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PREFACE
On 29 May 1660, his thirtieth birthday, King Charles II of England, Scotland and Ireland rode across London Bridge, triumphantly entering a city he hardly knew and had not seen for almost twenty years. This book is about how the relationship between King and city subsequently developed, and about the remarkable people who helped London during his reign become the pre-eminent city in Europe.
Though it is difficult to say with certainty, London was possibly already the continent’s largest city. It was not only the kingdom’s capital, but its long-standing economic vibrancy had led it to become disproportionately large – perhaps nearly one-tenth of the entire English population lived in the city, making it ‘a Head too big for the Body’, according to one contemporary source. Owing to the scale of London, together with its satellite towns spread along the Thames Valley, in 1660 England was already beginning to look like a Monopoly board tipped up to let all the pieces fall to the bottom right-hand corner* Of all parts of the kingdom, London was therefore the one of key importance to the returning king.
London was one of a handful of ‘world cities’ scattered across the western hemisphere. Well-to-do Londoners drank tea from China and coffee from Arabia out of Chinese porcelain cups, enjoyed sack from Spain and the Canary Islands, put West Indian sugar in their drinks and syllabubs, smoked tobacco from Virginia, wore silks from Turkey and India, and flavoured their food with spices from Zanzibar and Indonesia. In the winter the wealthy kept their heads warm with hats made from beaver pelts from the far north of America. All this luxury was imported on English ships made watertight with tar and pitch from the Baltic, with sails hoisted aloft by ropes made with hemp from Russia to billow out from masts and spars made from Swedish pine. When Charles returned from exile, he was instantly involved in the commercial life of the city, particularly investing in
and encouraging the slave trade, an issue examined here in some depth.
World cities – which at one time or another included, besides London, Venice, Lisbon, Antwerp and Amsterdam – owed their size and eminence to well-established long-range trading links across the world. With such trade came wealth, and with wealth came power. Such cities therefore tended to become the focus for all domestic policies, the hub for home markets in commodities and raw materials, and the centre of national political power. Some, like Venice, grew so powerful they could exist without a country or political hinterland attached; others drew power towards them over large geographic areas. In the case of London, by the time Charles II rode through its streets on that first occasion, the city had become the centre of England’s economy, controlling markets in goods as far away as Cornwall and the Scottish borders, and even in Ireland. What made this possible, indeed inevitable, was the city’s trade with Africa, America, Asia and the Far East
As contemporary observers noticed, cities grew rich at a rate disproportionate to the growth of their populations. In other words, large cities created wealth more efficiently than less populated areas. London was like that: a magnet for wealth. Already, in the seventeenth century, England’s economy depended upon its capital. In 1660, every thousand people living and working in London generated considerably more wealth than a similar number scattered through the villages and countryside.
Not unnaturally, London therefore had strong historic views about its own important place in the realm, its rights and its freedoms. It was Charles’s misfortune to rule over a people he barely knew and who did not know him. It was the misfortune of Londoners to have a king who had grown to adulthood estranged from them.
While King Charles II was in exile in Europe, at home the genie had escaped from the bottle: large numbers of people, from politicians to
the plainest folk, had started to believe that they could look after their affairs without a king, or at least without one who believed – as the Stuarts tended to do – in absolutist rule that saw little need for representation of at least some of the people through Parliament. After the execution of Charles’s father, Charles I, following a protracted power struggle, England had been ruled without a monarch for eleven years, first as a republic and then as a form of military dictatorship. When this dictatorship collapsed in recriminations and further power struggles, the executed King’s son was invited to return to put things right. From the royalist perspective, it looked as if the genie had been put back in the bottle. But it had not. In London’s political and civic circles there were many who waited to see how an unpractised king would manage their needs and aspirations.
Charles was born in London on 29 May 1630, at St James’s Palace, built by Henry VIII to the west of the City of London on the site of a leper hospital. As an infant, he was put into the care of the Countess of Dorset, wife to the 4th Earl of Dorset, Lord Chamberlain to Charles’s mother, Queen Henrietta Maria. Charles was brought up at his own palace at Richmond, nine miles up the Thames from his parents’ palace at Whitehall and a full ten miles from the Ludgate, the most westerly of the gates in the Roman walls containing the medieval heart of London.†
When the prince was aged about eleven, rumours spread through London that he had attended Catholic Mass in his mother’s private chapel at Somerset House. Questions were asked in Parliament. The following year, civil war broke out, caused by a power struggle between Charles I and Parliament over the royal prerogative, the authority of Parliament and the right to levy taxes. The country split into forces loyal to the King and those loyal to Parliament. The King then went on a march through various counties to garner support. When his return to London was prevented by superior Parliamentarian forces at Turnham Green, Charles set up his headquarters at Oxford. This meant that from the age of about
twelve, Prince Charles was brought up in a royal court at war with Parliament and about half the population, and unable to return to its main palace at the capital city. Within three years, with the war going badly for the Crown, the King dispatched his son to the West Country, as titular commander-in-chief. According to the courtier Edward Hyde, the Prince took little interest in discussions about the war, preferring to flirt with a former nurse.
