In further evidence of the frantic scramble for bureaucratic plums that continues as the monarchy rebuilds itself, consider this minute from today's session of Parliament's Treasury Committee (at https://www.british-history.ac.uk…): "The question of the lease of the Ballast Office".
Ah, the Ballast (or Ballastage) Office. The glamour, the romance of that one; it's in charge of quarrying and hauling around the gravel to ballast ships, and what girl wouldn't fall for the gallant, mysterious ballast-man? Anyway; the Committee's minutes and the State Papers record at least six and perhaps up to 10 petitions from hopeful contenders; plus a claim from Trinity House, which holds a "patent of Lastage and Ballage" which Charles I, who set up the Ballast Office in his final year, apparently forgot about (how could he).
And we say nothing of the petitions for seaweed, or of the bold proposal sent on August 2 by "George Paul" to the king, "for a grant of all mud or oozy lands in England, between high and low water mark (...) now worth nothing" - yea, a squishy empire of no less than the kingdom's entire coastline, as long as it's oozy and bounded by tidelines that must be loosely charted at best, if at all possible to map.
So now there's this tussle, in which the State Papers show that Colonel William Carlos alone has been agitating for at least three months, and which now has the committee throwing up its collective hands in despair and kicking up the file to H.M. himself for resolution.
By late August the Gravel Crisis has reached the very top of the Government. An undated letter from Lord Treasurer Southampton to the king's secretary, placed in the State Papers for next September, will record that one of the petitioners offered £400 to get the patent for 21 years - compare this with the £1,000 Sam has been offered for his complex, intense and strategic position on top of the entire Navy, and decide which is the fairer price.
(As the party goes on, Col. Carlos takes his young associate to a quiet spot near the water-pool: "I want to say one Thing to ye". "Yes sir". "Are ye listening?" "Yes sir, I am". "Just one word: gravel... There's a great future in gravel". See the whole scene at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U…).
The Treasury opines that it should all really be the King's gravel, but petitions will still be flying in November. Carlos, a far from insignificant character who may have saved the king's life twice at the battle of Worcerster, will get rights to gravel in the Thames (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wil…) but will still be litigating against Trinity House in 1663 (https://www.british-history.ac.uk…). Spoiler: Trinity House comes on top in the end (https://trinityhousehistory.wordp…).
The Shipping Newes: Wm. Blaides today (7 August) advises the Earl of Sandwich that he has victualled the Merlin frigate; to his letter is added a note "[by Pepys]", the State Papers' editor records (at https://play.google.com/store/boo…), "that Lord [Sandwich] desires some masts to be sent for from Lisbon, which may be spoiled by worms, &c."
&c., alas - we want to know about the Worms, in which Sam is now so expert, in those the first of many, many ship's masts he will handle. How they come from Portugal, a nation now anxious to please England if it will mean help against Spain (just wait). We note also how the business, properly with the Admiralty (in whose papers the letter resides) is still done seemingly on a personal level with Sandwich. In the future Sam will just be the face of the faceless "Office".
So, Sarah, is Sam the go-to, or does he get his mail ex-officio, as per a naval rulebook that says, "in case of no-biscuits, write to the Admiralty with copy to the Clerk of the Acts"? In the name of good government, we wish the latter! And undoubtedly much of his footprint in the State Papers is mail that was nothing personal. But in the case at least of that letter from Dublin, its coming on top of the more clearly official appeal to the Commissioners and its tone - "beg[ging] him to urge" - inspir'd us to see evidence of widespread fame, and of the back-channel being worked.
The Admiralty Commissioners, so impersonally designated, have also been getting a number of appeals for money and victuals since May-June, with no copy to Sam at least as far as survives in the State Papers (these appeals will tumble out of a search for "Admiralty" at https://play.google.com/store/boo…). So Jowles' letter stands out as a tad unusual.
And Jowles isn't just any captain, by the way. On March 31, when Sam was still on the Naseby, "this morning Captain Jowles of the 'Wexford' came on board, for whom I got commission from my Lord to be commander of the ship" [https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/…]. Jowles may remember the Admiral's diligent little clerk, and paying him £5, and the promissory-note complications that ensued may have further impressed the captain's memory.
