Stephane Chenard

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Stephane Chenard has posted 490 annotations/comments since 1 January 2021.

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Third Reading

About Sunday 21 July 1661

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

Breaking news: Our Sam is in the news-paper, with a flood of articles in the UK press exposing the masses to his lace-cuffs and ribbons. The occasion is a study by Marlo Avidon of Christ's College, "‘Instructive types’ or mere ‘fancies’: assessing French fashion prints in the library of Samuel Pepys", in The Seventeenth Century (a journal, worth perusing). And it's open-access, at https://www.tandfonline.com/doi/f….

Parental advisory: Some of those French fashion prints reproduced in the article may be distressing.

About Saturday 20 July 1661

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

Now we're wondering how many of us are fiddling with time converters right now. Sam, like all god-fearing denizens of the 17C, must indeed be on solar time. Plugging 8:53pm into a solar-time calculator, such as https://koch-tcm.ch/en/uhrzeit-so…, along with the longitude of Brampton and the Gregorian date of 30 July, and taking into account that 8:53 is sunset in a London that lives in a GMT+1 timezone and is on daylight saving time... shows that the Sun itself thinks it's really setting at 6:35 pm.

But wait! What doth matters when one is setting through the fields, to some vaguely familiar destination and after a day's drinking, is the astronomical twilight, the most uncompromising of several variants thereof and the time when the Sun is really, truly down, and the horizon becomes invisible, and the stars come out in splendor, and the church's spire is invisible too, and so is that ditch down there, and that forgotten rake, and... aww, ouch, ahh! And that, according to https://www.timeanddate.com/sun/@…, will happen in Brampton on July 30 at 12 minutes past midnight, modern UK time (but refraction taken into account!) or 9:54 pm solar time. Which leaves Sam time for at least another one at Goody Gorum's.

One variable that escapes us, is the quality of Sam's night-vision. The diary will supply evidence that it's pretty good, and has plenty of training in the obscure, winding lanes of thoroughly unlit London nights, link-boys or not. But we encourage anyone to talk a walk in the countryside at the dead of night (away from them electrickall Lamps of course), and find for themselves that, unless under a forest canopy, the sky is never so dark or your instincts so deeply buried as to make careful walking impossible.

About Tuesday 23 April 1661

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

"A few of those dimonds are sure to have gotten loose", we had surmised. Presently we find in the State Papers how much there is indeed to sift past yesterday's cavalcade, in a warrant dated June 29 to pay a jeweller, Wm. Gomeldon, for sundry gems he had provided; including "the loan of £1,200 worth of stones, which were lost out of the bosses provided for the coronation" in the king's equipage.

How many dimonds could that be? Gomeldon had also sold £730 worth of other stones, some on a picture frame and 320, probably, for the king's stirrups. So, it's small stones we're talking, maybe £2 apiece or less; if they truly be literal diamonds, at that price. But, there may be at least a couple of thousands for the picking, every one of them enough to buy lunch for weeks or months. Worth sending Will on all four with a sieve?

About Monday 22 April 1661

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

How do you dress as the Thames, we asked. We asked, and of course the French Gazette answers, in yet another Extraordinary from London on 7 July (new style). It details the maelstrom of allegories and symbols that Sam beheld today - the writhing hydras of past discord, the purple-mantled dignity of restored monarchy, useful to think about in Paris too.

And yes, there's the Thames, "represented by a great old man, who had clothes strewn with white and blue, the head crown'd with the Bridge of London, with the Flags of Ships and cables [oziers; our tentative translation] falling on his shoulders, in the manner of hair, an Oar in his right hand, a Ship in his left, & and an Urn on his side, whence issued water: attended by four Servants, figuring the four Waterways, which fall into that river."

