Slingsby's petition of May 1660... ah yes, there it is in the State Papers (still in their place at https://play.google.com/store/boo…) Dated "May?" and summarized thusly:
"To refer to some of the Council the disputes between him and Sir George Carteret, relative to the Treasurership of the Navy; is almost the eldest sea-captain surviving; served the late king, who owed him 5,800£. for arms delivered, and gave him the Treasurership of the Navy; set out ships from Bristol at his own charge, frequently visited His Majesty by stealth in his restraint, and was employed by him in his most private negotiations, for which he was cast into the loathsome dungeon", &c., &c., &c. Filed away by the Papers' editors as No. 153, and followed by a No. 154, "to the same effect" - always prudent to send a duplicate.
So the good comptroller petitioned for reversion of his old job, but he forgot to just ask explicitly for the king to repay him back the money. Like hundreds of others he just mentions his deeds for the record then humbly asks for some little job in consideration of his service - and no cigar there since giving the plum to Carteret is of course exactly what the king did, having only limited patience for reversions and said Carteret being a political bird that flies way, way higher. Instead, in August he was granted that naval comptrollership, clearly not as good as it came with just "fee, 50£. a year, and travelling expenses; and 8d. a day for two clerks".
The treasurership, by comparison, will get you £2,000 p.a. (as per https://www.pepysdiary.com/encycl…) Worth a petition or two, but c'mon, Slingsby old chap, you'll be certifying their accounts, don't tell me it's not full of opportunities, wink-wink. Just think about those open-ended "travelling expenses".
As for the petition's timing, clearly the competition required to move fast, but in this, the first week back on the throne for a king without a working administration and still living off the pocket money given by the Dutch, the State Papers already list over 250 petitions. "And", cry in despair the clerks dealing with the paper flood, "they've all been cast in loathsome dungeons by Cromwell!" Oh, and this one is the navy's "almost eldest captain", too; why should we shower thousands on someone who could die before he gets them anyway?
Maybe we weren't disappointed of money because there ain't any, but for other reasons. Tomorrow, if we may be allowed to borrow the time machine, William Prynne, the flamboyant MP for Bath and Somerset, will write to the Navy commissioners that "as Sir George Carteret has not arrived, and their presence is required at the House, [he] advises them to postpone till Thursday the disbanding and paying off the Henrietta" (State Papers).
Parliament is about to reconvene, and the MPs and VIPs can't leave London right now. So what? Do a MP for towns that are nowhere near Deptford, the Treasurer of the Navy and, for that matter, Sam himself, have to be personally on dockside to pay off a bunch of sailors from a single frigate? Maybe; officials wanting to be in the picture is a phenomenon which we understand will recur in future times. Prynne is on the parliamentary commission in charge of disbanding the army, but maybe he also plans to report the scene in one of his high-profile pamphlets?
As for the poll tax, there seems to be enough of it to cashier army regiments with all diligence. Maybe they're prioritized, given the more persuasive protest options which a soldier in central London may enjoy relative to a sailor in Deptford.
So, team Henrietta, just a few days more with that pent-up anger. How many of you anyway? Let's quibble: Our Encyclopedia (at https://www.pepysdiary.com/encycl…) does say 300 from a primary source, but that's in 1665. Right now, according to https://threedecks.org/index.php?… the number is 210. On 3 January next, another letter to the Commissioners, asking for crew sizes for the winter fleet, will note that "the Henrietta has more than her number, which is 180". Somehow there's space for another 120 hammocks in there. It's still only one-third to one-fifth the size of an army regiment (1,000 men, in principle, says https://www.quora.com/How-many-me…) and correspondingly 3-5 times less urgent a problem.
"Great talk" indeed - for sure everybody's talkin' about that wedding. Venetian ambassador Giavarina's take on it last week (on 29 October new style) was "(...) the king is the more grieved because it is said that the chancellor means to uphold the rights of his daughter and bring the affair to parliament when it reassembles. In that case he risks ruining himself". Not having to deal with much sectarianism back home, he then sniggers that "the affair has caused a great scandal among the sectaries here, especially the Presbyterians, who all pretend to be saints and impeccable".
Today (5 November new style) he adds, not being quite as much on top of things as usual, "When parliament meets the most interesting question will be the affair of the duke of York and the chancellor's daughter. It becomes increasingly clear that though the father is trying to hush the matter up, parliament means to deal with it, especially as the duke persists in denying the marriage". And the chatter ripples all the way to Paris, where his colleague Alvise Grimani reports on the same day, "The queen of England received the news of the duke of York's marriage before she left, she was extremely upset about it and it will hasten her journey". (All of this at https://www.british-history.ac.uk…)
Shall we talk about the weather, a topic unrelated to upholstery or treason but which does recur and has such relevance to Sam's job as to perhaps deserve an Encyclopedia entry: Capt. Bowen of the Success writes today to My Lord, on how "the extreme bad weather has driven [me] about", to Milford Haven where he shelters with "four other frigates, and hardly any supply. The weather has caused more shipwreck in these seas than has been known for many ages" (State Papers, October 10). The latter matching the scatter of other reports we had already noted this summer, on how rain and storms seem a bit worse than average. Milford Haven is windy enough that it will, in the far future, be graced by vast projects for wind farms.
We have now seen a dispatch from our well-informed friend, Venetian ambassador Giavarina (his letters at www.british-history.ac.uk/cal-sta…) dated October 22 (new style), which we thinks explains the kayak mystery.
