Thomas Rugg will later reminisce, in his summary of the Mercurius Politicus (for July, oddly snuck'd at page 105 between a rundown of appointments and proclamations) how "in this month [July] came up a fashion that woemen did ware satin and taffety gloves and men silver band strings". Could "band-strings" be anything but hatbands? Anyway, Rugg says, "the silver band-strings did take but littl fancy", so perhaps not so compelling as a bribe.
That part of the volume contains a few other gems. To wit, petitions for pardon from John Lambert ("resolves to spend the rest of his days in peace") and Arthur Hasslerigg (helped Monk to find Lambert; won't be quite enough, but both of them will keep their heads). The king (at page 7) is also offered a Treatise on "the way to make the King more King in wealth and power, and the subject more subject in faith and obedience", quite a project. Also the services of a Dr. Anderson, who "has travelled the Brazils, west Indies, Africa, &c.", and having received "the gift of revelation" after being "deprived of hearing whilst enslaved by the Turks", offers "to reveal something acceptable to His Majesty to some one appointed to hear him" (No. 138, page 14).
But the most fascinating petition (No. 129, page 13), for a job, we find to come from John Fowler, exiled by the Commonwealth "to the West Indies, as a present to the barbarous people there, which penalty he underwent with satisfaction and content". A quick check on "John Fowlers" find the author of a tome on Tobago in 1774 and a governor of Trinidad in the 1890s, but what about Fowler 1660? Did he go native and spend 15 years as a befeathered cacique?
Attention fellow State Papers fanatics: As a new Era begins, so does a new volume of the "Calendar of State Papers", for the years 1660 (starting on May 30, our birth-day) and 1661. Our playful book-seller Mr Goggle offers the 1860 edition at https://play.google.com/store/boo… (told ye he's playful).
And for a special welcoming gift, we find the first State Paper (that we know of) with Sam's name in it. Dated June 2, it's a suitably humdrum letter from "Rob. Blackborne to [Sam Pepys]", apparently not named in the original but already a celeb and ID'd as such by the 1860 compiler. "Will inform the Commissioners of the order for the Happy Return to go to Hull", yadda yadda yadda, the stuff that Sam spends his time on when he's not bowling.
Or drinking, like everybody else in England. Blackborne attaches a bunch of recent news to his letter, including a "proclamation made against debauchery". That interesting document, not otherwise detailed, would seem to be the Proclamation, signed by H.M. himself on May 30 - a day that must have been quite full, but in which he found the time - "against debauched and profane persons, who, on pretence of regard to the King, revile and threaten others, or spend their time in taverns and tippling houses, drinking his health; ordering magistrates to be strict in discovering and punishing the same".
On reviling and threatening in the King's name - not the first edict in recent days, that aims at curbing the zealots, or plain truants, who seem to be breaking doors all over England in search of stolen royal treasures, republican plots, or whatnot, truly or as an excuse. Standard fare after wars, revolutions or, hey, restorations.
On over-indulging in the King's name, we say - we'll have another. That one must have prompted a few chuckles among the hung-over brass of the Royal Charles.
Not everyone, however shares in our feelings. Among a mound of undated petitions stashed at the beginning of the State Papers volume is (at page 4) a letter of congratulations to the King from the mayor and good burghers of Lyme Regis ("the Pearl of Dorset" according to Wikipedia), "rejoicing (...) in the proclamation against vicious, profane, and debauched persons". We surmise that not everything in the Pearl of Dorset has been hanky-dory of late.
Oh, and why so many people on the shore? The sources don't analyze that too deeply, but how often, on the rugged Dutch coast, do you get a naval show that's not an invasion, and to see all these plumes, ribbons and petticoats? And to sell them, their servants and their sergeants a few baskets of mussels? And to pick up all the goodies that they leave behind, lost or uneaten or too heavy to carry? Worth a walk, we say; in an age when walking a few dozen miles and sleeping atop a dune is hardly an exceptional adventure.
The Hat Protocol, however, is a trifle to implement compared with settling precedence among the hundreds of knights, viscounts, baronets, ambassadors, generals, dukes &c. that presently throng the Dutch shore. Lower tells, again (at page 23), how the States General, preparing to see Charles off in Breda on May 24, felt "reason to fear, that there might happen some disorder about the rank of the Coaches that should be sent to meet the King"; for a specific reason, somewhat prescient, that "some of them (...) would make their Coach, to go before that of the Prince of Or[a]ng[e]; who ought to be considered here, not only because of his quality of Soveraign Prince, but also as Nephew to the King; and consequently, as chief Prince of the blood of England", of which some Ambassadours could perhaps be foolishly unaware, or disregarding. The issue was so hot that "the Estates General (...) judged fit to cause the Embassadours, of the Crowned-heads, to be prayed, by their Agent, not to send their Coaches".
Then there was the English court, which could be expected to polish its badges of rank and privileges with a vengeance after all these years of exile and now that it truly matter'd. "No person would undertake the commission to distribute the Yachts among the Lords of the Court, because it would be impossible to oblige them all equally, and to disoblige none". In desperation the Dutch protocol officer, Mr. de Beverweert, "besought the King to be so gracious, as to cause the distribution to be made". Charles was busy and couldn't care less, and "ordained that the Duke of York, should on this occasion perform the functions of Admiral, in distributing the Yachts".
Their same bristly Lordships will soon be jostling in the narrow passageways and cramped cabins of the Royal Navy - some perhaps hurried on by seasickness. The fleet's Sam Pepyses will wisely stay out of the way. The king - for whom, we forgot to mention, hatlessness signals Humility - of course walks where he pleases.
The "infinity of people on board" and the ship being "exceeding full" with "nothing but Lords and persons of honour" bring up one tricky issue: Protocol. And Charles "riding bareheaded" and "st[anding] amidships in a wig and dark clothes, bareheaded" - ah, the fascination with bare heads.