About Wednesday 26 June 1661

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

Sigh, but the Royal Society's Journal Book for 1660-63 is also preserved at https://ttp.royalsociety.org/ttp/…; albeit in a cute but highly inconvenient animation format which lets you "turn the pages" but takes forever. For quick access deep inside the thick volume, we thought it expedient to click on the download sign in the left-hand menu and got, not a download, but the book's XML version - text as raw as text gets. Better than naught, but argh. Then a CTRL+F search for "1661-06-26" doth retrieve the official record of today's Ordinary meeting, in which the RS confirms that "a dog was bitt at the left foot by a viper, & did swell for 3 or 4 houres, but recovered", while "another dog was hurt with a poysonnous arrow, but no harme appear’d by it." And many other marvels.

No sign of Evelyn, though, and no mention either of any of this in our copy of his Diary (the Project Gutemberg version of the 1901 edition by Walter Dunne), which in fact has no entry between June 4 and June 27. What did Sig. Vicente quote from, we wonder? Does John keep more than one Diary?

About Monday 24 June 1661

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

It's not a holiday for everybody, including specifically not at the Navy office. The State Papers record that at least two official letters were written there today (or at least dated from 24 June), by anonymous bureaucratic little hands while the bosses were away frolicking.

One of them is, whoa, nothing less than an "Estimate of the cost of repairing the roofs of the lodgings of the Surveyor and Clerk of the Acts. Total, 107£. 15s."

Roof damage, perhaps occasioned by the late heavy rains, sounds bad for a freshly redecorated household, where one likes to climb onto "the leads", and will now have to contend with more muddy-footed workmen clambering up and down the beautiful new stairs. Strange that, unless we're mistaken, we haven't read of it before, especially if fixing it comes to such a tidy sum.

About Sunday 23 June 1661

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

On Spanish ambassador Batteville (as it's spelled in our sources) being alone in his agitation: Correct, and he's not been the most subtle diplomat in this affair as he also once threatened war if Charles married with Portugal. The libel which he did get printed and circulated would be an interesting document to see, as it didn't just raise the she's-popish argument, but, more practically and perhaps even more to the king's discontent, made public the sumptuous offer which Spain had made in its own, losing, but secret, bid, and so invited everybody to join and reopen an evaluation that had taken the government several months to get through.

On July 1 the indispensable Venetian ambassador, Francisco Giavarina, reported on an audience where the king reprimanded Batteville, on the "scandalous remarks" in his tract, "calculated to stir up sedition and revolution among the people". Batteville's defense was that he sent private memos to which nobody replied, leaving him no choice but to make them public; not a very good argument either. No mention yet of expelling him, but Batteville had already packed his bags and dismantled his embassy as soon as the king's choice had been announced.

It's generally correct that, other than Spain, no one seems to "excite any opposition"; or care, perhaps. There's a couple of other parties that aren't dancing with joy, however. One is the English community in Spain, which Giavarina said expected reprisals and went so far as to charter a ship to evacuate from Bilbao; they've since received Spanish assurances that nothing would happen, and cancelled the ship. The other is the Dutch, who thought of building their own colonial empire by picking off that of Portugal, and are now at risk of a war with England, over Indian ports they were trying to invade and that are part of the dowry. On June 16 (new style, June 6 for the rest of us), the French Gazette reported from The Hague on a 3-hour meeting held two days earlier between the States of Holland and Zeeland, in which the delegates from Zeeland argued for "joining Arms" with Spain, "because of their pretentions over Brazil". But, the Gazette says, "one doubts that the other Provinces favor their opinion".

The Chancellor is an interesting choice of source to comment on the absence of opposition. For months Giavarina - from one of the few powers that didn't have a dog in this race - has been reporting on Clarendon as having been bought lock and stock by Portugal. In his dispatch of July 1 he mentions that "it is said publicly that he has had over 100,000£ sterling in cash besides over presents". That could explain why he "could not be more violent against" Spain. We think Clarendon will bear watching as running his own show just a bit too much for his own good.