"When I was at Court the other evening in the chamber of the princess, the king called me to him and spoke of the great pleasure he takes in the river here and discoursed about a delightful canal which he is now having dug in St. James's park near the palace, and his desire to have boats of every sort there", Giavarina writes. "He had written to Holland and other places for foreign ones and was very curious to see the gondolas of Venice as well which, by general consent, he understood were so noble and dainty. He asked me to write to request the republic to send him two by some English ship, saying it would be a most distinguished favour. I promised to report his wish to the Senate and felt sure your Excellencies would oblige him."
All we can say is, 'tis good to be the king, and this one isn't losing time as he moves from exile, to parades, to lopping off a few heads, to frolicking in vanity projects. "He sent a gentleman of the chamber to me again to-day to beg me not to forget to write, showing his eagerness to have them, and I must needs obey his Majesty's order." Moreover, "As the gondolas could not be used here without the boatmen of Venice [don't ask why], the king asked me to request the Senate to send three or four, promising to pay and treat them well."
Here begins, perhaps, some gondoliers' great life-changing adventure. Time will tell if the canoe museum will indeed materialise, and how the Venetian Senate reacts to this kingly request for gifts.
Roll in drunken at midnight no more the little Pepyses, for the king, early riser that he is, issued yesterday a "Proclamation for suppressing disorderly frequenting of taverns and tippling houses, or remaining there after nine at night" (State Papers, 29 September).
Or at least that's how the Papers' editors summarized it. How we would like to see the full text; alas, Parliament being out of session doesn't help. And is this a hundred thousand guffaws we hear, over the din of tankards banged on tables?
The 9pm curfew is on the books since 1383, says "Big city, bright lights? Night spaces in Paris and London, 1660-1820" by Jonathan Conlin (available at https://eprints.soton.ac.uk/350730) but in contrast with "despotic, militarized, closed Paris", in London "in 1660 the shops [a]re open until 2200".
"And even if we wur despotic and militarized, I'm a jusdiz of the peasss, r'member? So gimme another", Sam tells the frowning innkeeper.
And is John Evelyn experimenting with the New Style calendar? We did ponder it, but his other entries are consistently old-style. For instance he dates the Spanish ambassador's entry to the 17th, and soon will report on the trials and dispatch of regicides, giving dates that are a bit fuzzy but clearly not New Style. Time warps do happen on especially windy days in Deptford, and maybe Sam's not the only one who cannot write his diary in real time.
On especially windy days in Kent, parallel realities from the multiverse are sometimes visible side by side. On this afternoon, as king Charles and James, duke of York recline in the canopied coziness of their royal Barge, they observe through their spyglasses the curious Spectacle of a gilded coach-and-six stuck in the mire of the far London road. How these tiny, bespattered figures curse and struggle to pry it out of the deep rut!
James, whose spyglass is a bit out of focus, mocks and pities the fools who chose the barbarous road when the Thames offers such an obviously more direct way to Margate. He quaffs another deer canapé. But the king thinks to recognize himself, and the royal arms on the coach, and already knows enough of Alchemy. Some powerful wizard - probably French, those being worst - will have steered him, in that alternate World, to this disastrous choice, against all good Advice (such as Mr. Pepys, for instance, dispenses to those who care to pay attention).
Charles crosses himself, and the vision dissolves. The barge continues on its excruciatingly slow but safe journey, past the Isle of Sheppey.
We slipped ol' Google, our learned but dissolute Books-Seller, a bottle of sack or two and got him to produce maps of England's 17C road network, which were hidden at http://hoydensandfirebrands.blogs… (a late-century version that unfortunately cuts off a bit west of Margate) and more usefully in a remarkably detailed study by Max Satchell at https://www.campop.geog.cam.ac.uk….
It emerges that the M2 is indeed a good approximation of the road on which the king is presently rushing to Margate, at least as far as the fork it will make onto the A299, which in future ages will afford a direct stroll to that port, but would seem to be empty marsh-land as of 1660. Instead, for Margate change at Ramsgate and trudge north along the coast, or catch a hoy. On Google Earth it looks to be a good 120 km from London, not the 77 km of the modern road atlas. So Margate seems a fairly inconvenient place to land. It is so insignificant (at this time, 1660) as to get zero mention in our current volume of the State Papers, but as we reported yesterday the Resolution has been struggling with sandbanks and the wind and couldn't be finicky. Margate is about 20 km south of the Kentish Knock, the sands where the ship was stuck yesterday. There must have been a good reason not to continue south to Ramsgate or Dover.
Anyway. It looks like the king and duke are really legging it, because Capt. Teddiman's journal (still at https://archive.org/details/journ…) notes that the ship anchored off Margate at 12 noon. Time for the message to be passed to London by some especially fast post-rider, and for the royal party to quickly make some sandwiches and pile into the Bentley, and they're off!
If we may be so bold as to consult our Astrologer and look ahead to tomorrow's reports, Teddiman will record that the king will reach the Resolution and the princess of Orange at 6 pm, the ship having moved a couple of miles west to a better anchorage. So that's a 24-hour journey, no doubt with a break in some comfy inn or château, perhaps in Canterbury, but on roads that the recent weather must have made quite foul, and not without the king's entourage of "divers noblemen", as Teddiman puts it; not all of them, perhaps, as used to rough travel as Charles and James are.