Leaving aside the importance of pronouncing the latter clearly ("did ye say the king was beheaded today?") Sir William Lower's "Relation in the form of journal" never fails to mention it when some bare head was in the Presence. Being hatless, even if still bewigged, implied an easy, informal, friendly relationship with H.M. Thus at pages 40-42 Lower devotes nearly 400 words to tergiversations among ambassadors, as they prepare for farewell audiences with Charles in the Hague, before he embarks, on whether they should go with hats or not:
"Some doubted if the Embassadours (...) should be received to make their complements to the King without Letters of Credence; or if after it were acknowledged that their character legitimated them for that, they might be covered". Eventually they chose No Hat, because the king "could not dispense himself of treating them, according to the dignity of their character, and of making them to be covered". The protocol is not that subalterns should doff their hats to their betters, but that they stand in full uniform, hats firmly on. Diplomats come and go in hatless insouciance, just as in later ages they'll park with abandon without fear of being ticket'd.
The Hat/No-Hat rules veered close to absurdity when Charles received Spanish ambassador Don Estevan de Gamarra, a friend which the king meets "without ceremonies" given "the affection which he [Gamarra] had had for his interests". But Spain, despite now being at peace with France, is still technically at war with France's English ally, precluding Hatless Insouciance. So? "So covered he not himself, because the open war which for some years was, and is between Spain and England, hindred him to make his character appear there; whereas the particular devotion, which this Lord hath alwaies had for the service of his Majesty, obliged him to be continually at the Court, and by his person." In this case perhaps a tiny hat, without plumes..? Ay carambas, basta con estas huevadas, vamos, vamos! And Gamarra strides in, the mane of curls visible at https://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Est… flowing 'round his rotund visage.
"At Rouen he looked so poorly, that the people went into the rooms before he went away to see whether he had not stole something or other."
We shall henceforth feel Brothership to His Majestie, everie time an inkeeper will, upon our telling him that no, we didn't take anything from the minibar, still detaine us until a servant has discreetly inspected our hotel room to ascertain if this be, indeed, the plaine Truth.
Bob Terry 10 years ago asked how the Quality (and the rest) got on (and now off) the ship. We just can't let a good question go unanswered. William Lower at the end of his "Relation in the form of a journal" says MyLord received the king "at the top of the ladder, by which one goes up onto the ship". What with all the ribbons and the petticoats &c., it must have been a sight, but apparently nobody fell.
The rotten weather is not going unnoticed back home, where Thomas Rugg, recapping Mercurius Politicus articles from last week, will note that "in this month are very great winds, so that it was the contineuall prayers of his Majestys freinds for his Majestie in regard that evry day hee was expected to take shipinge".
Alas, Mr. Evelyn was silent on the weather, despite its great import just now, but "Weather in History 1650 to 1659 AD", a usefull compilation at https://premium.weatherweb.net/we…, observes how it's all been unseasonably warm and wet since 1658, with "possibly highly unsettled (i.e. cyclonic)" conditions, owing, in late 1660 still, to "a markedly zonal type (or high NAOI), with the associated mean jet translated far enough south to propel cyclonic disturbances across southern Britain in quick succession".
The NAOI is an index of how atmospheric pressure varies over the Atlantic from the Arctic to the Azores. Normally it changes all the time but when it's high, low pressures at high latitudes and depressions further south send the jet stream, storms and lotsa rain as deep in Europe as the Empire. From news reports, it doesn't seem to have much disrupted the numerous battles and manoeuvers there, beyond delaying kings and soaking Pepyses. This late in the season we phant'sy it can't be too good for the crops, though; not what you'd want to usher in your happy reign.
Going down the stairs from that common room, "the woman" tightens the cat-gut garrotte hidden in her braid, and re-fastens he thin poniard concealed in her demure black bodice.
Why, she did think the little Englishman would be another of these repressed lechers now streaming from their post-Puritan islands, but no. This one look'd like he never would. Comforting to know that true gentlemen still exist.
Two streets away she finds the sergeant, who warily touches his plumed hat and opens the coach's door for her. Off to the Binnenhof they go, the sergeant riding post and the ruthlessly efficient operative known to a few as "zwarte weduwe", alone on the satin bench, puzzling over the cyphered text in the Englishman's notebook, that she perused all night as he lay snoring in his wet finery.
Meanwhile, back in Whithehall, it falls to "Robt. Blackborne", the State Papers tell us, to figure out where everybody is. The mail usually seems to take a couple of days between the fleet and London, but now both the fleet, the king and everything else is moving fast, so 'twould be nice if everything would just click, and Blackborne must be wishing they had already invented the radio:
"I hope that Mr. Pett came on board the Naseby before the fleet sailed from Dover", he writes today to someone unnamed but likely a boss also trying to follow the action - well, Pett was last seen playing ninepins on the 28th - "and that Mr. Creed is possessed of the 200L. There is 500L. more ordered to-day on the same account, and payable to such person as his lordship [Montagu?] or Mr. Creed shall assign". So Creed, at least, didn't come ashore just to sightsee; let's hope his 200L. didn't get too soaked, and wonder how and when that money order for 500L. "ordered today" will reach his lordship or Creed in a form that can be cashed.
Do we also detect a hint of chaos and improvisation in what follows? "His Excellency has given commission to Gen. Penn to hasten to the fleet, with such ships as are here in the river or at Portsmouth in a sailing posture, and accordingly he went on to Gravesend this morning about 2 o'clock, and wrote an express to Portsmouth", &c. It's not like fetching the king is a last-minute idea, but you see, there was a nice fleet until much of it was sent to escort the herring-boats.
And maybe the Dutch aren't the only ones caught short by just how many people are coming along. Let's commiserate with Robt. Blackborne as a page advises him that "there's also the marquess of Thisandthat and he has 12 horses, his furniture and 26 servants; says he's like a brother to His Majestie".