Sam spent weeks while at sea building up this phantastickal collection (dare we say network) of captains, many of them up-and-coming given the Times; getting acquainted while waiting for the ink to dry on their paperwork; &c. Gotta be good for something. And it sure goes with the job, but we think he's not the sort who'd lose a business card anyway.
Letters were written yesterday (1 August) in Dublin by Capt. Valentine Jowles, of the Wexford, to whine (to the Admiralty Commissioners) that for want of beer and biscuits he "will be obliged to put his company [crew] to shorter allowances". One goes to Sam, to "beg him to urge his want of provisions to the Commissioners". (This in the State Papers, at https://play.google.com/store/boo…)
So, welcome to the Navy Office. These letters, complaining of no money/no food, coming from all corners of the naval empire, will be Sam's life as long as he's in there, at a rate of up to one per day just for those (likely a small fraction) that ended up in the State Papers (this is one of the first on record). The State being broke, as everyone is starting to find out now that the Restoration's confettis are dispersing, Sam's life will be one of frustration in that respect. We note, though, that he's already known as far away as Dublin as the go-to man who can speed things up in the bureaucracy. Which may be worth something, too.
>And we're pretty sure we saw (but where??) a report of the guard being doubled in happy-go-lucky Whitehall, just in case
Found it - in Venetian ambassador Francesco Giavarina's weekly dispatch, dated July 23 (new style, and so about a couple of weeks after that aborted attack on the king): Writing of Presbyterian plots, and noting that "there are many Presbyterians in the house of Commons", Giavarina writes that "they have increased the guards at Whitehall. Besides the double sentries on foot they have added two on horse at every approach." Happily, "this does not prevent the king from going out every day and engaging in hunting and other recreations in which he most delights."
We find this day, in the Parliamentary Intelligencer (No. 24, June 4 thr'o 11) this ADVERTISEMENT:
****** Lost the 24th of May 1660. between Charlton and London, (by conjecture neer Greenwich wall) one table Diamond weighing twelve or thirteen grains, having a little speck in it, bring word to Mr. Nicholas Clobery at the Fleece in Lumbarstreet, and you shall have 5 l. for your pains, and many thanks ******
13 grains = 0.8 gram = 4.22 carat, worth about $83,000 at 2023 prices according to https://www.diamondse.info/diamon…, not taking into account the "little speck". Diamond prices may have been around 90% lower in the 17C (see http://www.palagems.com/ball-gem-… for a brave attempt to reconstitute pre-industrial gem prices), but not "£5", by any conversion factor, "many thanks". Oh boo-hoo-hoo, I lost my table diamond somewhere neer Greenwich wall. The Quality can be so much fun sometimes.
Order in Council, Whitehall, 4 July: On Report of a Committee of Council, in favour of the Appointment of Commissioners of the Navy to manage its affairs, - that John Lord Berkeley, Sir Wm. Penn, and Peter Pett be so appointed, in connection with Sir George Carteret, treasurer, the future comptroller, Sir Wm. Baker, surveyor, AND SAM PEPYS, CLERK OF THE NAVY; specifying also the salaries to be received by each. (State Papers; sorry, we couldn't help shouting).
"Order in Council", cuz. Doesn't get more official than that.
Here's a job for Sam, between lookin' for Mylord and delivering letters: Capt. Roger Cuttance - of the Naseby, remember him? - send him a letter today (June 24, No. 144 in the State Papers) to advise that "the Vice-Admiral has brought Lord [Montague] a canoe from Greenland". Oh joy. It's "for one man to sit in a round hole to row in, and the rest close like a ship's deck" - well, a kayak, you get the picture.
Why a kayak? Where from? Is this a gift from the king of Denmark? Does it come with one of these sealskin-clad Arctick Indians? And where is it now? Will we ever know? Anyway, "he wants his Lordship to see it before he sends it away [to whom?], but does not like to lose the opportunity of sending it by the bark that is ready". In other words, could Sam perhaps come fetch the kayak, "18 or 19 feet long", show it to Montague and rush it back to wherever "the bark" is? Because perhaps Montague has other fish to fry than get into a coach to go look at it.