Meanwhile, our friend John Evelyn, usually quite on top of things, has fallen into a time-warp. He writes today, "23rd September 1660: In the midst of all this joy and jubilee [surrounding the Spanish ambassador's entry on the 17th] the Duke of Gloucester died of the smallpox". That, of course, was 10 days previously, and Glou is now buried and turned into a fashion symbol. In fact Mercurius Politicus notes that the king went a-hunting yesterday, killed a stag and had a great day, so mourning's over in those quarters. And he must've have gone with deer sandwiches.
Quick check on My Lord, from Capt. Teddiman his journall (at https://archive.org/details/journ…) He's got the princess. She came onboard on Thursday morning, after which the Resolution "fell down as low as Goree" - surely not Goree in Senegal to pick up slaves, but Goeree-Overflakkee across the Haringvliet from Hellevoetsluis, whence her escort returned to The Hague. Then things got slightly complicated because of the wind, and as Sam gets his news from Pickering the Resolution is wallows in the shallows, after being "struck 5 or 6 times upon a sand". And not just any old sand but the redoubtable Kentish Knock, devourer of ships (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ken…) Oh no! Princess in Peril!
Mocenigo, in the same dispatch, says his own mourning outfit cost him £85; but he's got to keep up with the Ligneses, and maybe it's even better satin than Sam's.
'Nother thing: That L&M reference to "Mundy" is evidently from volume 5 of The Travels of Peter Mundy, a phantastickall Relation by one of the great travellers of the Age, who's in England right now. Alas, only volumes 1 through 4 seem to be available online (at https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/In…, https://fr.scribd.com/document/81… and https://archive.org/search?query=… among other sources, if anyone is interested), and while they're fascinating they all pre-date our period quite a bit. We'll buy his/her morning draught to anyone who can find a link to volume 5.
De Ligne did not represent Spain? Yes, he does. Venetian ambassador Mocenigo, our agent on the diplomatic circuit, has unambiguously reported on this since July and on August 20 (new style) relayed that "the Prince de Ligne, who is preparing his equipage in France to come here as ambassador extraordinary of the Catholic [the king of Spain], is said to have received ample instructions from Madrid for treating for peace with England".
So Ligne brings quite a few important tidings from Madrid to Charles, on Dunkirk and Jamaica and peace in general, and in fact he already had an audience a few days ago. But OK, as Ambassador Extraordinary he won't stay. A more humdrum "ambassador in ordinary" will do that: Charles baron de Watteville (https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cha…) who hails from the still-Spanish, soon-to-be-conquered-by-Louis-XIV province of Franche Comté. For now, Mocenigo says (at https://www.british-history.ac.uk…) that Watteville follows incognito, which may be for the better as our astrologer says his career in London isn't going to be too brilliant.
Why would York avoid de Ligne? Oh, that unpleasantness in Calais last year, when the lieutenant governor sent soldiers to hunt him down in seedy taverns and backstreets? (Story at https://archive.org/stream/memoir…, pages 282-283). Or those 600,000 florins (counted at https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/…) that Spain, through Flemish governor Caracena and York, promised Charles and apparently never paid? Or anything in York's Spanish military career? He doesn't seem to have come across Ligne too much, and while York starred in important battles on his side and territory the marquis may not have paid attention to such mercenary riffraff, or think much of York's toying with and dismissing Spain's offer of making him an admiral. But, at the levels where they both gravitate now, surely that's all in the past?
Further avoidance isn't possible anyway. The prince de Ligne is in London for a while, and York's karma seems to work against it: on this day Capt. John Coppin of the Centurion, updating Sam on my lord's progress, says he "thinks the wind has forced the ships with the Duke of York up into the King's Channel", while Capt. Country of the Greyhound reports that ships returning from Denmark "were separated in a storm" (State Papers). On October 1 (new style) ambassador Mocenigo will report that, sometime today or tomorrow (if we got our new style/old style conversion right) a "fierce gale" is/will likewise be driving poor York away from Holland and "to the extremities of this kingdom", and that by next Wednesday morning he will have given up on fetching sis, landed in England, found out about Gloucester, and will be hurrying back to London, the burial and the inevitable prince de Ligne.
Sarah, indeed American Google displays that famed American efficiency in not wasting time on the sidelines of Condé's genealogy, but they are in full display in his French wiki (https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lou…) So, ahem and br-br-hm, he has a sister, Anne Geneviève de Bourbon-Condé (https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ann…) whose two daughters died in infancy 10 and 15 years ago, and a brother, Armand de Bourbon-Conti (https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arm…) who will only have two sons, and both of them no more than a gleam in his eye as of 1660. We're at risk of overwikipediosis here, and there's beautiful genealogical trees you can play with at other places such as https://www.geneastar.org/celebri… and https://gw.geneanet.org/rgoumy?n=…, but they tell the same story.
Apart from Louis II, le Grand Condé, the most famous and closest to Louis XIV, discussed above, the House of Condé as of 1660 also includes a son, Henri-Jules de Bourbon-Condé, who's a prince too of course but our astrologer says he won't formally get the title before 1686, and for now he's 17 and still unmarried.
Perhaps Charles has been exploring the possibility of marrying Henry to a Condé niece if and when one would become available. Or he did his exploring when Anne Geneviève still had a daughter, sometime between 1647 and 1650, in which case he was a precocious and long-term thinker indeed, since Henry would have been 10 at most and the last available niece, Marie Gabrielle d'Orléans, died when she was 3. Given where Charles was in 1650, this would have been a somewhat bold offer to make the House of Condé, though perhaps not so crazy; Charles was holding to Scotland by his fingernails, and had a claim to the throne of France; the Condé were in open revolt against Louis XIV, and had a claim to the throne of France too. All of these royal guerilleros likely went to bed every night not being too sure where they would wake up; imagine the fascinating conversation they could have had.