By the 11th it seems the States, perhaps a bit swamped, "required Mr. d'Amerongen, (...) to go to Breda; and to report from thence an exact estate of the Kings whole Court, and train of the Princes; as also of the number of the Lords, of the Councel, and of his Majesties House, to the end, that necessary proportions might be taken for the lodgings pointed out for the Lords; for the Tables which were to be furnished; and for the mouths to be fed, during the residence which the King should make at the Hage." A brief stay for which the budget, "not to come short", was set at "three hundred thousand gilders" (pages 20-21).
To Charles' credit, towns as far as Rotterdam wanted a piece of him, but "his Majesty excused himself, as well upon the present estate of his affairs, which permitted him not to stay any where; as because that his passage could not but incommodate the inhabitants" (page 22).
Note, in Lower's quote, the reference to "the hot season". So in May, it's already "the hot season"? In this, the Little Ice Age, maybe not so hot (surely Sam would have told us), but it seems to impede the quality's provisioning. Hot or not, however, at this time the wheat is high, and 'twould be a bad idea indeed for all the king's horses to take detours and shortcuts through the fields. Of late the weather has also be windy, and so perhaps also rainy, and the roads are likely in no condition for all these coaches to explore. More reasons to just beeline to the ships.
As always Sam is giving us the ground truth so let's hear in a contemporary voice why Sam's getting such thin gruel. From Sir William Lower's admirable " "Relation in the form of journal of the voiage and residence", his Diurnall of Charles' passage through Holland (at https://quod.lib.umich.edu/e/eebo…)
"The Estates General [that rule Holland] resolved, the same day, that the King's charges should be defrayed during the whole time he stayed in the United Provinces; and ordained likewise that provision should be made for it; but at first they met with so many difficulties, that it was absolutely impossible to execute this resolution. For the Town of Breda being already starved almost, because of the great number of persons of quality which came there every day, and the hot season permitting not provisions to be brought there from other places, there was no body would undertake to treat the King; and those that would have undertaken it, could not have accomplish'd it; so that the Estate would have had the displeasure to see their substance dissipated, at the expense of its reputation." (pages 12-13)
And persons of quality, who of course eat a lot and only quality, are only the start. In addition to all these Englishmen, Lower recalls that on the 7th (old style) a delegation sent by the States to compliment the king came with "four Cornets of Horse of the Garrison", which "arriving at the Town, (...) found there 12 Companies of Foot drawn up in battalia". As per Wikipedia (at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cor…) a "cornet of horse" is "typically 100-300 men", so up to 1,200 more mouths to feed (plus barley for the horses). By the 13th, as Charles leaves Breda for The Hague and Scheveningen, the four horse regiments have become five (page 24). Dutch regiments, but we suspect they lived off the land.
That's not all. On the same day the States, falling upon themselves to be nice to Charles now that it's absolutely sure he's a head of state, wrote Parliament to advise that "they had sent commissions to Arnham, Heusden, Bergen op Zoom, and Gercum, for the Troops of Horse of Prince William of Nassau, of the Count Christian of Dona, and of Mrs. de Buat, de Wassenaer, and de la Lecque, son to Mr. Beverweert, with order to march with all speed, night and day, towards high Swaluwe, to attend there the King of great Britain" (page 13). Hooge Zwaluwe, still a small village in 2023, is between Breda and the Hague but Lower doesn't mention it again so it's not clear that Charles' convoy ever stopped there, to the Zwaluwers' mixed disappointment and relief perhaps.
And aye, sending a few ships with empty cabins is wise, for the king's court in Breda is now swelled to a noisy multitude, of courtiers converging from continental exiles and on everything that floats from England, both loving and loyal and offering money, repentant and on their knees, or (likely the most common variety) adventurous and noisily petitioning for business. Among the most recent arrivals, the French Gazette informs us (in an interesting dispatch from Breda dated May 27 new style that we'll revisit), were "four Companies of Horse", which Charles has at his disposal and sent to escort the Parliamentary delegation last week. We surmise those are English souldiers, of whom there is galore on the Continent. Now where are we going to put them?
And no, 'tis not prudent to delay. The weather has been difficult and 'tis unwise not to avail of a bit of calm or favorable winds if Providence offers them. Also Charles is being fêted by the Dutch right now, but he's still in forraigne lands, which Kings in this Age do not visit except for conquest. With every passing day, some plot may be further refined to molest H.M., perhaps on the way to Sheveningen, hatched by Phanatiques or the fickly Spanish or the unpredictable French... Who knows? And everybody in England is waiting, of course, but here and there we do detect a bit of nervousness at how exposed the King is out there in Holland.
"The Fruitless Precaution" is indeed a pretty story, which Sam shouldn't have too much trouble procuring. However, in the 1661 French edition beautifully digitized at https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148…, it runs to 167 pages and over 15,000 words, so unless Sam plans to become an actor (and Parliment just recently reaffirmed that theaters should stay closed), we doubt if he truly meant to memorize all of it.
The story tells of a Spanish gentleman locking up his bride to keep her innocent and faithful until marriage (it don't work, and seems a practice that in the more sophisticated World of, say, the 21st century, will surely have become wholly unheard-of). It did inspire Molière and, over a century from now, a M. de Beaumarchais, in whose play (and later Rossini masterpiece), "The Barber of Sevilla or, the Useless Precaution", the locked-up bride pretends, when asked in Act I by her guardian what it is she wrote on that piece of paper (a treasonous love note to count Almaviva), that it's just "nothing, nothing, sir, the words of the aria from 'L'Inutile Precauzione' (...) the new drama set to music". In this incarnation, does the Precaution mostly survive in the memory of men, until they do reach this page in the Diary.