Sam for all his taste for curios kept the canoe out of the Diary, but he did jump into it as it will reappear on July 4 in a letter (State Papers again) from VAdm Lawson, confirming to Sam that he "will command, as ordered, his Excellency's barge, and the canoe to be carried to Lynn, in Norfolk". And there the canoe disappears. So at least it didn't have to be manoeuvered with a team of horses through the cramped streets of London, all the way to Westminster. Pity; what a scene, what a team they would have made, Sam and the harpoon-wielding Eskimo, chasing off little boys as they tried to get inside the canoe.
Something else happened today. The Parliamentary Intelligencer (No. 27, for June 25 through July 2) will shortly inform us, matter-of-factly and seemingly without anyone else taking notice, that OMG, someone almost kill'd the King.
****** On Thursday [today, June 28], being the day appointed for the Thanksgiving for his sacred Majesties restauration, in his Majesties passage between the Guard-chamber, and his Closet, stood a person neer up to the wall with a drawn sword under his cloak, which was not for some time discovered; but his Majesty passing to the Closet, George Charnock, Serjeant at Arms, casting his eye about for the security of his Majesties person, discovered the glittering of the Sword, and thereupon presently with his Mace seized on the person, took from him the said naked sword, and upon view found the same to be a short sword, back hilted, hacked half way down from the point, a weapon fit for a dangerous design, but by the care and prudence of that Gentleman, his Majesties faithful servant, all intended mischief was prevented, the person secured, and his Majesty informed thereof by the Right Honorable and truly Noble Lord, the Earl of Pembroke, and the party remains under examination. ******
And that's it, folks, nothing to see here, move along now. We're used to bigmouths being hauled to the Tower after blurting out their regicide plans in taverns, but here we get the glittering of the Sword, the Secret Service lunging, the serjeant's expert eye on the hacked-off blade, wow.
Amid all the pageants and the bonfires and the dinners overflowing with glee at Charles' return, a few malcontents do lurk - to wit, a "Capt. Hen. Cleer" (hmm - sounds Dutch to me) who, full of bold talk "that he would sheathe his sword in the King's blood, lurks about in disguise, and was yesterday seen stealing upstairs at Whitehall" - this in a letter that "Chas. Fulwood" will pen next July 26, now founde in the State Papers ("sheathing my sword" in various parts of the king being quite a popular expression among plotters). And we're pretty sure we saw (but where??) a report of the guard being doubled in happy-go-lucky Whitehall, just in case.
Charnock had been restored to his job as serjeant at arms (and king's escort, then) just six weeks ago (https://www.british-history.ac.uk…). In 15 years, on 8 June 1675, he will still be "Sir George Charnock, Serjeant at Arms", attending the Lord Keeper in Parliament (https://dokumen.pub/the-law-and-t…) after, perhaps, his keen eye had chang'd the course of history.
Sam, gourmand that he is, may be interest'd in the following ADVERTISEMENT, published on this day in the Parliamentary Intelligencer, No. 29 with newses for July 9 thr'o 16:
****** Most excellent and approved Dentrifices to scour and cleanse the Teeth, making them white as Ivory, preserves from the Toothach; so that being constantly used, the parties using it, are never troubled with the Toothach: It fastens the [alas, word missing], sweetens the Breath, and preserves the Gums and Mouth from Cankers and Imposthumes, and being beaten to powder, and drunk in Wine, or any other drink, is a good remedy for any Flux or Lask. Invented and made by Robert Turner, the onely Author of them, and are onely to be had at the House of Thomas Rockes, Stationer, at the Holy Lamb at the East-end of St. Pauls Church, near the School, in Sealed Papers. ******
"Dentifrice" is still the French word for toothpaste but, should you wonder about dental hygiene overflowing from Louis XIV's demesne, is at root (ha ha) a Latin word with an ancestry going back to the Pyramids.
Hmm - Sam does keep his mouth closed in every portrait we have of him, no? But he did perhaps come across Mr. Turner's anti-imposthumall powder, having accompanied the missus "to La Roche’s to have her tooth drawn", on April 7 (https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/…). If that's the one; the Encyclopedia refers to Peter La Roche, not Thomas Rockes, and he "worked near Fleet Bridge"; not quite the East-end of St. Paul.
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.
Comments
Third Reading
About Saturday 11 August 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
In further evidence of the frantic scramble for bureaucratic plums that continues as the monarchy rebuilds itself, consider this minute from today's session of Parliament's Treasury Committee (at https://www.british-history.ac.uk…): "The question of the lease of the Ballast Office".