To make it even spicier, Charles' brother James will soon (from 1651) be in mercenary service to Louis XIV against rebels led largely by Louis II; then he will change sides and actually serve Condé in the Spanish army in 1656-59, the last job he held before becoming duke of York. By 1660 Condé has been pardoned, both families are back on the right side of power, and all this rough-and-tumble common history could surely be leveraged into, well, something.
Or Charles thought there was a Condé niece to be had for his li'l bro in 1660, and imagine his dismay when he checked Wikipedia.
But niece or no niece, those are two families that do know a bit of each other, and if we were Louis XIV we'd make sure to read their mail.
Yes, mourning dress would seem to be a good idea for anyone involved with the Court, not to mention the king. We know not how much Henry the young (and apparently rather cute) duke of Gloucester was truly known and loved, but Charles isn't taking it well and Francisco Giavarina, the Venetian ambassador, reported on Thursday (24 September, new style) that "the king is distressed and weeps bitterly, for he loved his brother tenderly (...) At present he has withdrawn himself and no one soever is allowed to approach him" (https://www.british-history.ac.uk…)
This sudden reversal, of reports that had been unanimously optimistic on the duke being recovered and out of danger, can only have made it even more of a shock. On the same day, literally as Gloucester was succumbing, the king's secretary, Edward Nicholas, was writing near the end of a dispatch to Henry Bennett, secretary to Glou's brother the duke of York, that "the Duke of Gloucester is still ill, but out of danger" (as summarized, at least, in the State Papers). A historical study of London's continual smallpox epidemics (at https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/…) reminds us that "Variola major, which [will be] the only known smallpox type until the beginning of the 20th century, had a CFP [case fatality proportion] of 5% to 25%", so recovery in fact tends to be the norm.
We note in Wikipedia's ghastly page on smallpox, which quite frankly courage failed us to do more than skim, that in a somewhat rare form, malignant-type (a.k.a flat) smallpox, the skin lesions "matured slowly (...) and by the seventh or eighth day, they were flat and appeared to be buried in the skin". Perhaps that could look like recovery, especially to the quacks that seem to operate in Westminster (as of 1660, of course), and the other forms are rather more spectacular. However days 8 to 12 also tend to be when the patient dies (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sma…) and our first reports of the duke's illness filtered out 10 days ago (both in Sam's diary, at https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/…, and in other reports we had noted at https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/…)
We foresee that vaccination, for now only done in China, will be introduced in Europe in 30-odd years and will eradicate that abomination in just another 277 years.
Meanwhile, speaking of princess Mary, Capt. Teddiman reports that, the Resolution having finally reached Hellevoetsluis to fetch her, My Lord "went on shore (...) to see the town", where he presumably enjoyed the sunset and a few brewskis, then "returned aboard that night".
We confirm that "This day my Lord set sail from the Downs for Holland", or, as Capt. Teddiman says in the log my Lord appended to his journal (at https://archive.org/details/journ…, page 80): "At 8 this morning the wind being at S.S.W. my Lord came aboard the Resolution for the voyage for Hellevoetshuis and at 9 this morning weighed and sailed from the Downs with 9 sail of men of war in company with one ketch and hoy".
Which brings the question, does absolutely everybody refer to my Lord in his absence as "my Lord"? Teddiman's ship's log seems an official record but in there he could have been "the Admiral", too, but no. We phant'sy he enjoys "my Lord" too much even for that.
Meanwhile, where's Sandwich? What's he doing? Capt. Teddiman informs us that he inspected his ship, the freshly renamed Resolution and, with naval precision, adds that at 4 pm he "gave directions for fitting the stateroom", to make it Princess Royal-ready. Judging from its size and the amount of gilding visible at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eng…, it should do.
The dispatch that Venetian ambassador Mocenigo sends home today isn't particularly fascinating but notes that rough weather is keeping the Spanish ambassadors in Spain; we pray it doesn't extend to the North sea and imperils my lord.
He also reports that the court is a bit freaked out by Gloucester's pox, as well it may be, but it "does not seem to be of the worst kind". Tomorrow the king's secretary will tell the same in a dispatch to York's secretary Sir Henry Bennet (State Papers, 6 September). See, nothing to worry about.
Meanwhile, as we're tracking parallel intrigues, my lord is on his way to the sea. He hums an old seaman's song and has a spring in his step. At least we think he does; all we have is a laconic entry in his deputy Capt. Teddiman, inserted in Sandwich's journal for today: "The Earl of Sandwich came to Deal in the evening".
Deal the port in Kent, tho' perhaps my lord also dealt the cards at a game of lanturlu. His journal is found at https://archive.org/details/journ….
Surprised that Evelyn didn't see a French ambassador, Sarah? It's that the species is extinct in London right now. The last ambassador, the count of Bordeaux, was compromised with Oliver and further disgraced himself with anti-Charles remarks, so he was ignored and in July he left. Louis is taking it a bit personally and provides minimum service. We don't expect a replacement ambassador before, say, next year.
Comments
Third Reading
About Saturday 10 November 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
Slingsby's petition of May 1660... ah yes, there it is in the State Papers (still in their place at https://play.google.com/store/boo…) Dated "May?" and summarized thusly:
"To refer to some of the Council the disputes between him and Sir George Carteret, relative to the Treasurership of the Navy; is almost the eldest sea-captain surviving; served the late king, who owed him 5,800£. for arms delivered, and gave him the Treasurership of the Navy; set out ships from Bristol at his own charge, frequently visited His Majesty by stealth in his restraint, and was employed by him in his most private negotiations, for which he was cast into the loathsome dungeon", &c., &c., &c. Filed away by the Papers' editors as No. 153, and followed by a No. 154, "to the same effect" - always prudent to send a duplicate.
