not known to Sam; but it does concern him, already the name Tangiers imprints itself as a faint palimpsest in his life.
Oh and, there's madeira wine hanging in the balance, and the future independence of Portugal, and those inconsequential little bastions in India, which England so disdains right now - mere confettis, when the future is so clearly in Brazil. What do you call them again? Bombay? Hooghly? Chittagong? What could Englishmen possibly do with that?
About Thursday 21 February 1660/61
Stephane Chenard • Link
What with all the hoohay on whether English is like Latin, no-one seems to have noticed the odd little endocyte in Sam's first sentence: "the Coronacion". Now, that is not the accepted horttograf, not even in 1661; Thos. Rugge for instance records that this week's Mercurius Politicus writes of "Greate preparations in the Citty of London, makeinge of pagion and triumphall arches againge the coronation of his Majesty", with a T as in Tudor, and we could not finde a single instance of a coronacion, with a C as in Carrambas, in other English discourse.
So is it "la coronación", and thus Sam's first (maybe one thereof) use of Spanish in the Diary? It did survive the Diary's transcription and translation into 19th and 20th century English, unlike all the endearing Olde English which of course is Sam's language at this time, 1661 (and in which we do wish for an edition of Sam his Diurnall). There must be a reason, and not the saucy reasons for which Sam will later avail of forraigne tongues, or a slip of the quill which we deem improbable.
Is this a subtle allusion, written perhaps in disapproval, to the rumors swirling around Sam in his taverns that Charles will marry with a Spanish beauty and into the Catholic house of Habsburg?
About Thursday 14 February 1660/61
Stephane Chenard • Link
The law's heavy emphasis on inns, butchers &c. could also give one the impression that the private man is, in the sanctity of his castle, free to gorge on rumpsteaks as long as prepared by his Wife - not his "Cook", though we doubt if the hundreds of private Cooks, such as Sam's own, are to come up with that £60 deposit. But nay, the law applies to "all Our subjects, of what degree or quality soever within this Realm". Well, Sam is a Justice of the Peace, so he can police his own home.
But dry your tears, rich and mighty members of the Upper Crust, for there's a cop-out for ye in this case also, provision for "a special Licence first obtained from the Bishop of the Diocess". And indeed, we are pleased to find in the State Papers, on February 11, a "License from the Archbishop of Canterbury to Sec. Nicholas, Anne his wife, and ten persons to be chosen by him to eat meat at his table during Lent, provided he pays 13s. 4d. to the poor chest in his parish". We phant'sy a merry banquet, in which the Archibshop himself cracks the wishbone with a big grin on his face.
Indulgences, anyone? Cheap enough, here; the king's secretary may even struggle to provide exact change on less than a full pound; and we'd love to see the calculation that determin'd those stupendously generous alms.
About Thursday 14 February 1660/61
Stephane Chenard • Link
Eat fish! Will it work? Well, as this proclamation appears, so does a usefull compilation of the six others that Englishmen have seen swim across their plates since 1537, including two within just three years from poor Edward VI - read them at https://www.anglican.net/works/th…, and ponder the meaning in terms of strict observance of The Law.
The present one is the longest by far and can be read in the full glory of its 12 paragraphs at https://quod.lib.umich.edu/e/eebo…. First, it came out on January 12, so it took a month (admittedly a busy one) to make enough buzz for Sam to mention it. Then, if one thought it's about religion, eat flesh = go to the sulphur lakes of Hell, &c, §1 explains instead that those fish-days are "for the maintenance of the Navy and Shipping of this Realm" and "the encouragement of Fishermen" - an important bunch, economically and as accessories to the Navy (and, if not taken good care of, of pyrates, smugglers, the French, &c.) The apparent multitude of flesh-eaters-on-Lent so being "so great an Enemy to the Plenty of this Our Kingdome".
Future Ages will perhaps resurrect that Proclamation (if it ever should lapse), as they deal with the grievous effects of overindulgence in meat for one's health, the ravages inflicted on Nature by the soy industry, the many bounties (and dwindling stocks) of Fish-flesh, synthetic meat, &c.; but we stray.
Now, how to enforce? The proclamation reaches for the easiest targets, "Inholders, Keepers of Ordinary Tables, Cooks, Butchers, Victuallers, Alehouse-keepers, and Taverners", who are not to get involved in Flesh-on-Lent, and so guarantee by depositing with a Justice of the Peace "two sufficient Sureties of every of them (viz.) the Principal in Forty pounds, and their Sureties in Twenty pounds apiece", plus another £20 every year. Those are no trifling amounts for even a successful innkeeper, but those refusing to lay the deposits are "not to Victual, or sell Beer or Ale from henceforth", then go to prison, for an unspecified amount of time.
Stern indeed, and the proclamation says nothing of what would await the lawbreakers/flesh-eaters. On this point, we find a dispatch from London in the French Gazette, dated February 17, which mentions "a fine, for the first offence, & corporeal punishment, for the second" (the Gazette is also under the impression that it's all "for the encouragement of Fishermen & Merchants who traffick in Fish", the only motive cited in that Catholic mouthpiece). And it's easy to cross the line, because not only is meat not to be sold or eaten, but the Proclamation says it should not even be "uttered" on the dreaded Fish-Days.