Ah, the Ballast (or Ballastage) Office. The glamour, the romance of that one; it's in charge of quarrying and hauling around the gravel to ballast ships, and what girl wouldn't fall for the gallant, mysterious ballast-man? Anyway; the Committee's minutes and the State Papers record at least six and perhaps up to 10 petitions from hopeful contenders; plus a claim from Trinity House, which holds a "patent of Lastage and Ballage" which Charles I, who set up the Ballast Office in his final year, apparently forgot about (how could he).
And we say nothing of the petitions for seaweed, or of the bold proposal sent on August 2 by "George Paul" to the king, "for a grant of all mud or oozy lands in England, between high and low water mark (...) now worth nothing" - yea, a squishy empire of no less than the kingdom's entire coastline, as long as it's oozy and bounded by tidelines that must be loosely charted at best, if at all possible to map.
So now there's this tussle, in which the State Papers show that Colonel William Carlos alone has been agitating for at least three months, and which now has the committee throwing up its collective hands in despair and kicking up the file to H.M. himself for resolution.
By late August the Gravel Crisis has reached the very top of the Government. An undated letter from Lord Treasurer Southampton to the king's secretary, placed in the State Papers for next September, will record that one of the petitioners offered £400 to get the patent for 21 years - compare this with the £1,000 Sam has been offered for his complex, intense and strategic position on top of the entire Navy, and decide which is the fairer price.
(As the party goes on, Col. Carlos takes his young associate to a quiet spot near the water-pool: "I want to say one Thing to ye". "Yes sir". "Are ye listening?" "Yes sir, I am". "Just one word: gravel... There's a great future in gravel". See the whole scene at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U…).
The Treasury opines that it should all really be the King's gravel, but petitions will still be flying in November. Carlos, a far from insignificant character who may have saved the king's life twice at the battle of Worcerster, will get rights to gravel in the Thames (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wil…) but will still be litigating against Trinity House in 1663 (https://www.british-history.ac.uk…). Spoiler: Trinity House comes on top in the end (https://trinityhousehistory.wordp…).
About Tuesday 7 August 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
The Shipping Newes: Wm. Blaides today (7 August) advises the Earl of Sandwich that he has victualled the Merlin frigate; to his letter is added a note "[by Pepys]", the State Papers' editor records (at https://play.google.com/store/boo…), "that Lord [Sandwich] desires some masts to be sent for from Lisbon, which may be spoiled by worms, &c."
&c., alas - we want to know about the Worms, in which Sam is now so expert, in those the first of many, many ship's masts he will handle. How they come from Portugal, a nation now anxious to please England if it will mean help against Spain (just wait). We note also how the business, properly with the Admiralty (in whose papers the letter resides) is still done seemingly on a personal level with Sandwich. In the future Sam will just be the face of the faceless "Office".
About Thursday 2 August 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
So, Sarah, is Sam the go-to, or does he get his mail ex-officio, as per a naval rulebook that says, "in case of no-biscuits, write to the Admiralty with copy to the Clerk of the Acts"? In the name of good government, we wish the latter! And undoubtedly much of his footprint in the State Papers is mail that was nothing personal. But in the case at least of that letter from Dublin, its coming on top of the more clearly official appeal to the Commissioners and its tone - "beg[ging] him to urge" - inspir'd us to see evidence of widespread fame, and of the back-channel being worked.
The Admiralty Commissioners, so impersonally designated, have also been getting a number of appeals for money and victuals since May-June, with no copy to Sam at least as far as survives in the State Papers (these appeals will tumble out of a search for "Admiralty" at https://play.google.com/store/boo…). So Jowles' letter stands out as a tad unusual.
And Jowles isn't just any captain, by the way. On March 31, when Sam was still on the Naseby, "this morning Captain Jowles of the 'Wexford' came on board, for whom I got commission from my Lord to be commander of the ship" [https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/…]. Jowles may remember the Admiral's diligent little clerk, and paying him £5, and the promissory-note complications that ensued may have further impressed the captain's memory.
Sam spent weeks while at sea building up this phantastickal collection (dare we say network) of captains, many of them up-and-coming given the Times; getting acquainted while waiting for the ink to dry on their paperwork; &c. Gotta be good for something. And it sure goes with the job, but we think he's not the sort who'd lose a business card anyway.