So the good comptroller petitioned for reversion of his old job, but he forgot to just ask explicitly for the king to repay him back the money. Like hundreds of others he just mentions his deeds for the record then humbly asks for some little job in consideration of his service - and no cigar there since giving the plum to Carteret is of course exactly what the king did, having only limited patience for reversions and said Carteret being a political bird that flies way, way higher. Instead, in August he was granted that naval comptrollership, clearly not as good as it came with just "fee, 50£. a year, and travelling expenses; and 8d. a day for two clerks".
The treasurership, by comparison, will get you £2,000 p.a. (as per https://www.pepysdiary.com/encycl…) Worth a petition or two, but c'mon, Slingsby old chap, you'll be certifying their accounts, don't tell me it's not full of opportunities, wink-wink. Just think about those open-ended "travelling expenses".
As for the petition's timing, clearly the competition required to move fast, but in this, the first week back on the throne for a king without a working administration and still living off the pocket money given by the Dutch, the State Papers already list over 250 petitions. "And", cry in despair the clerks dealing with the paper flood, "they've all been cast in loathsome dungeons by Cromwell!" Oh, and this one is the navy's "almost eldest captain", too; why should we shower thousands on someone who could die before he gets them anyway?
About Monday 5 November 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
Maybe we weren't disappointed of money because there ain't any, but for other reasons. Tomorrow, if we may be allowed to borrow the time machine, William Prynne, the flamboyant MP for Bath and Somerset, will write to the Navy commissioners that "as Sir George Carteret has not arrived, and their presence is required at the House, [he] advises them to postpone till Thursday the disbanding and paying off the Henrietta" (State Papers).
Parliament is about to reconvene, and the MPs and VIPs can't leave London right now. So what? Do a MP for towns that are nowhere near Deptford, the Treasurer of the Navy and, for that matter, Sam himself, have to be personally on dockside to pay off a bunch of sailors from a single frigate? Maybe; officials wanting to be in the picture is a phenomenon which we understand will recur in future times. Prynne is on the parliamentary commission in charge of disbanding the army, but maybe he also plans to report the scene in one of his high-profile pamphlets?
As for the poll tax, there seems to be enough of it to cashier army regiments with all diligence. Maybe they're prioritized, given the more persuasive protest options which a soldier in central London may enjoy relative to a sailor in Deptford.
So, team Henrietta, just a few days more with that pent-up anger. How many of you anyway? Let's quibble: Our Encyclopedia (at https://www.pepysdiary.com/encycl…) does say 300 from a primary source, but that's in 1665. Right now, according to https://threedecks.org/index.php?… the number is 210. On 3 January next, another letter to the Commissioners, asking for crew sizes for the winter fleet, will note that "the Henrietta has more than her number, which is 180". Somehow there's space for another 120 hammocks in there. It's still only one-third to one-fifth the size of an army regiment (1,000 men, in principle, says https://www.quora.com/How-many-me…) and correspondingly 3-5 times less urgent a problem.
About Friday 26 October 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
"Great talk" indeed - for sure everybody's talkin' about that wedding. Venetian ambassador Giavarina's take on it last week (on 29 October new style) was "(...) the king is the more grieved because it is said that the chancellor means to uphold the rights of his daughter and bring the affair to parliament when it reassembles. In that case he risks ruining himself". Not having to deal with much sectarianism back home, he then sniggers that "the affair has caused a great scandal among the sectaries here, especially the Presbyterians, who all pretend to be saints and impeccable".
Today (5 November new style) he adds, not being quite as much on top of things as usual, "When parliament meets the most interesting question will be the affair of the duke of York and the chancellor's daughter. It becomes increasingly clear that though the father is trying to hush the matter up, parliament means to deal with it, especially as the duke persists in denying the marriage". And the chatter ripples all the way to Paris, where his colleague Alvise Grimani reports on the same day, "The queen of England received the news of the duke of York's marriage before she left, she was extremely upset about it and it will hasten her journey". (All of this at https://www.british-history.ac.uk…)
About Wednesday 10 October 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
Shall we talk about the weather, a topic unrelated to upholstery or treason but which does recur and has such relevance to Sam's job as to perhaps deserve an Encyclopedia entry: Capt. Bowen of the Success writes today to My Lord, on how "the extreme bad weather has driven [me] about", to Milford Haven where he shelters with "four other frigates, and hardly any supply. The weather has caused more shipwreck in these seas than has been known for many ages" (State Papers, October 10). The latter matching the scatter of other reports we had already noted this summer, on how rain and storms seem a bit worse than average. Milford Haven is windy enough that it will, in the far future, be graced by vast projects for wind farms.
About Sunday 24 June 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
We have now seen a dispatch from our well-informed friend, Venetian ambassador Giavarina (his letters at www.british-history.ac.uk/cal-sta…) dated October 22 (new style), which we thinks explains the kayak mystery.
"When I was at Court the other evening in the chamber of the princess, the king called me to him and spoke of the great pleasure he takes in the river here and discoursed about a delightful canal which he is now having dug in St. James's park near the palace, and his desire to have boats of every sort there", Giavarina writes. "He had written to Holland and other places for foreign ones and was very curious to see the gondolas of Venice as well which, by general consent, he understood were so noble and dainty. He asked me to write to request the republic to send him two by some English ship, saying it would be a most distinguished favour. I promised to report his wish to the Senate and felt sure your Excellencies would oblige him."