About Thursday 7 February 1660/61
Stephane Chenard • Link
Good grief, of course duels are illegal. It's only last August that Charles issued "By the King, A proclamation against fighting of duels", thumping the table on how "every person that shall offend against the said Command (...) shall be incapable of holding any office in his Majesties service, and never after be permitted to come to the Court" (https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/…) And it's Sandwich, already on slighly shaky ground, who issued the challenge, here - and to a duke.
Ah, but not on English soil. And what happens in Le Havre de Grace, stays in Le Havre de Grace.
About Tuesday 5 February 1660/61
Stephane Chenard • Link
Bravo Sam, my Lord Treasurer's swearing-in, where you casually just happen to wander, was precisely the place to be seen today. Mercurius Politicus (in Thos. Rugge his summation, pp. 146-147) relates it drew "most and the chiefest of the nobility in coatches, about 60 in number". Which is a lot of coatches; back in September the Spanish ambassador extraordinary's super-flash grand entry had set a benchmark at about 50 (https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/…)
Mercurius has this report: "(...) his commission beeing' read, his Lordship took his oath and then went to his place upon the bench where, after some motiones heard, he removed into the Exchequer Chamber and there sate upon erroures [huh?] and received the keyes of the Receipt. Thence hee went to the Receipt side, viewed the officers, and returned backe into the Exchequer Court where, haveinge sate with the Barons, hee also tooke a viewe of the severall officers belonging' to the Kings Rememberancer, the Treasurer's] Rememberancer, and the other houses of record". And maybe, in the crowd, glimpsed the Clerk of the Acts, looking pretty.
About Saturday 19 January 1660/61
Stephane Chenard • Link
We also find, at http://transpont.blogspot.com/201…, (a) a portrait of Venner, with an amusing inset of a Quaker who chose to appear naked before the judge, and (b) notice of a re-enactment of Venner's rising. This, a rather modest affair that will have been held on location in January 2013, is further documented at https://www.brh.org.uk/site/artic…, with another, even more sinister portrait of Venner and some rather strange photographs. A film was made and screened at the Bristol Anarchist Bookfair 2014, which regrettably we missed. Did anyone go?
About Saturday 19 January 1660/61
Stephane Chenard • Link
Allow us to opine on whether living in such a violent century as this XVII has dulled the sensitivities of the People, and they just shrug at the cartloads of smoking bowels they pass on their way to the theater. We're not inside their heads, and inner feelings leave few fossils, but surely this gruesome justice is meant to horrify! It's not meant to be nice or routine, if it didn't sap the appetite (OK, not Sam's) and cause nightmares what would be the point? And so, watch in fascination and cheer on as they may, we phant'sy that the citizen do find it horrific.
Now, to business. We daily receive news on the sheer audacity of this Venner plot, of the sort which would send a shiver up any king's spine, and make him sign a few more HD&Q orders. In the State Papers today (19 Jan.), a "Geo. Bushfield", mercer in Paternoster Row, confesses hearing "George Tutchins" say that, since Venner did fail, the phanaticks "would rise the next moonshiny night, and bring up all their powder, 55 barrels, now at Deptford, to Whitehall". Nice touch, the werewolfy rising by moonshine; and, if not an idle boast, that would supply quite a boom, given estimates that Guy Fawkes' 36 barrels already amounted to one or two tons of explosive.
Also today, Sir John Maynard MP, a lawyer, writes to Lord Mordaunt (why him?) that, not only "so many persons were committed at the last sessions [of the bench in Croydon, Surrey] who will not take the Oath of Allegiance that they are puzzled what to do", but their chief, "Dr. Bradley", is allowed by the gaoler to vent his damnable doctrines among his proselytes". Surely future centuries will not suffer their jailhouses to be where inmates become, er, "radicalized"?
On the Fifth Monarchists' grand vision, the French Gazette (at https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148…, pages 109-120) is about to reprint (on 4 Feb., new style) a "Letter of an Englishmen, to one of his friends", which provides a fascinating, blow-by-blow reportage of last week's events. It alleges, from a Fifth Monarchist "Manifest" - possibly an actual document - that the idea was, after felling "Babyllon, it is the name they give to the Monarchy", to "go to the other States, to make their triumph general; to this end, they will gather their Brothers, to detach them from all the Monarchists: & being disposed to die or vainquish (...) they will rise against all the Carnals, who, they say, only seek the possession of the World, & will put their Kings into irons". This in Louis XIV's propaganda journal, but we thought the idea of exporting the revolution being on the plotters' agenda to be worth mentioning.
About Thursday 10 January 1660/61
Stephane Chenard • Link
On the excesses of repression noted by George Fox, as quoted by Susan, a royal proclamation can be expected in a few days to dial it down a little, and Mercurius Politicus will add this backgrounder: "Now heare in London many abuses was commited upon the acount of the serchinge for armes in the houses of the Fift Monorchy men, Quakers, and Anabaptists, that many were very ill delt withall; for that they robed them, sorely wounded others, and draged some to prison, and all this done without orders."
But on this day, royal secretary Edward Nicholas will note sternly in a letter to Henry Bennet (State Papers, at https://play.google.com/books/rea…) that, apart from the Fifth Monarchists being so violent and irreducible, "The nation is too sensible of their principles not to secure the public peace against them". In other words, they're not a tiny fringe of crazies. We like it when officialdom is so frank.