Stephane Chenard

Annotations and comments

Stephane Chenard has posted 421 annotations/comments since 1 January 2021.

The most recent first…

Comments

Third Reading

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 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.

About Monday 3 September 1660

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

Other occasions than Cromwell's death, if slightly contrived, are fortunately available to give the people something else to celebrate today, but do we detect a wistful note at the end of this report from Mercurius Politicus, as Thomas Rugge summarized it in 1672, with 12 years' worth of hindsight?

"In this month the citty of Worester, it beeinge the 3 day September, kept a great day of rejoycinge for the deliverance of his Majesty, it beeinge that his Majestie lost the day of battel with Oliver Cromwell, for on that day of the month hee had a great victory in Ireland and another on that day at Dunbarre in Scotland, and that day of the month hee died. Vale [farewell], Oliver."

(https://doi.org/10.1017/S20421710…, p. 110; paywalled).

About Saturday 1 September 1660

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

The prince de Ligne, ambassador extraordinary for Spain: Just the name and title evoke pump and luxury, of the sort that bring head-shaking in taverns and even at Court, and gets you into Sam's carnet mondain. Venetian ambassador Giavarina, whose job obviously includes watching that scene closely, has been tracking Ligne for months and reported home a couple of weeks ago that "warships have already been despatched to the coasts of Flanders to fetch him, at his request" - this alone would get him on Sam's radar. Warships plural, for "[h]e comes with a large suite of over 100 persons. He brings four coaches and six, a large number of pages and lackeys and will be accompanied by a number of distinguished persons of Flanders, who are bringing their coaches and six, and liveries at their own cost, to render the embassy as splendid as possible." Giavarina's letters are at https://www.british-history.ac.uk…, this one is dated September 3, new style, August 23 Pepys standard time. Ligne was expected "next week" at the time, so a bit of delay maybe.

A suite of over 100 persons! What do they even do? Most of them will probably have nothing more to do than look pretty. By definition, the court of Spain travels in style and must be awesome, but in this case there's stuff at stake. There's the port of Dunkirk, a strategic gateway to Holland that's currently in English hands and, 'tis said, available at the right price. There's Spain's interminable war with Portugal; the poor Portuguese ambassador has been angling for the king's eye ever since Charles returned - from Spanish lands, heh heh heh - and he can't afford quite so much soft power but, Giavarina also reported on September 10 (new style), "he makes very liberal offers, which extend to a marriage between the Infanta of Portugal and this king" - that will never work, the wags say, "with a most extensive dowry in Brazil, the East Indies and some port in Portugal itself". "Portugal" did meet Charles in July, but on 30 July (n.s.) Giavarina passed on gossip that "he paid 10,000l. sterling to the grandees of the Court to smoothe the way". Surely an exaggeration, but not a surprise either; the court's gotta catch up on 11 years of not getting bribed. We doubt, however, if the prince de Ligne will have to do anything quite so gross.

And finally, there's England's demobilization of much of its army and navy. As soon as he got this news, Giavarina reacted with "if the most serene republic wants troops this will be an excellent opportunity for getting as many as she requires". He puts the loot at 10,000 men, "all good veteran troops [who] would be glad to serve her in the war with the Ottoman". Well, maybe, but since legally they cannot serve forreigne princes, the king must approve. Spain surely has its eye on that as well, either to get them, or to steer them as far from Portugal - aye, to Venice, why not - as possible.

About Wednesday 29 August 1660

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

This week's Parliamentary Intelligencer also has a few ADVERTISEMENTS, including for this interesting book: "Jews in America, Or, Probabilities that those Indians are Judaical, made more probable by some Additionals to the former Conjectures. By Thomas Thorowgood, S. T. B Norfolciensis." Sold "H. Broom at the Gun in Ivy-lane", where we'll presently rush to find how these Additionals make jews of the Cherokee; we find at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jew… that the idea is currently in vogue.

And with this, that's it for the publick holdings of the Parliamentary Intelligencer at https://quod.lib.umich.edu/e/eebo…. Many thanks to the University of Michigan (in Potawatomi territory). Anyone knows where to find issues after No. 36, please leave us a note at the Gun in Ivy-Lane.

About Wednesday 29 August 1660

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

While the kingdom heaves a huge sigh of relief at the Act of Oblivion finally being passed, king Charles also devotes half of his speech before Parliament to the "Act for a speedy Provision of Money to pay off and disband all the Forces of this Kingdom, both by sea and land", the "pole bill" also voted upon today and which, in all probability, is the reason why Sam had to work so hard of late at tallying the Navy's debt.

What the king has to say, as reprinted in the Parliamentary Intelligencer (No. 36, August 26-September 3 but with newes through August 29 onely) is interesting: "I do thank you as much as if the Money were to come into My Own Coffers (...) I pray very earnestly, as fast as Money comes in, discharge that great burthen of the Navy, and disband the Army as fast as you can". He doesn't quite add 'and take their guns away', but probably he needs not. Then, "the weekly expence of the Navy, eats up all you have given me by the Bill of Tonnage and Poundage." Too bad, as Charles is about to expand it with one of Europe's largest programs of naval construction.

The rest has to be one of the most tear-jerking demonstrations of modesty on record, from someone who just arrived loaded with mountains of gold plate from Holland and on whom the whole country has showered more gifts: "I am not richer, that is, I have not so much money in my Purse, as when I came to you. The truth is, I have lived principally ever since upon what I brought with me (...) Nor have I been able to give my Brothers one shilling since I came into England, nor to keep any Table in my House, but what I eat my self. And that which troubles me most, is, to see many of you come to Me to Whitehall, and to think that you must go some where else to seek your Dinner." O the poor brothers, I can hear their tummies rumbling, O the humiliation of having to turn friends out to the tavern next door. Maybe Sam could help with some leftover cold chicken?

About Saturday 25 August 1660

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

Next week it will be made clear that Peter Johnson is right, and Mr. Walker, no doubt drawing on his lawyer's thick books of precedents, trimmed a priviledge here and there in my lord Sandwich's commission. At this time my lord is in charge of counting His Majestie's silver spoons, and can't wait to get back in the sea spray. In fact his journal (at https://archive.org/details/journ…) has been blank since he disembarked in May, as if there really was nothing worth writing down in my lord's life right now. But a few months of derring-do await in the papers that Walker has revised.

The Duke of York is sharing some breakfast chocolate with his trusted lawyer, and remarks in a jolly mood, "do you know, Walker, I dream'd of you this night past. A voice was saying, 'the kingdome is broke! You must get Walker to cut the Navy's budget'".

"I'm so honored, your grace".

"How absurd, no? When we're broke, why, then we just stop paying. Why would we cut anything?"

Walker, who had one hand inside his portfolio and was about to pull his monthly invoice, opts to extract a lace kerchief instead, and replies with a forced smile. "Indeed, you grace. How droll".