All we can say is, 'tis good to be the king, and this one isn't losing time as he moves from exile, to parades, to lopping off a few heads, to frolicking in vanity projects. "He sent a gentleman of the chamber to me again to-day to beg me not to forget to write, showing his eagerness to have them, and I must needs obey his Majesty's order." Moreover, "As the gondolas could not be used here without the boatmen of Venice [don't ask why], the king asked me to request the Senate to send three or four, promising to pay and treat them well."
Here begins, perhaps, some gondoliers' great life-changing adventure. Time will tell if the canoe museum will indeed materialise, and how the Venetian Senate reacts to this kingly request for gifts.
About Sunday 30 September 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
Roll in drunken at midnight no more the little Pepyses, for the king, early riser that he is, issued yesterday a "Proclamation for suppressing disorderly frequenting of taverns and tippling houses, or remaining there after nine at night" (State Papers, 29 September).
Or at least that's how the Papers' editors summarized it. How we would like to see the full text; alas, Parliament being out of session doesn't help. And is this a hundred thousand guffaws we hear, over the din of tankards banged on tables?
The 9pm curfew is on the books since 1383, says "Big city, bright lights? Night spaces in Paris and London, 1660-1820" by Jonathan Conlin (available at https://eprints.soton.ac.uk/350730) but in contrast with "despotic, militarized, closed Paris", in London "in 1660 the shops [a]re open until 2200".
"And even if we wur despotic and militarized, I'm a jusdiz of the peasss, r'member? So gimme another", Sam tells the frowning innkeeper.
About Sunday 23 September 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
And is John Evelyn experimenting with the New Style calendar? We did ponder it, but his other entries are consistently old-style. For instance he dates the Spanish ambassador's entry to the 17th, and soon will report on the trials and dispatch of regicides, giving dates that are a bit fuzzy but clearly not New Style. Time warps do happen on especially windy days in Deptford, and maybe Sam's not the only one who cannot write his diary in real time.
About Sunday 23 September 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
On especially windy days in Kent, parallel realities from the multiverse are sometimes visible side by side. On this afternoon, as king Charles and James, duke of York recline in the canopied coziness of their royal Barge, they observe through their spyglasses the curious Spectacle of a gilded coach-and-six stuck in the mire of the far London road. How these tiny, bespattered figures curse and struggle to pry it out of the deep rut!
James, whose spyglass is a bit out of focus, mocks and pities the fools who chose the barbarous road when the Thames offers such an obviously more direct way to Margate. He quaffs another deer canapé. But the king thinks to recognize himself, and the royal arms on the coach, and already knows enough of Alchemy. Some powerful wizard - probably French, those being worst - will have steered him, in that alternate World, to this disastrous choice, against all good Advice (such as Mr. Pepys, for instance, dispenses to those who care to pay attention).
Charles crosses himself, and the vision dissolves. The barge continues on its excruciatingly slow but safe journey, past the Isle of Sheppey.
About Sunday 23 September 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
We slipped ol' Google, our learned but dissolute Books-Seller, a bottle of sack or two and got him to produce maps of England's 17C road network, which were hidden at http://hoydensandfirebrands.blogs… (a late-century version that unfortunately cuts off a bit west of Margate) and more usefully in a remarkably detailed study by Max Satchell at https://www.campop.geog.cam.ac.uk….
It emerges that the M2 is indeed a good approximation of the road on which the king is presently rushing to Margate, at least as far as the fork it will make onto the A299, which in future ages will afford a direct stroll to that port, but would seem to be empty marsh-land as of 1660. Instead, for Margate change at Ramsgate and trudge north along the coast, or catch a hoy. On Google Earth it looks to be a good 120 km from London, not the 77 km of the modern road atlas. So Margate seems a fairly inconvenient place to land. It is so insignificant (at this time, 1660) as to get zero mention in our current volume of the State Papers, but as we reported yesterday the Resolution has been struggling with sandbanks and the wind and couldn't be finicky. Margate is about 20 km south of the Kentish Knock, the sands where the ship was stuck yesterday. There must have been a good reason not to continue south to Ramsgate or Dover.
Anyway. It looks like the king and duke are really legging it, because Capt. Teddiman's journal (still at https://archive.org/details/journ…) notes that the ship anchored off Margate at 12 noon. Time for the message to be passed to London by some especially fast post-rider, and for the royal party to quickly make some sandwiches and pile into the Bentley, and they're off!
If we may be so bold as to consult our Astrologer and look ahead to tomorrow's reports, Teddiman will record that the king will reach the Resolution and the princess of Orange at 6 pm, the ship having moved a couple of miles west to a better anchorage. So that's a 24-hour journey, no doubt with a break in some comfy inn or château, perhaps in Canterbury, but on roads that the recent weather must have made quite foul, and not without the king's entourage of "divers noblemen", as Teddiman puts it; not all of them, perhaps, as used to rough travel as Charles and James are.
Meanwhile, our friend John Evelyn, usually quite on top of things, has fallen into a time-warp. He writes today, "23rd September 1660: In the midst of all this joy and jubilee [surrounding the Spanish ambassador's entry on the 17th] the Duke of Gloucester died of the smallpox". That, of course, was 10 days previously, and Glou is now buried and turned into a fashion symbol. In fact Mercurius Politicus notes that the king went a-hunting yesterday, killed a stag and had a great day, so mourning's over in those quarters. And he must've have gone with deer sandwiches.