We phant'sy that Sam would have loved the opera, but presently we wonder what his enthusiastm for that particular book tells us of his feelings toward Marital Infidelity. Surely, being after weekes on a ship, the topic of Cuckoldry and What Our Wives Are Doing Now did come up a few times between the rounds of ninepins.
Venetian ambassador Francesco Giavarina will shortly (on May 21, new style) report on the exuberant euphoria that followed the king's proclamation today, the "immense crowds", the bonfires, "the ringing of all the bells and the roar of the guns", &c. Nice; see it at https://www.british-history.ac.uk….
The embassies, he said, kept up with the usual wine fountains and such, "except France, who, to the general astonishment, showed so much reserve that one may say he did nothing".
Not that Louis XIV would shed many tears for regicides; just a decade ago during the Fronde he had to deal with his own Cromwell (of sorts, the prince de Condé, whom he's just pardoned back in January). But then today's proclamation says "Charles the Second (...) is, of (...) France (...) the most potent, mighty and undoubted King".
So, duh. Imagine the reaction in the Louvre. Louis, turning to his foreign minister: "Brienne, you who know the family... Devons-nous en rire ou en pleurer?"
Should We laugh or cry? The advisers re-read the telex from London and eye each other. "Laughing at such a claim would befit your majesty. For now. But should your majesty care, we do have some good people in Breda..."
Seen in the State Papers, amid the delirious outpourings of joy and relief which, if we believe our various sources, are greeting the newes of the king's return in London and beyond - and there's a lot that Sam is missing on while he bowls away the days... This very official letter from the ever-suffering Victualling Office to the Admiralty, dated May 9th:
"The State's occasions of late have called for considerable quantities of beer from the several brewers". Lol, we say. Alas, it continues: "... whereby there is much owing them from this office, them having not yet received what is due for them" since months back, la la la, the usual. Could everybody just be a tad less merry? If the mood could turn to revenge or disillusion just a bit early, you know, it'd help in that quarter.
For our continued archivall pleasure the State Papers provide the "Order in the Admiralty Committee", indeed dated May 7, "on an order of the Council of State of 5 May", to send "with all speed to Gen. Montague" a full collection of "such standards (...) as were in use before 1648 (...) and such other silk flags as may complete a suit for the Naseby", along with an army of painters and carvers to make it fit for a king.
We expect the Diary to be full of this shortly, what with all the noise and interesting crafts for Sam to observe and get in the way of, but wait: We're not talking of a few ribbons here, nor of pulling moldy old flags from storage, for attached to the Order, is a "Note of 24 silk pendants of from 12 to 30 yards each, that are to be made by Mr. Young". 30 yards of silk! 27 meters, if the yard of 1660 is (as it seems) already the same as that of later ages.
Leaving aside the phantasticall cost of it ('tho we note that, also today, the same Council of State begs the same Admiralty to advise "how the charge [the cost, of the Navy] may be lessened") - and whether poor Mr. Young will ever be paid - where amid the tangle of ropes, shrouds and guy-wires are we going to hang all this delicate fluttering silk?
Paintings of the Naseby (soon to be the Royal Charles), such as the beautiful Dutch (ahem) one on the ship's Wikipedia page, shows how cramped it is, about 13 by 40 meters times two decks for Pepys, his bottles and the rest, and imply the mainmast itself is about 30 meters high. We find only one drawing (at https://www.rmg.co.uk/collections…) of the ship as it will be on the Big Day, adorned with what looks like about 19 silk pendants. Another image, of the future Sovereign of the Seas (at https://www.worldhistory.org/imag…) confirms us in the art of hanging those streamers.
On the Royal Charles they look to have been cut to about 10 yards long - more work to expedite, so "all speed" indeed, by your leave. Let's still hope the wind blows gently and in the right direction.
The French Gazette (at https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148…, page 490), which now gives the London news top priority (big extraordinary supplements, dispatches rushed to print within days when news from elsewhere can take weekes, etc), will have on May 20 (new style) a summary of this week's events. It notes that the fleet's officers having been read Charles' letter, "they shewed a singular satisfaction, as did the rest of the Fleet: which unfurled, at the same time, its Pennants and Banners, to the sound of Artillery & cries of Vive le Roy, to which answered the cannon of the Castles of Deal & Sandwich, which are near the Dunes".
Venetian ambassador Giavarina has something to say, too, since he's sending his weekly report today, with Breda as an attachment (dated May 14 new style, at https://www.british-history.ac.uk…)
"The city and the whole kingdom rejoice over such news and these last nights bonfires have been lighted at every corner of London and Westminster, to the ringing of the bells and the firing of all the guns of the Tower and of the ships in the Thames. Cries of 'Long live King Charles' are heard at every moment and his health is drunk publicly in the streets. A number of people are getting ready to cross to him in Holland, and there is no doubt they will vie with one another to take offers of cash to his Majesty to relieve his most pressing needs.
"In a few weeks we shall undoubtedly see the king in England. From what they say the whole fleet, now in the Channel, will be sent to fetch him, with a stately deputation. The exact time cannot yet be known, but they insist that his entry will be on the 29th May, old style [9 June, new style], his Majesty's birthday, when he will be exactly 30 years of age."
The report then echoes most divertingly when read (we're told) in May 2023: "Not a little is required to get everything ready for the king's reception which they say will certainly be the most stately and splendid that has ever been, such is the passion of the people to pour out their treasure and their blood for their sovereign. There will follow his Majesty's coronation, which will not be less noble and costly than his entry."
Giavarina then asks the Doge and Senate for a bigger budget, because being ambassador to a proper king is going to involve a lot more expenses than ambassador to a bunch of committees.
Comments
Third Reading
About Thursday 22 March 1659/60
Stephane Chenard • Link
Thomas Rugg will later reminisce, in his summary of the Mercurius Politicus (for July, oddly snuck'd at page 105 between a rundown of appointments and proclamations) how "in this month [July] came up a fashion that woemen did ware satin and taffety gloves and men silver band strings". Could "band-strings" be anything but hatbands? Anyway, Rugg says, "the silver band-strings did take but littl fancy", so perhaps not so compelling as a bribe.