About Friday 7 June 1661

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

In the State Papers today: A "Proclamation, on petition of Parliament" - no less - "appointing the 12th of June to be observed in London and Westminster, and the 19th in other places [go figure] as a day of fasting on account of the late immoderate rains (...)"

As Sam noted recently, the rotten spring has led to "begin to doubt a famine" [https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/…] The irony of a fast to prevent a famine may be lost on its usual sufferers.

About Saturday 1 June 1661

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

On this day also starts a new volume of the State Papers, that will entertain and improve us through 1662. For reference, it is available at https://www.google.co.id/books/ed…. Also, in a much more awkward format, at https://archive.org/details/sim_g…. Much luvv to Mary Anne Everett Green, who presided over the monstruous editing job back in 1861, and to whoever ran those 780 pages one by one through the scanner at the University of Indiana in 2009. Thanks to them we know for instance that My Lord wrote today to the Navy Commissioners, for "an imprest of 1,000l. , that he may not be retarded in his sudden repairing to the fleet".

About Saturday 1 June 1661

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

Buried among the undated documents that the State Papers throw together at the end of their May collection, is a "Grant to the Earl of Sandwich of the offices of Master of the Swans in the Thames and of Bailiff of Whittlesea-Mere [a large swamp, near Cambidge, rich in waterfowl; https://greatnorthroad.co.uk/whit…] with the custody of the swans there".

Swans! As if My Lord didn't have enough to do already. Will Sam have to go throw them pieces of bread? Does Sandwich especially like swans? Or is there no rent-paying office that's too small for grabbing? And can he keep the feathers?

About Monday 6 May 1661

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

On how baby Charles went, the Venetian ambassador will thrown in a brief paragraph in his weekly report (dated May 20, new style) on how he was "lamented by his parents and all the Court" - so they might be human after all - but "no one has gone into mourning for him, as it is not the custom at this Court for princes of such tender years". With maybe a hint that it's not like that in Venice, but we are reminded of (non-Christian) cultures where infants are not even named until six months old, their Fate being so unclear till then.

Mercurius Politicus will regale us tomorrow, however, with the happy tale that on "the 7th day of this month [at] a general muster of all the Citty forces (...) the Kinge, with the Duke of York" had a great banquet in Hyde Park, "where after the banquett his Majesty was pleased to make himselfe mery in throwinge amongst the soldiers neats tongues, west hamms, English gammons, oringes and leamons and the like. Great fierings, much company, great joy. Vale! Vale!"

So, not a lot of mourning indeed. But we have sad newes ourselves: For those were the final lines in our edition of Thos. Rugge's summary of Mercurius Politicus, as published online by Cambridge University Press (https://doi.org/10.1017/S20421710…) So, unless another trove is found, and until somebody invents the London Gazette, the onely newes-book at our disposal shall be... the French Gazette! Woe!

About Tuesday 23 April 1661

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

Why, dear 徽柔, but that's excellent gossip, 谢谢, we need more of that, and to know the source. Tho', we now discover footnote 1 after the entry, that Buckingham was carrying the mond. Not a diminution for my lord, on the contrary, just a canard in the Gazette... And so his highness is still grata. For now.

And for now, ostentation is good. In just four months, monsieur Fouquet in France will be dismay'd to join the roster of those who found that too much of it can be harmful to your health. But let's not spoil the mood. £20k on a suit, you say? Things go fast when you're having fun. Mercurius Politicus entertains us on how, in yesterday's parade, "som of the nobility was cloathed in cloatch of gold (...) many of their cloathes embridred with pearls and dimonds. The Lord Whorton exceeded all for dimonds; his horse was set with dimons and pearls and other costly ornements." The French Gazette's supplement hadn't missed either, "the beauty of clothes covered in gold, silver, pearls and gemstones". The Venetian ambassador, always a bit more restrained, cautions in his report (dated May 6, new style) that "some" were "covered with pearls, diamonds and other precious stones", but also notes how "the Spanish ambassador (...) must have spent over 3000£. sterling" (poor Giavarina has to compete, on his own money, hoping the Senate will reimburse). So £20,000 on a duke's habit - not implausible.