About Thursday 2 August 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
Letters were written yesterday (1 August) in Dublin by Capt. Valentine Jowles, of the Wexford, to whine (to the Admiralty Commissioners) that for want of beer and biscuits he "will be obliged to put his company [crew] to shorter allowances". One goes to Sam, to "beg him to urge his want of provisions to the Commissioners". (This in the State Papers, at https://play.google.com/store/boo…)
So, welcome to the Navy Office. These letters, complaining of no money/no food, coming from all corners of the naval empire, will be Sam's life as long as he's in there, at a rate of up to one per day just for those (likely a small fraction) that ended up in the State Papers (this is one of the first on record). The State being broke, as everyone is starting to find out now that the Restoration's confettis are dispersing, Sam's life will be one of frustration in that respect. We note, though, that he's already known as far away as Dublin as the go-to man who can speed things up in the bureaucracy. Which may be worth something, too.
About Thursday 28 June 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
>And we're pretty sure we saw (but where??) a report of the guard being doubled in happy-go-lucky Whitehall, just in case
Found it - in Venetian ambassador Francesco Giavarina's weekly dispatch, dated July 23 (new style, and so about a couple of weeks after that aborted attack on the king): Writing of Presbyterian plots, and noting that "there are many Presbyterians in the house of Commons", Giavarina writes that "they have increased the guards at Whitehall. Besides the double sentries on foot they have added two on horse at every approach." Happily, "this does not prevent the king from going out every day and engaging in hunting and other recreations in which he most delights."
Giavarina's letters (and more) are at https://www.british-history.ac.uk…
About Monday 11 June 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
We find this day, in the Parliamentary Intelligencer (No. 24, June 4 thr'o 11) this ADVERTISEMENT:
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Lost the 24th of May 1660. between Charlton and London, (by conjecture neer Greenwich wall) one table Diamond weighing twelve or thirteen grains, having a little speck in it, bring word to Mr. Nicholas Clobery at the Fleece in Lumbarstreet, and you shall have 5 l. for your pains, and many thanks
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13 grains = 0.8 gram = 4.22 carat, worth about $83,000 at 2023 prices according to https://www.diamondse.info/diamon…, not taking into account the "little speck". Diamond prices may have been around 90% lower in the 17C (see http://www.palagems.com/ball-gem-… for a brave attempt to reconstitute pre-industrial gem prices), but not "£5", by any conversion factor, "many thanks". Oh boo-hoo-hoo, I lost my table diamond somewhere neer Greenwich wall. The Quality can be so much fun sometimes.
About Wednesday 4 July 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
Order in Council, Whitehall, 4 July: On Report of a Committee of Council, in favour of the Appointment of Commissioners of the Navy to manage its affairs, - that John Lord Berkeley, Sir Wm. Penn, and Peter Pett be so appointed, in connection with Sir George Carteret, treasurer, the future comptroller, Sir Wm. Baker, surveyor, AND SAM PEPYS, CLERK OF THE NAVY; specifying also the salaries to be received by each. (State Papers; sorry, we couldn't help shouting).
"Order in Council", cuz. Doesn't get more official than that.
About Sunday 24 June 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
Here's a job for Sam, between lookin' for Mylord and delivering letters: Capt. Roger Cuttance - of the Naseby, remember him? - send him a letter today (June 24, No. 144 in the State Papers) to advise that "the Vice-Admiral has brought Lord [Montague] a canoe from Greenland". Oh joy. It's "for one man to sit in a round hole to row in, and the rest close like a ship's deck" - well, a kayak, you get the picture.
Why a kayak? Where from? Is this a gift from the king of Denmark? Does it come with one of these sealskin-clad Arctick Indians? And where is it now? Will we ever know? Anyway, "he wants his Lordship to see it before he sends it away [to whom?], but does not like to lose the opportunity of sending it by the bark that is ready". In other words, could Sam perhaps come fetch the kayak, "18 or 19 feet long", show it to Montague and rush it back to wherever "the bark" is? Because perhaps Montague has other fish to fry than get into a coach to go look at it.