By 1645 the situation had deteriorated so badly that the King ordered Prince Charles to leave for France. After much procrastination, the Prince sailed from England in March 1646 to live with his mother, now ensconced in a palace not far from Paris courtesy of her French royal relatives. Less than three years later, in January 1649, Charles I was tried and found guilty of treason against his people. He returned to the palace he had left seven years before to be executed. When the Prince heard the news, he was living in The Hague, thanks to the hospitality of his sister Mary, who was married to Prince William II of Orange. Two years later, Charles was crowned King of Scotland and led a Scottish Presbyterian army into England. Oliver Cromwell’s superior forces crushed the invasion at Worcester. Charles had to escape like a criminal, hiding out until he sailed in disguise for France. He had been in England for just five weeks.
After the debacle of the failed invasion, Charles’s return to the throne looked unlikely. Most European powers, including France, recognised the Commonwealth as the de facto ruling power in England. Charles, a king without a kingdom, became an isolated figure. With little future ahead of him, he took to a life of ease and debauchery. Then circumstances changed. Cromwell died in 1658 and his son Richard was appointed Lord Protector in his place. Richard lacked the drive and character to rule and was deposed by a group of army grandees. Many wondered where the country was heading next. An elite group of politicians, aristocrats and bishops, a sort of establishment clique, invited Charles to return for the good of the country. During this period, stability was ensured in London by
an army under former Cromwellian general George Monck, who brought the city under martial law on behalf of the Crown. Charles then returned and ruled for twenty-five exhilarating and tempestuous years, the period covered by this book.
The scene was set for London to develop into one of the greatest cities in the world – if not the greatest of them all. Though its fabric was medieval, in the minds of its people the modem world was taking shape. The great trading city, developed to a large extent by the materialist ideas of Puritanism, would now benefit from the power of royal authority to propel it into a new era.
Under the returned King, London looked forward to stability. The arts and sciences attracted some of the most brilliant minds in British history. Architecture flourished, with a cool, northern aesthetic drawn from hot, Mediterranean origins by men such as John Webb and most notably Christopher Wren, the father of English baroque and the designer of St Paul’s Cathedral as it stands today. London’s theatres, long closed, reopened to enchant with a saucy vigour and novelty of production thanks to impresarios such as Sir William Davenant, a man who claimed lineage from Shakespeare and happily rewrote his plays. Women played their part, within the constraints of seventeenth-century male society. Female playwrights including Aphra Behn appeared, together with that significant artistic innovation of the age – the female actor. Great artists of the stage rose up, including Elizabeth Barry, together with those who, like Nell Gwyn, became notorious for other reasons. Science blossomed, with the formation of the Royal Society; its members, including Robert Boyle and Robert Hooke, brought new insights into the workings of mankind and the universe. New music accompanied royal pageants and masques, and even the moribund world of English art began to revive. People poured in from all over the country and the city’s ships and merchants expanded their international trade, growing fat on slavery, creating a new form of mercantile trade that would literally be the envy of the world. William Petty, John Locke and
others expounded new theories of commerce and wealth creation, leading towards modern economics and capitalism.
But it would not be all plain sailing. Under the rule of Charles II the city experienced some of the greatest cataclysms in its history. In 1660 London was still emerging from a depression that began in the early 1650s with the expansion of Dutch trade at the expense of its rivals, including England, In 1665-6 the city suffered an epidemic of bubonic plague, during which then-current medical remedies were tested and found wanting. Following the plague, the centre of the historic city burned down in one of the worst city fires in history. During these and other trials, Charles’s character was tested to the full. He proved to be a paradox, being, for example, both selflessly brave and totally selfish.
London’s wealth was based on international mercantile capitalism, ‘the inhabitants of Europe being addicted to trade’. For this enterprise to work successfully, the state had to be intimately involved; in the case of London this meant Charles II.