A few of those dimonds are sure to have gotten loose, jolted by the fine Arabian horses during yesterday's cavalcade. Hmm. They'll be a mess to find in all that trampled gravel, amid the horsheshit and after the rain, but we phants'y there was quite a rush to clean the street after the last of the volunteers had walked past.

About Tuesday 23 April 1661

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

Three accessories make a king easy to recognize in a crowd: A crown, a mond and a scepter (everyone has a sword). And so, who's entrusted with the scepter, until the Archibishop gets to give it to the king? Why, but it's my Lord Sandwich! At this we thought, "oh wow and la-la-la, that's being on the A-list". That's it, we're made, this way to a dukedom, and our heart was glad.

But then we saw this in the French Gazette, relating the procession into the chapel at the start of the ceremony: "Deux Roys d'Armes précédoyent, ⌠ur leurs pas (...) vn autre Comte, qui, en la place du Duc de Buckingham, portoit le Sceptre de Saint Edoüard (...)". That's right, "two Knights-at-Arms preceded, in their paces (...) another Count who, in the place of the Duke of Buckingham, carried the Scepter of Saint Edward". So my lord was a stand-in. OK, for one of the top dukes, and that's how many great opera singers got their big break, but in this case is it good or bad? The Gazette treats him as some no-name "Count". And Buckingham, what's with that rogue? Is he disgraced? Snoring under some table? In bed with the ague?

About Monday 22 April 1661

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

Mercurius Politicus shows that the narrow streets, moreover, were made even narrower by the ground-level public, the barriers, the "regiment of [the Tower] Hamlats (sic), completely armed", who stand watch, the trained bands, "several Companies of the Citty in their liveries" (24, the Gazette says). We phant'sy that the last of the volunteers were leaving the Tower after the first of the duke of York's guard had already reached Westminster.

The Gazette and Mercurius Politicus add a bit of color on what went on at the navy's arch on Cornhill: three seamen sang there to entertain the first train of the nobility, then for the king, after another "qui designoit la rivière de Tamise" (in an allegoric costume, perhaps? how do you dress as the Thames?) gave him a special speech. And that was it for the Navy, not otherwise represented in the parade (well, Sam says, *we* aren't on holiday, ye know).

Not too many speeches and harangues seem to have disrupted the merry flow. There was one that we like, as transcribed in Mercurius, made by one baronet Sir William Wylde at the Tower this morning while everyone was readying to file out. He found the ultimate compliment for the king: Charles is "not of a mushroom descent, but the son of nobles of the most royal stemme". Son of a mushroom, but that's a catchy quote.

About Monday 22 April 1661

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

Few things fascinate the French more than the pomp of English monarchy. The spectacle of the people being so happy to have a king is also exactly what M. de Renaudot is desir'd to promote in his Gazette de France. And so, on May 25 (new style) we'll be treated therein to an extraordinary, 21-page Extraordinary on "Le Couronnement du Roy d'Angleterre".

Whoever wrote this may have seen it, but also had the press kit close at hand, and rattles out an interesting order of battle for today's parade, with an obsessive count of how many footmen and pages accompanied each grandee. They're carefully arranged, starting with a troop of lowly squires each permitted two footmen, up a crescendo to such as the "secretaries of Latin and French languages" with four each, etc... all the way, through six footmen, then six footmen plus two pages, to the Grand Chambellan, with (imagine that) 24 footmen and 12 pages, to the sound (in our head) of the grand finale in Ravel's Bolero. As the parade proceeded, its segments were thus larger and larger, and increasingly exalted and glittering. The duke of York, true to style, "alloit seul" (went alone). The king himself had 60 squires and footmen.