About Saturday 22 September 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
Quick check on My Lord, from Capt. Teddiman his journall (at https://archive.org/details/journ…) He's got the princess. She came onboard on Thursday morning, after which the Resolution "fell down as low as Goree" - surely not Goree in Senegal to pick up slaves, but Goeree-Overflakkee across the Haringvliet from Hellevoetsluis, whence her escort returned to The Hague. Then things got slightly complicated because of the wind, and as Sam gets his news from Pickering the Resolution is wallows in the shallows, after being "struck 5 or 6 times upon a sand". And not just any old sand but the redoubtable Kentish Knock, devourer of ships (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ken…) Oh no! Princess in Peril!
About Monday 17 September 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
Mocenigo, in the same dispatch, says his own mourning outfit cost him £85; but he's got to keep up with the Ligneses, and maybe it's even better satin than Sam's.
'Nother thing: That L&M reference to "Mundy" is evidently from volume 5 of The Travels of Peter Mundy, a phantastickall Relation by one of the great travellers of the Age, who's in England right now. Alas, only volumes 1 through 4 seem to be available online (at https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/In…, https://fr.scribd.com/document/81… and https://archive.org/search?query=… among other sources, if anyone is interested), and while they're fascinating they all pre-date our period quite a bit. We'll buy his/her morning draught to anyone who can find a link to volume 5.
About Monday 17 September 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
De Ligne did not represent Spain? Yes, he does. Venetian ambassador Mocenigo, our agent on the diplomatic circuit, has unambiguously reported on this since July and on August 20 (new style) relayed that "the Prince de Ligne, who is preparing his equipage in France to come here as ambassador extraordinary of the Catholic [the king of Spain], is said to have received ample instructions from Madrid for treating for peace with England".
So Ligne brings quite a few important tidings from Madrid to Charles, on Dunkirk and Jamaica and peace in general, and in fact he already had an audience a few days ago. But OK, as Ambassador Extraordinary he won't stay. A more humdrum "ambassador in ordinary" will do that: Charles baron de Watteville (https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cha…) who hails from the still-Spanish, soon-to-be-conquered-by-Louis-XIV province of Franche Comté. For now, Mocenigo says (at https://www.british-history.ac.uk…) that Watteville follows incognito, which may be for the better as our astrologer says his career in London isn't going to be too brilliant.
Why would York avoid de Ligne? Oh, that unpleasantness in Calais last year, when the lieutenant governor sent soldiers to hunt him down in seedy taverns and backstreets? (Story at https://archive.org/stream/memoir…, pages 282-283). Or those 600,000 florins (counted at https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/…) that Spain, through Flemish governor Caracena and York, promised Charles and apparently never paid? Or anything in York's Spanish military career? He doesn't seem to have come across Ligne too much, and while York starred in important battles on his side and territory the marquis may not have paid attention to such mercenary riffraff, or think much of York's toying with and dismissing Spain's offer of making him an admiral. But, at the levels where they both gravitate now, surely that's all in the past?
Further avoidance isn't possible anyway. The prince de Ligne is in London for a while, and York's karma seems to work against it: on this day Capt. John Coppin of the Centurion, updating Sam on my lord's progress, says he "thinks the wind has forced the ships with the Duke of York up into the King's Channel", while Capt. Country of the Greyhound reports that ships returning from Denmark "were separated in a storm" (State Papers). On October 1 (new style) ambassador Mocenigo will report that, sometime today or tomorrow (if we got our new style/old style conversion right) a "fierce gale" is/will likewise be driving poor York away from Holland and "to the extremities of this kingdom", and that by next Wednesday morning he will have given up on fetching sis, landed in England, found out about Gloucester, and will be hurrying back to London, the burial and the inevitable prince de Ligne.
About Saturday 15 September 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
Sarah, indeed American Google displays that famed American efficiency in not wasting time on the sidelines of Condé's genealogy, but they are in full display in his French wiki (https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lou…) So, ahem and br-br-hm, he has a sister, Anne Geneviève de Bourbon-Condé (https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ann…) whose two daughters died in infancy 10 and 15 years ago, and a brother, Armand de Bourbon-Conti (https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arm…) who will only have two sons, and both of them no more than a gleam in his eye as of 1660. We're at risk of overwikipediosis here, and there's beautiful genealogical trees you can play with at other places such as https://www.geneastar.org/celebri… and https://gw.geneanet.org/rgoumy?n=…, but they tell the same story.
Apart from Louis II, le Grand Condé, the most famous and closest to Louis XIV, discussed above, the House of Condé as of 1660 also includes a son, Henri-Jules de Bourbon-Condé, who's a prince too of course but our astrologer says he won't formally get the title before 1686, and for now he's 17 and still unmarried.
Perhaps Charles has been exploring the possibility of marrying Henry to a Condé niece if and when one would become available. Or he did his exploring when Anne Geneviève still had a daughter, sometime between 1647 and 1650, in which case he was a precocious and long-term thinker indeed, since Henry would have been 10 at most and the last available niece, Marie Gabrielle d'Orléans, died when she was 3. Given where Charles was in 1650, this would have been a somewhat bold offer to make the House of Condé, though perhaps not so crazy; Charles was holding to Scotland by his fingernails, and had a claim to the throne of France; the Condé were in open revolt against Louis XIV, and had a claim to the throne of France too. All of these royal guerilleros likely went to bed every night not being too sure where they would wake up; imagine the fascinating conversation they could have had.