The ruler’s role was to regulate, to set taxes or enforce tariffs against foreign trade, and to help merchants increase their trade in the world by, if necessary, waging trade wars – and hence to increase London’s profits. The person who sat at the apex of this great enterprise was therefore of supreme importance. In early 1660, that person was missing. It was as if Thomas Hobbes’s Leviathan had no head on its shoulders to guide it.‡ It was therefore understandable that Londoners, the majority of whom had supported Parliament against the Crown in 1642, now wished for a king to give leadership again. In adopting this role, Charles was handed one of the most difficult tasks allotted to any monarch.
It is not possible to convey in one book all the many enterprises and innovations of an age, nor to include all the interesting or significant personalities – one can give only a snapshot. For example, Isaac Newton appears in these pages as a slightly peripheral figure. This is
because his seminal work was done in Cambridge, not London, and to give full weight to the central place in modern physics he shares with Albert Einstein would require more than one book all to himself. Nor is it possible to delve into the twists and turns of political or ecclesiastical life to a great depth. What is attempted here is an impression of the vitality of early modern English life, and in particular in the place where everything was, or seemed to be, magnified – London. It is not fanciful to suggest that during Charles’s reign much of what shapes modern Britain was first forged.
This book is the third and final part of a series about the reign of Charles II commissioned by Tim Whiting of Little, Brown. The first book in the series, TheKing’sRevenge, told the neglected story of Charles’s campaign for retribution upon the men who executed his father Charles I, while the second, TheKing’sBed, examined how Charles’s notorious personal life influenced his reign. Both books were written in collaboration with Michael Walsh, who unfortunately has been unable to participate in this final part through illness. I say more about Michael and our long-standing collaboration on many projects in the Acknowledgements at the end of the book.
* For this vivid image, I must thank that most distinguished British city planner and urban theorist, the late Professor Stuart Hall, who used it in a conversation with me.
† Richmond Palace stood upstream of present-day Richmond Bridge, between the river and Richmond Green. It was demolished in the mid-seventeenth century.
‡ The frontispiece of the first edition of Thomas Hobbes’s Leviathan published in 1651, has a drawing of the state represented as a giant man whose body is made up of hundreds of little people gazing up reverently at the giant’s face. The giant holds a sword representing armed strength and a bishop’s crozier representing the Church, while its head wears a king’s crown, Hobbes came up with the design
himself. A more disquieting image of total power would be hard to conjure.
CHAPTER 1
A CITY OF EXPECTATION
In the spring of 1660 the city was enveloped in noxious fumes. Truth be told, the air was never good at any time, though the direction of the wind had a major influence upon its quality. When blowing from the west it carried acrid smoke across the city from limekilns sited in the grounds of Whitehall Palace, less than a mile from the city walls. When the wind veered to the south, it carried fumes from the leather tanneries, the kilns and factories in the industrial slums across the river.
When there was no wind at all, the furnaces of the trades inside the medieval city walls – the ironworkers, cutlery makers, leather workers, bakers, brewers, soap makers, glass blowers, silversmiths, goldsmiths, and anyone else who needed a flame – belched out a cloud of polluting chemicals that hung in the still air and sank into the streets and alleyways like a shroud. On Sundays the industrial smog died down, leaving the smoke from thousands of chimneys to puff sulphurous fumes from the sea-coal the inhabitants used to heat their homes and cook their dinner.
Beneath Londoners’ feet the ground was as unwholesome as the air they breathed. Sanitation was rough and ready. Each house had a dry toilet at the back, in which human waste accumulated until collectors came round to shovel it up, load it onto carts and carry it out of the city. Collections could be irregular. In one repellent entry in his diary, Samuel Pepys described how his neighbour’s heap of human waste broke through the adjoining cellar wall, causing an unholy mess in Pepys’s cellar. Outside the city walls, at collection points too terrible to contemplate, human waste was mixed with horse manure to fertilise the fields in which the city’s food was grown. In this way London helped to feed itself – and possibly to recycle its diseases. This was also the age of the plague, the
dreadful disease that had swept Europe periodically since the Black Death in 1382 – there had been more than thirty outbreaks in England alone, several of them touching London, the most recent of which had taken place in 1637.