Tabulating all this, and with minimalist assumptions e.g. on how many were the "sons of viscounts" who walked with the knights of the Privy Council (we assume one only per viscount, times 24), we come to a total of over 7,257 participants; not counting a "company of volunteers" and an infrantry company that closed the show. Amusing fact: well over 90% of the parade was made up, not of lorships, but of footmen, pages, guards and assorted servants. The knights of the Bath, for instance, were surrounded by 720 non-knights-of-the-bath, and the 80 barons by an army of 1,064 non-barons. Sam could perhaps have been in there with the "secretaries of the Privy Seal", allowed two footmen at the start of the show.

Add to this a crowd of 1,100 orphans, dressed (of course) in blue, who read a petition to Charles in the courtyard of St. Paul's. It's a lot of people to fit in London's narrow streets, so the going must have been slow. The parade stopped at least four times, at St. Paul's and at the three arches, never a good thing to do in traffic. Everyone had plenty of time to hail their cousin or neighbor who's a footman to the Master of Tents.

About Friday 19 April 1661

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

Awww, poor Sammy who missed all the fun at the the Knights of the Bath. All toil and no fun, and then this foul rain... Perhaps he can still catch up with it in Mercurius Politicus, in which summary by Thos. Rugge - who starts it with "I then beeing employed as a barber tooke this notis", go figure - the beautiful ceremony fills three full pages. We'll copy them in full on another day, but in a nutshell, the Knights - 68 of them, no doubt a few names already in Sam's book - have spent the night at Westminster in the "Cort of Request", where they were indeed provided a tub and linen and "bathed more or less as each of them found convenient" (or least repellent), then they put on the rough homespun of the humble monk, until today when they changed into lordly garb and were touched by H.M. with the Sword of State. And then everyone had ribbons, musick and a great dinner, to which Sam wouldn't have been invited anyway.

It was interesting to watch as a complete creation, the Order of the Bath and its Mysteries having just been invented. Someone at the palace must have spent a while poring at old books and having brainstorms, to come up with, as the knights file past at the end, the idea of the King's master cook standing with a chopping knife, reminding them that if they ever broke their oath, "I must hack of your spurres from your heeles". And why not?

But missing the fun might have grated a bit also because, while Sam keeps putting full half-days at the office, everyone else in government is having a pre-Coronacion break. Francesco Giavarina, the Venetian ambassador, sighs in yesterday's weekly dispatch, for the second week in a row, that he has nothing to report because everyone is away, "by reason of so many ceremonials, which are performed in the most punctilious and sumptuous manner without stint of gold"; indeed, "there is a truce to all business (...) the secretariat at the palace is closed, neither the magistrates nor anyone else will treat of anything". Francesco has already made clear that he thinks those indolent Englishmen, forever at their dinners and masques, aren't a very serious people; not like us, hyper-efficient and always industrious Venetians. But 'tis true, that no minutes for the Treasury Committee are at hand for the 16 days from April 10-26. Frolic, frolic everywhere. Except, in the Navy office, that lone window with a trembling light...

About Thursday 18 April 1661

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

Today's scuffle in the mud is not a surprise; not after the merry "eat and drank" at the Church stile, followed by the brave wine at Mr. ——, and not from Admiral Sir W.P., who, we predict, will treat us to many a showing of his boorish character in the next eight years or so, to Sam's increasingly loud sighing. At least he didn't draw a sword. No wonder his son will go Quaker and become anything but a navy man like dad.

Precedence fights in narrow streets are also a common staple all over Europe, tho' they gain our notice when they're between the equipages of noble coaches. But of the nobility the Admiral is not, by the way; he's "only" a M.P. and an officer. Otherwise he's surely never abase himself to walk (urgh) the same streets as country fellows (argh). A narrow one indeed this must have been, otherwise its high edges would have been the place to be in any case, and the flooded middle not possibly the Object of any Fight.

Anyway. Everybody getting ready for the Coronacion, we trust? Plumed hats, diamonds, rose-petals?