About Saturday 2 June 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
That part of the volume contains a few other gems. To wit, petitions for pardon from John Lambert ("resolves to spend the rest of his days in peace") and Arthur Hasslerigg (helped Monk to find Lambert; won't be quite enough, but both of them will keep their heads). The king (at page 7) is also offered a Treatise on "the way to make the King more King in wealth and power, and the subject more subject in faith and obedience", quite a project. Also the services of a Dr. Anderson, who "has travelled the Brazils, west Indies, Africa, &c.", and having received "the gift of revelation" after being "deprived of hearing whilst enslaved by the Turks", offers "to reveal something acceptable to His Majesty to some one appointed to hear him" (No. 138, page 14).
But the most fascinating petition (No. 129, page 13), for a job, we find to come from John Fowler, exiled by the Commonwealth "to the West Indies, as a present to the barbarous people there, which penalty he underwent with satisfaction and content". A quick check on "John Fowlers" find the author of a tome on Tobago in 1774 and a governor of Trinidad in the 1890s, but what about Fowler 1660? Did he go native and spend 15 years as a befeathered cacique?
About Saturday 2 June 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
Attention fellow State Papers fanatics: As a new Era begins, so does a new volume of the "Calendar of State Papers", for the years 1660 (starting on May 30, our birth-day) and 1661. Our playful book-seller Mr Goggle offers the 1860 edition at https://play.google.com/store/boo… (told ye he's playful).
And for a special welcoming gift, we find the first State Paper (that we know of) with Sam's name in it. Dated June 2, it's a suitably humdrum letter from "Rob. Blackborne to [Sam Pepys]", apparently not named in the original but already a celeb and ID'd as such by the 1860 compiler. "Will inform the Commissioners of the order for the Happy Return to go to Hull", yadda yadda yadda, the stuff that Sam spends his time on when he's not bowling.
Or drinking, like everybody else in England. Blackborne attaches a bunch of recent news to his letter, including a "proclamation made against debauchery". That interesting document, not otherwise detailed, would seem to be the Proclamation, signed by H.M. himself on May 30 - a day that must have been quite full, but in which he found the time - "against debauched and profane persons, who, on pretence of regard to the King, revile and threaten others, or spend their time in taverns and tippling houses, drinking his health; ordering magistrates to be strict in discovering and punishing the same".
On reviling and threatening in the King's name - not the first edict in recent days, that aims at curbing the zealots, or plain truants, who seem to be breaking doors all over England in search of stolen royal treasures, republican plots, or whatnot, truly or as an excuse. Standard fare after wars, revolutions or, hey, restorations.
On over-indulging in the King's name, we say - we'll have another. That one must have prompted a few chuckles among the hung-over brass of the Royal Charles.
Not everyone, however shares in our feelings. Among a mound of undated petitions stashed at the beginning of the State Papers volume is (at page 4) a letter of congratulations to the King from the mayor and good burghers of Lyme Regis ("the Pearl of Dorset" according to Wikipedia), "rejoicing (...) in the proclamation against vicious, profane, and debauched persons". We surmise that not everything in the Pearl of Dorset has been hanky-dory of late.
About Wednesday 23 May 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
Oh, and why so many people on the shore? The sources don't analyze that too deeply, but how often, on the rugged Dutch coast, do you get a naval show that's not an invasion, and to see all these plumes, ribbons and petticoats? And to sell them, their servants and their sergeants a few baskets of mussels? And to pick up all the goodies that they leave behind, lost or uneaten or too heavy to carry? Worth a walk, we say; in an age when walking a few dozen miles and sleeping atop a dune is hardly an exceptional adventure.
About Wednesday 23 May 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
The Hat Protocol, however, is a trifle to implement compared with settling precedence among the hundreds of knights, viscounts, baronets, ambassadors, generals, dukes &c. that presently throng the Dutch shore. Lower tells, again (at page 23), how the States General, preparing to see Charles off in Breda on May 24, felt "reason to fear, that there might happen some disorder about the rank of the Coaches that should be sent to meet the King"; for a specific reason, somewhat prescient, that "some of them (...) would make their Coach, to go before that of the Prince of Or[a]ng[e]; who ought to be considered here, not only because of his quality of Soveraign Prince, but also as Nephew to the King; and consequently, as chief Prince of the blood of England", of which some Ambassadours could perhaps be foolishly unaware, or disregarding. The issue was so hot that "the Estates General (...) judged fit to cause the Embassadours, of the Crowned-heads, to be prayed, by their Agent, not to send their Coaches".
Then there was the English court, which could be expected to polish its badges of rank and privileges with a vengeance after all these years of exile and now that it truly matter'd. "No person would undertake the commission to distribute the Yachts among the Lords of the Court, because it would be impossible to oblige them all equally, and to disoblige none". In desperation the Dutch protocol officer, Mr. de Beverweert, "besought the King to be so gracious, as to cause the distribution to be made". Charles was busy and couldn't care less, and "ordained that the Duke of York, should on this occasion perform the functions of Admiral, in distributing the Yachts".
Their same bristly Lordships will soon be jostling in the narrow passageways and cramped cabins of the Royal Navy - some perhaps hurried on by seasickness. The fleet's Sam Pepyses will wisely stay out of the way. The king - for whom, we forgot to mention, hatlessness signals Humility - of course walks where he pleases.
About Wednesday 23 May 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
The "infinity of people on board" and the ship being "exceeding full" with "nothing but Lords and persons of honour" bring up one tricky issue: Protocol. And Charles "riding bareheaded" and "st[anding] amidships in a wig and dark clothes, bareheaded" - ah, the fascination with bare heads.