Londoners emptied their chamber pots into the open sewers that ran down the sides of the streets and sometimes through the middle. The contents routinely spilled out across the cobbles, covering them with a vile mixture of pig and horse manure mixed with rotting vegetables, animal entrails and human urine. Only rain could improve conditions, temporarily cleansing the air and washing away the hideous slush, sluicing it down to the choked rivers and culverts that ran under the streets into the Thames.
During the spring of 1660, nothing could wash away the persistent rumour that stuck to the city with an obstinacy that equalled of the tenacity of its smells: the King, it was said, was about to return from exile. Eleven years had passed since most of London had turned out to witness the old King, Charles I, beheaded on a scaffold outside his lavish Banqueting House, crowding Whitehall for a mile all the way from Charing Cross to the river. After that, London’s population had been compelled to settle for a Puritan regime under which making money was good and frivolity was not. The great Maypole on the Strand had been pulled down, the theatres closed, and Christmas celebrations frowned upon.
It was not all bad; music was not only allowed, but encouraged. The people of London had need of a good tune to cheer their hearts. They had been through a great deal since the outbreak of civil war in 1642. The brilliant German artist and engraver Wenceslaus Hollar told a friend, biographer John Aubrey, that when he first came to England in 1636, it had been a time of peace and the people, rich and poor, looked cheerful. When he returned after the war he found ‘the countenances of the people all changed, melancholy, spiteful, as if bewitched’.1
Bewitched or not, by early 1660, the Puritan experiment in governing without a king had spiralled into chaos. Following Oliver Cromwell’s death in 1658 the army and Parliament began a protracted duel for supremacy, during which Cromwell’s son Richard was appointed Protector, only to be roughly shooed away without a fight by a group of army heavyweights. The army then tightened its grip on London. Sir John Barkstcad, a London-born goldsmith, who under Cromwell had become Lieutenant of the Tower, ran a cruel and corrupt administration. During the winter of 1659, Londoners got up petitions to complain about the army’s repressive use of force. The army, in turn, fired on demonstrating crowds, causing several deaths. Feelings ran high. The need for change, for a new ruler to take hold of the deteriorating situation, was the talk of London.
It was far from certain that the young King, Charles II, would return from exile. He had been away from England since he was sixteen and had no experience of power. Some said Richard Cromwell should be given another chance. Others said that George Monck, the former Cromwellian general who now had an iron grip on London and whose troops were bivouacked throughout the capital, had designs on becoming another Cromwell. Though Monck publicly proclaimed his earnest allegiance to Parliament, his loyalty privately lay elsewhere. He ordered that the old city’s defences be dismantled. Troops went to the city’s eight gateways and lifted the great wooden gates, studded and reinforced with iron, off their hinges. With great difficulty, portcullises were removed from the gatehouses and broken up. London, the walled city that had closed its gates to a king during the civil wars, now lay defenceless, a fact not lost on the inhabitants of a city once described as ‘England’s Jerusalem’.2
There was no official census and hence no record of London’s population. One of the inhabitants, a draper named John Graunt, wondered how many people lived in the city and decided to find out. Graunt ran a successful family haberdashery business in the heart of the old walled city. He had an inquiring mind and, though we have
no record, seems to have been well educated. Apart from carrying out a full census, sending recorders door to door, there was no accurate means of estimating the population. So Graunt set out to invent a means of reaching such an estimate. He took as his starting point a trawl of the parish records of births and deaths. Then he estimated the average number of people living in each household. From this, Graunt was able to estimate the city’s population at 384,000. The total population of England in the middle of seventeenth century was at most five million, and perhaps as low as four, meaning that between one in ten and one in thirteen of England’s population lived in London.3
To gain a sense of London’s great scale, we should remember that the next largest city in England was Norwich, with a population of 25,000 * Unlike London, with its many trades and industries, the economy of a city like Norwich tended to be based on one major industry. In the ease of Norwich, this was the textile trade, mainly the weaving of worsted wool cloth. Norwich’s population included a large number of foreign migrants, escaping religious persecution and attracted by the vibrant cloth industry.
In the north of England, among the largest towns was York, Though once a major ecclesiastical centre, York’s significance had declined with the dissolution of the monasteries. Its seventeenth-century population of something over 10,000 was supported by an economy based on woollen manufacturing, leather tanning and general trade, both domestic and foreign; its significance as a trading centre was due to its location on the Great North Road and the River Ouse, which flowed eastwards into the Humber Estuary, enabling York to export cloth to the continent. In time even this trade would largely be taken over by Hull, owing to its situation on the coastal estuary. Perhaps greater in population than York was Newcastle, a major industrial hub and coal port.