Sam for all his taste for curios kept the canoe out of the Diary, but he did jump into it as it will reappear on July 4 in a letter (State Papers again) from VAdm Lawson, confirming to Sam that he "will command, as ordered, his Excellency's barge, and the canoe to be carried to Lynn, in Norfolk". And there the canoe disappears. So at least it didn't have to be manoeuvered with a team of horses through the cramped streets of London, all the way to Westminster. Pity; what a scene, what a team they would have made, Sam and the harpoon-wielding Eskimo, chasing off little boys as they tried to get inside the canoe.
About Thursday 28 June 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
Something else happened today. The Parliamentary Intelligencer (No. 27, for June 25 through July 2) will shortly inform us, matter-of-factly and seemingly without anyone else taking notice, that OMG, someone almost kill'd the King.
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On Thursday [today, June 28], being the day appointed for the Thanksgiving for his sacred Majesties restauration, in his Majesties passage between the Guard-chamber, and his Closet, stood a person neer up to the wall with a drawn sword under his cloak, which was not for some time discovered; but his Majesty passing to the Closet, George Charnock, Serjeant at Arms, casting his eye about for the security of his Majesties person, discovered the glittering of the Sword, and thereupon presently with his Mace seized on the person, took from him the said naked sword, and upon view found the same to be a short sword, back hilted, hacked half way down from the point, a weapon fit for a dangerous design, but by the care and prudence of that Gentleman, his Majesties faithful servant, all intended mischief was prevented, the person secured, and his Majesty informed thereof by the Right Honorable and truly Noble Lord, the Earl of Pembroke, and the party remains under examination.
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And that's it, folks, nothing to see here, move along now. We're used to bigmouths being hauled to the Tower after blurting out their regicide plans in taverns, but here we get the glittering of the Sword, the Secret Service lunging, the serjeant's expert eye on the hacked-off blade, wow.
Amid all the pageants and the bonfires and the dinners overflowing with glee at Charles' return, a few malcontents do lurk - to wit, a "Capt. Hen. Cleer" (hmm - sounds Dutch to me) who, full of bold talk "that he would sheathe his sword in the King's blood, lurks about in disguise, and was yesterday seen stealing upstairs at Whitehall" - this in a letter that "Chas. Fulwood" will pen next July 26, now founde in the State Papers ("sheathing my sword" in various parts of the king being quite a popular expression among plotters). And we're pretty sure we saw (but where??) a report of the guard being doubled in happy-go-lucky Whitehall, just in case.
Charnock had been restored to his job as serjeant at arms (and king's escort, then) just six weeks ago (https://www.british-history.ac.uk…). In 15 years, on 8 June 1675, he will still be "Sir George Charnock, Serjeant at Arms", attending the Lord Keeper in Parliament (https://dokumen.pub/the-law-and-t…) after, perhaps, his keen eye had chang'd the course of history.
About Monday 16 July 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
Sam, gourmand that he is, may be interest'd in the following ADVERTISEMENT, published on this day in the Parliamentary Intelligencer, No. 29 with newses for July 9 thr'o 16:
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Most excellent and approved Dentrifices to scour and cleanse the Teeth, making them white as Ivory, preserves from the Toothach; so that being constantly used, the parties using it, are never troubled with the Toothach: It fastens the [alas, word missing], sweetens the Breath, and preserves the Gums and Mouth from Cankers and Imposthumes, and being beaten to powder, and drunk in Wine, or any other drink, is a good remedy for any Flux or Lask. Invented and made by Robert Turner, the onely Author of them, and are onely to be had at the House of Thomas Rockes, Stationer, at the Holy Lamb at the East-end of St. Pauls Church, near the School, in Sealed Papers.
******
"Dentifrice" is still the French word for toothpaste but, should you wonder about dental hygiene overflowing from Louis XIV's demesne, is at root (ha ha) a Latin word with an ancestry going back to the Pyramids.
Hmm - Sam does keep his mouth closed in every portrait we have of him, no? But he did perhaps come across Mr. Turner's anti-imposthumall powder, having accompanied the missus "to La Roche’s to have her tooth drawn", on April 7 (https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/…). If that's the one; the Encyclopedia refers to Peter La Roche, not Thomas Rockes, and he "worked near Fleet Bridge"; not quite the East-end of St. Paul.
The Intelligencer is at https://quod.lib.umich.edu/e/eebo…
&rgn3=title&Submit=Search
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.