Leaving aside the importance of pronouncing the latter clearly ("did ye say the king was beheaded today?") Sir William Lower's "Relation in the form of journal" never fails to mention it when some bare head was in the Presence. Being hatless, even if still bewigged, implied an easy, informal, friendly relationship with H.M. Thus at pages 40-42 Lower devotes nearly 400 words to tergiversations among ambassadors, as they prepare for farewell audiences with Charles in the Hague, before he embarks, on whether they should go with hats or not:
"Some doubted if the Embassadours (...) should be received to make their complements to the King without Letters of Credence; or if after it were acknowledged that their character legitimated them for that, they might be covered". Eventually they chose No Hat, because the king "could not dispense himself of treating them, according to the dignity of their character, and of making them to be covered". The protocol is not that subalterns should doff their hats to their betters, but that they stand in full uniform, hats firmly on. Diplomats come and go in hatless insouciance, just as in later ages they'll park with abandon without fear of being ticket'd.
The Hat/No-Hat rules veered close to absurdity when Charles received Spanish ambassador Don Estevan de Gamarra, a friend which the king meets "without ceremonies" given "the affection which he [Gamarra] had had for his interests". But Spain, despite now being at peace with France, is still technically at war with France's English ally, precluding Hatless Insouciance. So? "So covered he not himself, because the open war which for some years was, and is between Spain and England, hindred him to make his character appear there; whereas the particular devotion, which this Lord hath alwaies had for the service of his Majesty, obliged him to be continually at the Court, and by his person." In this case perhaps a tiny hat, without plumes..? Ay carambas, basta con estas huevadas, vamos, vamos! And Gamarra strides in, the mane of curls visible at https://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Est… flowing 'round his rotund visage.
About Wednesday 23 May 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
"At Rouen he looked so poorly, that the people went into the rooms before he went away to see whether he had not stole something or other."
We shall henceforth feel Brothership to His Majestie, everie time an inkeeper will, upon our telling him that no, we didn't take anything from the minibar, still detaine us until a servant has discreetly inspected our hotel room to ascertain if this be, indeed, the plaine Truth.
About Saturday 26 May 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
Bob Terry 10 years ago asked how the Quality (and the rest) got on (and now off) the ship. We just can't let a good question go unanswered. William Lower at the end of his "Relation in the form of a journal" says MyLord received the king "at the top of the ladder, by which one goes up onto the ship". What with all the ribbons and the petticoats &c., it must have been a sight, but apparently nobody fell.
About Sunday 20 May 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
The rotten weather is not going unnoticed back home, where Thomas Rugg, recapping Mercurius Politicus articles from last week, will note that "in this month are very great winds, so that it was the contineuall prayers of his Majestys freinds for his Majestie in regard that evry day hee was expected to take shipinge".
Alas, Mr. Evelyn was silent on the weather, despite its great import just now, but "Weather in History 1650 to 1659 AD", a usefull compilation at https://premium.weatherweb.net/we…, observes how it's all been unseasonably warm and wet since 1658, with "possibly highly unsettled (i.e. cyclonic)" conditions, owing, in late 1660 still, to "a markedly zonal type (or high NAOI), with the associated mean jet translated far enough south to propel cyclonic disturbances across southern Britain in quick succession".
The NAOI is an index of how atmospheric pressure varies over the Atlantic from the Arctic to the Azores. Normally it changes all the time but when it's high, low pressures at high latitudes and depressions further south send the jet stream, storms and lotsa rain as deep in Europe as the Empire. From news reports, it doesn't seem to have much disrupted the numerous battles and manoeuvers there, beyond delaying kings and soaking Pepyses. This late in the season we phant'sy it can't be too good for the crops, though; not what you'd want to usher in your happy reign.
About Sunday 20 May 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
Going down the stairs from that common room, "the woman" tightens the cat-gut garrotte hidden in her braid, and re-fastens he thin poniard concealed in her demure black bodice.
Why, she did think the little Englishman would be another of these repressed lechers now streaming from their post-Puritan islands, but no. This one look'd like he never would. Comforting to know that true gentlemen still exist.
Two streets away she finds the sergeant, who warily touches his plumed hat and opens the coach's door for her. Off to the Binnenhof they go, the sergeant riding post and the ruthlessly efficient operative known to a few as "zwarte weduwe", alone on the satin bench, puzzling over the cyphered text in the Englishman's notebook, that she perused all night as he lay snoring in his wet finery.
About Monday 14 May 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
Meanwhile, back in Whithehall, it falls to "Robt. Blackborne", the State Papers tell us, to figure out where everybody is. The mail usually seems to take a couple of days between the fleet and London, but now both the fleet, the king and everything else is moving fast, so 'twould be nice if everything would just click, and Blackborne must be wishing they had already invented the radio:
"I hope that Mr. Pett came on board the Naseby before the fleet sailed from Dover", he writes today to someone unnamed but likely a boss also trying to follow the action - well, Pett was last seen playing ninepins on the 28th - "and that Mr. Creed is possessed of the 200L. There is 500L. more ordered to-day on the same account, and payable to such person as his lordship [Montagu?] or Mr. Creed shall assign". So Creed, at least, didn't come ashore just to sightsee; let's hope his 200L. didn't get too soaked, and wonder how and when that money order for 500L. "ordered today" will reach his lordship or Creed in a form that can be cashed.
Do we also detect a hint of chaos and improvisation in what follows? "His Excellency has given commission to Gen. Penn to hasten to the fleet, with such ships as are here in the river or at Portsmouth in a sailing posture, and accordingly he went on to Gravesend this morning about 2 o'clock, and wrote an express to Portsmouth", &c. It's not like fetching the king is a last-minute idea, but you see, there was a nice fleet until much of it was sent to escort the herring-boats.
And maybe the Dutch aren't the only ones caught short by just how many people are coming along. Let's commiserate with Robt. Blackborne as a page advises him that "there's also the marquess of Thisandthat and he has 12 horses, his furniture and 26 servants; says he's like a brother to His Majestie".