To make it even spicier, Charles' brother James will soon (from 1651) be in mercenary service to Louis XIV against rebels led largely by Louis II; then he will change sides and actually serve Condé in the Spanish army in 1656-59, the last job he held before becoming duke of York. By 1660 Condé has been pardoned, both families are back on the right side of power, and all this rough-and-tumble common history could surely be leveraged into, well, something.
Or Charles thought there was a Condé niece to be had for his li'l bro in 1660, and imagine his dismay when he checked Wikipedia.
But niece or no niece, those are two families that do know a bit of each other, and if we were Louis XIV we'd make sure to read their mail.
About Saturday 15 September 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
Yes, mourning dress would seem to be a good idea for anyone involved with the Court, not to mention the king. We know not how much Henry the young (and apparently rather cute) duke of Gloucester was truly known and loved, but Charles isn't taking it well and Francisco Giavarina, the Venetian ambassador, reported on Thursday (24 September, new style) that "the king is distressed and weeps bitterly, for he loved his brother tenderly (...) At present he has withdrawn himself and no one soever is allowed to approach him" (https://www.british-history.ac.uk…)
This sudden reversal, of reports that had been unanimously optimistic on the duke being recovered and out of danger, can only have made it even more of a shock. On the same day, literally as Gloucester was succumbing, the king's secretary, Edward Nicholas, was writing near the end of a dispatch to Henry Bennett, secretary to Glou's brother the duke of York, that "the Duke of Gloucester is still ill, but out of danger" (as summarized, at least, in the State Papers). A historical study of London's continual smallpox epidemics (at https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/…) reminds us that "Variola major, which [will be] the only known smallpox type until the beginning of the 20th century, had a CFP [case fatality proportion] of 5% to 25%", so recovery in fact tends to be the norm.
We note in Wikipedia's ghastly page on smallpox, which quite frankly courage failed us to do more than skim, that in a somewhat rare form, malignant-type (a.k.a flat) smallpox, the skin lesions "matured slowly (...) and by the seventh or eighth day, they were flat and appeared to be buried in the skin". Perhaps that could look like recovery, especially to the quacks that seem to operate in Westminster (as of 1660, of course), and the other forms are rather more spectacular. However days 8 to 12 also tend to be when the patient dies (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sma…) and our first reports of the duke's illness filtered out 10 days ago (both in Sam's diary, at https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/…, and in other reports we had noted at https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/…)
We foresee that vaccination, for now only done in China, will be introduced in Europe in 30-odd years and will eradicate that abomination in just another 277 years.
About Wednesday 12 September 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
"At 4 this morning my Lord and the gentlemen with him went for Briel and thence for the Hague".
From Sandwich his journal, at https://archive.org/details/journ…, page 81.
About Tuesday 11 September 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
Meanwhile, speaking of princess Mary, Capt. Teddiman reports that, the Resolution having finally reached Hellevoetsluis to fetch her, My Lord "went on shore (...) to see the town", where he presumably enjoyed the sunset and a few brewskis, then "returned aboard that night".
From Sandwich his journal, at https://archive.org/details/journ…, page 81.
About Friday 7 September 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
We confirm that "This day my Lord set sail from the Downs for Holland", or, as Capt. Teddiman says in the log my Lord appended to his journal (at https://archive.org/details/journ…, page 80): "At 8 this morning the wind being at S.S.W. my Lord came aboard the Resolution for the voyage for Hellevoetshuis and at 9 this morning weighed and sailed from the Downs with 9 sail of men of war in company with one ketch and hoy".
Which brings the question, does absolutely everybody refer to my Lord in his absence as "my Lord"? Teddiman's ship's log seems an official record but in there he could have been "the Admiral", too, but no. We phant'sy he enjoys "my Lord" too much even for that.
About Wednesday 5 September 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
Meanwhile, where's Sandwich? What's he doing? Capt. Teddiman informs us that he inspected his ship, the freshly renamed Resolution and, with naval precision, adds that at 4 pm he "gave directions for fitting the stateroom", to make it Princess Royal-ready. Judging from its size and the amount of gilding visible at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eng…, it should do.
The dispatch that Venetian ambassador Mocenigo sends home today isn't particularly fascinating but notes that rough weather is keeping the Spanish ambassadors in Spain; we pray it doesn't extend to the North sea and imperils my lord.
He also reports that the court is a bit freaked out by Gloucester's pox, as well it may be, but it "does not seem to be of the worst kind". Tomorrow the king's secretary will tell the same in a dispatch to York's secretary Sir Henry Bennet (State Papers, 6 September). See, nothing to worry about.
About Tuesday 4 September 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
Meanwhile, as we're tracking parallel intrigues, my lord is on his way to the sea. He hums an old seaman's song and has a spring in his step. At least we think he does; all we have is a laconic entry in his deputy Capt. Teddiman, inserted in Sandwich's journal for today: "The Earl of Sandwich came to Deal in the evening".
Deal the port in Kent, tho' perhaps my lord also dealt the cards at a game of lanturlu. His journal is found at https://archive.org/details/journ….
About Tuesday 4 September 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
Surprised that Evelyn didn't see a French ambassador, Sarah? It's that the species is extinct in London right now. The last ambassador, the count of Bordeaux, was compromised with Oliver and further disgraced himself with anti-Charles remarks, so he was ignored and in July he left. Louis is taking it a bit personally and provides minimum service. We don't expect a replacement ambassador before, say, next year.