About Saturday 13 April 1661

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

The King has been quite busy recently with being nice to people. Today it was with the Scrofulous, but Mercurius Politicus tells us that on Thursday last, "11 day, called Maundi Thursday, his Majesty was pleased to wash 31 poore mens feet in the Great Hall in Whit Hall, and gave evry man a purse of whit leather, in it 31 pence, and a red purse, in it a peece of gold, and a shurt, a sut of cloathes, shewes and stockings, a wooden dish and baskett, wherein was 4 loufes, half a salmon, a whole linge, and herrings redd and whit. Evry man drank claritt wine in the hall, and after service was don by the useall vicar that belonged to the Kings Chapel, also the sound of the organs, they all departed and said, God save the Kinge."

You bet they said that. The king normally touches twice a week, on Wednesdays and Fridays (or at least the Parliamentary Intelligencer said last year that was the schedule); but on those occasions all you get is a medal (and, OK, fresher-looking skin). But next week's the Coronacion, and so 'tis the season for handing out free fishes and loaves (we trust you get the allusion; and it's also part of our national campaign, England Eat Fish 1661, to help our brave fishermen), and cash, and of course the T-shirt ("Charles II - Best King Ever"). And clean feet, for what it's worth given the state of the streets. Only 31 poore mens, mind, not the hundreds that get Touched. Pity Sam wasn't there to see them shuffle out, clutching their half-salmons, at the end of that exquisitely organized, red-and-white photo op.

That's the sunny side. On the other side, the State Papers today have a Proclamation, "ordering all cashiered officers and soldiers of the late army to depart on or before April 19, and not come within 20 miles of London and Westminster till May 20"; also a letter from "Philip Constantine" to royal secretary Nicholas, advising of mutters "in a conversation about wearing daggers (...) that there were thousands now making in London"; "considering the numbers flocking to the coronation, thought it well to give timely notice". Mr Nicholas, pray send a note and a half-salmon to that man.

About Wednesday 3 April 1661

Stephane Chenard  •  Link

A bribe, against the Braganza marriage, of course, but from, you say, the Dutch? Are you sure? Why would the Dutch, enemies to Spain that occupies half their land, support its cause? Unless the bribe is meant to keep England out of their own war with Portugal, over there in the East Indies? Now that would be rich, the proud Dutch paying up to avert a naval fight with England.

That would make only slightly better sense, but the real problem is the Venetian embassy has heard nothing of a Dutch bribe, despite the microscopic attention it pays to these matters. Possible explanation: Giavarina, the ambassador in London, will report tomorrow that the fantastic amounts which Madrid is sending London-way - "200,000 pieces of eight", as his colleague in Madrid put it when they were authorized a month ago (https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/…) which he now quotes as "200,000 crowns" - are not being delivered in clinking bags of gold, but as "notes of exchange (...) payable on the mart of Antwerp" (his cable is in the usual place, at https://www.british-history.ac.uk…) Previous reports had put the money in the hands of "merchants in Paris" or in those of Spanish couriers, but maybe they were different bags, or just inaccurate chatter.

Sam, not being fully plugged into that particular grapevine, may have heard of a ship inbound from "Dutch-land" with the cash finally paid on that note - though right now Antwerp, still one of the main banking centers of Europe, is part of the Spanish Flanders, not the properly "Dutch" United Provinces. A small ship sent post-haste just to collect a heavy trunk... now that would make a good story for its officers to tell in taverns where Sam listens.

As for the naval expedition being stayed, Giavarina also has a more prosaic explanation: "As everything drags on to extreme length at this Court (...) the preparation of the squadron of ships is subject to the same inconvenience"; and "the lack of money is a hindrance, delaying the provisioning required for the voyage". Now, if provisioning was the explanation, Sam would know and wouldn't be looking for it elsewhere. Of course the Spanish money could help, but it's only just arrived, and for sure the naval budget is not where it will end up...