About Monday 14 May 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
By the 11th it seems the States, perhaps a bit swamped, "required Mr. d'Amerongen, (...) to go to Breda; and to report from thence an exact estate of the Kings whole Court, and train of the Princes; as also of the number of the Lords, of the Councel, and of his Majesties House, to the end, that necessary proportions might be taken for the lodgings pointed out for the Lords; for the Tables which were to be furnished; and for the mouths to be fed, during the residence which the King should make at the Hage." A brief stay for which the budget, "not to come short", was set at "three hundred thousand gilders" (pages 20-21).
To Charles' credit, towns as far as Rotterdam wanted a piece of him, but "his Majesty excused himself, as well upon the present estate of his affairs, which permitted him not to stay any where; as because that his passage could not but incommodate the inhabitants" (page 22).
Note, in Lower's quote, the reference to "the hot season". So in May, it's already "the hot season"? In this, the Little Ice Age, maybe not so hot (surely Sam would have told us), but it seems to impede the quality's provisioning. Hot or not, however, at this time the wheat is high, and 'twould be a bad idea indeed for all the king's horses to take detours and shortcuts through the fields. Of late the weather has also be windy, and so perhaps also rainy, and the roads are likely in no condition for all these coaches to explore. More reasons to just beeline to the ships.
About Monday 14 May 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
As always Sam is giving us the ground truth so let's hear in a contemporary voice why Sam's getting such thin gruel. From Sir William Lower's admirable " "Relation in the form of journal of the voiage and residence", his Diurnall of Charles' passage through Holland (at https://quod.lib.umich.edu/e/eebo…)
"The Estates General [that rule Holland] resolved, the same day, that the King's charges should be defrayed during the whole time he stayed in the United Provinces; and ordained likewise that provision should be made for it; but at first they met with so many difficulties, that it was absolutely impossible to execute this resolution. For the Town of Breda being already starved almost, because of the great number of persons of quality which came there every day, and the hot season permitting not provisions to be brought there from other places, there was no body would undertake to treat the King; and those that would have undertaken it, could not have accomplish'd it; so that the Estate would have had the displeasure to see their substance dissipated, at the expense of its reputation." (pages 12-13)
And persons of quality, who of course eat a lot and only quality, are only the start. In addition to all these Englishmen, Lower recalls that on the 7th (old style) a delegation sent by the States to compliment the king came with "four Cornets of Horse of the Garrison", which "arriving at the Town, (...) found there 12 Companies of Foot drawn up in battalia". As per Wikipedia (at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cor…) a "cornet of horse" is "typically 100-300 men", so up to 1,200 more mouths to feed (plus barley for the horses). By the 13th, as Charles leaves Breda for The Hague and Scheveningen, the four horse regiments have become five (page 24). Dutch regiments, but we suspect they lived off the land.
That's not all. On the same day the States, falling upon themselves to be nice to Charles now that it's absolutely sure he's a head of state, wrote Parliament to advise that "they had sent commissions to Arnham, Heusden, Bergen op Zoom, and Gercum, for the Troops of Horse of Prince William of Nassau, of the Count Christian of Dona, and of Mrs. de Buat, de Wassenaer, and de la Lecque, son to Mr. Beverweert, with order to march with all speed, night and day, towards high Swaluwe, to attend there the King of great Britain" (page 13). Hooge Zwaluwe, still a small village in 2023, is between Breda and the Hague but Lower doesn't mention it again so it's not clear that Charles' convoy ever stopped there, to the Zwaluwers' mixed disappointment and relief perhaps.
About Saturday 12 May 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
And aye, sending a few ships with empty cabins is wise, for the king's court in Breda is now swelled to a noisy multitude, of courtiers converging from continental exiles and on everything that floats from England, both loving and loyal and offering money, repentant and on their knees, or (likely the most common variety) adventurous and noisily petitioning for business. Among the most recent arrivals, the French Gazette informs us (in an interesting dispatch from Breda dated May 27 new style that we'll revisit), were "four Companies of Horse", which Charles has at his disposal and sent to escort the Parliamentary delegation last week. We surmise those are English souldiers, of whom there is galore on the Continent. Now where are we going to put them?
And no, 'tis not prudent to delay. The weather has been difficult and 'tis unwise not to avail of a bit of calm or favorable winds if Providence offers them. Also Charles is being fêted by the Dutch right now, but he's still in forraigne lands, which Kings in this Age do not visit except for conquest. With every passing day, some plot may be further refined to molest H.M., perhaps on the way to Sheveningen, hatched by Phanatiques or the fickly Spanish or the unpredictable French... Who knows? And everybody in England is waiting, of course, but here and there we do detect a bit of nervousness at how exposed the King is out there in Holland.
About Saturday 12 May 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
"The Fruitless Precaution" is indeed a pretty story, which Sam shouldn't have too much trouble procuring. However, in the 1661 French edition beautifully digitized at https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148…, it runs to 167 pages and over 15,000 words, so unless Sam plans to become an actor (and Parliment just recently reaffirmed that theaters should stay closed), we doubt if he truly meant to memorize all of it.
The story tells of a Spanish gentleman locking up his bride to keep her innocent and faithful until marriage (it don't work, and seems a practice that in the more sophisticated World of, say, the 21st century, will surely have become wholly unheard-of). It did inspire Molière and, over a century from now, a M. de Beaumarchais, in whose play (and later Rossini masterpiece), "The Barber of Sevilla or, the Useless Precaution", the locked-up bride pretends, when asked in Act I by her guardian what it is she wrote on that piece of paper (a treasonous love note to count Almaviva), that it's just "nothing, nothing, sir, the words of the aria from 'L'Inutile Precauzione' (...) the new drama set to music". In this incarnation, does the Precaution mostly survive in the memory of men, until they do reach this page in the Diary.
We phant'sy that Sam would have loved the opera, but presently we wonder what his enthusiastm for that particular book tells us of his feelings toward Marital Infidelity. Surely, being after weekes on a ship, the topic of Cuckoldry and What Our Wives Are Doing Now did come up a few times between the rounds of ninepins.
About Tuesday 8 May 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
Venetian ambassador Francesco Giavarina will shortly (on May 21, new style) report on the exuberant euphoria that followed the king's proclamation today, the "immense crowds", the bonfires, "the ringing of all the bells and the roar of the guns", &c. Nice; see it at https://www.british-history.ac.uk….
The embassies, he said, kept up with the usual wine fountains and such, "except France, who, to the general astonishment, showed so much reserve that one may say he did nothing".
Not that Louis XIV would shed many tears for regicides; just a decade ago during the Fronde he had to deal with his own Cromwell (of sorts, the prince de Condé, whom he's just pardoned back in January). But then today's proclamation says "Charles the Second (...) is, of (...) France (...) the most potent, mighty and undoubted King".
So, duh. Imagine the reaction in the Louvre. Louis, turning to his foreign minister: "Brienne, you who know the family... Devons-nous en rire ou en pleurer?"
Should We laugh or cry? The advisers re-read the telex from London and eye each other. "Laughing at such a claim would befit your majesty. For now. But should your majesty care, we do have some good people in Breda..."
About Wednesday 9 May 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
Seen in the State Papers, amid the delirious outpourings of joy and relief which, if we believe our various sources, are greeting the newes of the king's return in London and beyond - and there's a lot that Sam is missing on while he bowls away the days... This very official letter from the ever-suffering Victualling Office to the Admiralty, dated May 9th:
"The State's occasions of late have called for considerable quantities of beer from the several brewers". Lol, we say. Alas, it continues: "... whereby there is much owing them from this office, them having not yet received what is due for them" since months back, la la la, the usual. Could everybody just be a tad less merry? If the mood could turn to revenge or disillusion just a bit early, you know, it'd help in that quarter.
About Monday 7 May 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
For our continued archivall pleasure the State Papers provide the "Order in the Admiralty Committee", indeed dated May 7, "on an order of the Council of State of 5 May", to send "with all speed to Gen. Montague" a full collection of "such standards (...) as were in use before 1648 (...) and such other silk flags as may complete a suit for the Naseby", along with an army of painters and carvers to make it fit for a king.
We expect the Diary to be full of this shortly, what with all the noise and interesting crafts for Sam to observe and get in the way of, but wait: We're not talking of a few ribbons here, nor of pulling moldy old flags from storage, for attached to the Order, is a "Note of 24 silk pendants of from 12 to 30 yards each, that are to be made by Mr. Young". 30 yards of silk! 27 meters, if the yard of 1660 is (as it seems) already the same as that of later ages.
Leaving aside the phantasticall cost of it ('tho we note that, also today, the same Council of State begs the same Admiralty to advise "how the charge [the cost, of the Navy] may be lessened") - and whether poor Mr. Young will ever be paid - where amid the tangle of ropes, shrouds and guy-wires are we going to hang all this delicate fluttering silk?
Paintings of the Naseby (soon to be the Royal Charles), such as the beautiful Dutch (ahem) one on the ship's Wikipedia page, shows how cramped it is, about 13 by 40 meters times two decks for Pepys, his bottles and the rest, and imply the mainmast itself is about 30 meters high. We find only one drawing (at https://www.rmg.co.uk/collections…) of the ship as it will be on the Big Day, adorned with what looks like about 19 silk pendants. Another image, of the future Sovereign of the Seas (at https://www.worldhistory.org/imag…) confirms us in the art of hanging those streamers.
On the Royal Charles they look to have been cut to about 10 yards long - more work to expedite, so "all speed" indeed, by your leave. Let's still hope the wind blows gently and in the right direction.
About Thursday 3 May 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
The French Gazette (at https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148…, page 490), which now gives the London news top priority (big extraordinary supplements, dispatches rushed to print within days when news from elsewhere can take weekes, etc), will have on May 20 (new style) a summary of this week's events. It notes that the fleet's officers having been read Charles' letter, "they shewed a singular satisfaction, as did the rest of the Fleet: which unfurled, at the same time, its Pennants and Banners, to the sound of Artillery & cries of Vive le Roy, to which answered the cannon of the Castles of Deal & Sandwich, which are near the Dunes".
About Thursday 3 May 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
Venetian ambassador Giavarina has something to say, too, since he's sending his weekly report today, with Breda as an attachment (dated May 14 new style, at https://www.british-history.ac.uk…)
"The city and the whole kingdom rejoice over such news and these last nights bonfires have been lighted at every corner of London and Westminster, to the ringing of the bells and the firing of all the guns of the Tower and of the ships in the Thames. Cries of 'Long live King Charles' are heard at every moment and his health is drunk publicly in the streets. A number of people are getting ready to cross to him in Holland, and there is no doubt they will vie with one another to take offers of cash to his Majesty to relieve his most pressing needs.
"In a few weeks we shall undoubtedly see the king in England. From what they say the whole fleet, now in the Channel, will be sent to fetch him, with a stately deputation. The exact time cannot yet be known, but they insist that his entry will be on the 29th May, old style [9 June, new style], his Majesty's birthday, when he will be exactly 30 years of age."
The report then echoes most divertingly when read (we're told) in May 2023: "Not a little is required to get everything ready for the king's reception which they say will certainly be the most stately and splendid that has ever been, such is the passion of the people to pour out their treasure and their blood for their sovereign. There will follow his Majesty's coronation, which will not be less noble and costly than his entry."
Giavarina then asks the Doge and Senate for a bigger budget, because being ambassador to a proper king is going to involve a lot more expenses than ambassador to a bunch of committees.