Until the mid-1600s towns on the east coast tended to be of greater size and importance than those in the west, thanks to their proximity
to continental Europe, with which England and Scotland had historically traded. By the middle of the century, Liverpool was a fishing town with a population of perhaps two thousand. Growing trade with England’s new colonies across the Atlantic meant that Liverpool’s population would increase as it became a centre for refining sugar brought from the West Indies, the first so-called sugar houses appearing in the town in the 1670s. Sugar was later followed by the cotton imports that fed the industrial revolution in Lancashire. In a similar fashion, the seaport of Bristol became involved in the importation of sugar and tobacco. Like Liverpool, it would not grow significantly until the following century, when it became rich on slave trading on an industrial scale.
Larger than any town in England other than London was the Scottish capital of Edinburgh, In the mid-seventeenth century it was a walled city laid out on an east-west axis with its one grand street of handsome houses and public buildings rising up to the royal castle at its western end. Off this thoroughfare ran hundreds of narrow streets and alleyways like ribs from a spine. In all, the city housed somewhere from 30,000 to 40,000 inhabitants.
The city inhabited by John Graunt was clearly on a completely different scale from anywhere else in the kingdom. Even in Europe, only Naples and Paris competed for size, ‘l ire population of the former was somewhere around 300,000, while that of the latter was variously estimated at between 180,000 in 1600 and 500,000 in 1700; the latter figure was probably wildly optimistic, because of the depredations of the civil war known as the Fronde.
There were other large cities in northern Europe. Amsterdam, the premier Dutch seaport, had a population of around 200,000. Leiden, the Dutch city where many Englishmen went to study medicine, had a population of more than 100,000. Because of their scale, these early megacities created environments unlike almost everywhere else. They offered totally different ways in which to live and to experience life. Not only that: long before the seventeenth century
London had developed into the centre in which the entire country’s political power resided and via which its economic life was channelled or controlled.
If it could be said that one city was obsessed with another, then the city with which London was obsessed was Amsterdam. By any measurement apart from size, Amsterdam was the most successful city in Europe. Trade, banking, culture, painting, crafts and medicine all flourished in what was to become known as the Dutch Golden Age. The Dutch had built on their commercially advantageous position next to Germany at the head of the Rhine and next door to the Baltic. They then branched outwards into the eastern spice trade, becoming wonderfully wealthy. Their society was far in advance of England’s, their institutions in advance of London’s. At any one time, among Amsterdam’s population of 200,000 lived large numbers of English and other merchants from all across Europe. The English merchants in Amsterdam were able to examine Dutch society at first hand and admire its Calvinist orderliness and dedication to trade. They envied the Dutch for their commerce, their knowhow and their money. These preoccupations were to have significant ramifications for both countries during the ensuing years.
When not selling gentlemen’s clothing, John Graunt continued to work on his mathematical obsessions. The intellectually curious Graunt seems to have hit upon the art of statistical analysis all by himself. Mis work – a form of protoepidemiology – would later propel the shopkeeper into the circles of the scientific elite.
Graunt was an influential man in the meritocracy of city merchant life, a captain in the trained bands (London’s part-time militia) and an alderman, one of the ruling elite, elected from among the city’s common council members. London’s establishment was based on the city’s ancient social structure, centred on the Corporation. This was medieval in origin, hierarchical in form and fiercely independent. The Corporation was comprised of a pyramid of elected representatives, beginning with councilmen; one tier up were the aldermen, followed
by two sheriffs and finally the Lord Mayor. Only those who were Freemen of the City of London could vote or stand for election. To become a Freeman was to enter a closed shop, based on the medieval system of guilds or livery companies, each representing a trade. The guilds were arranged in hierarchical order dependent upon social status, from humble wheelwrights and tin workers at the bottom to the grand mercers (international cloth merchants) and grocers (international spice merchants) at the top, wielding power and influence. To join a guild usually entailed having to serve a lengthy and often expensive apprenticeship. An apprenticeship with the grocers or mercers amounted to what would today be a university-level education in economies and commerce, together with the hands-on experience of a sandwich course. London was thus ruled by a self-perpetuating clique, which ran the city through the two powerful entities of the Corporation and the guilds. The system served London’s interests well.†
Graunt had a friend with whom he could discuss his arithmetical problems. This was William Petty, a true renaissance man: colonial administrator, mathematician, surveyor, musician and leading exponent of the study of the finance of trade and the nation (what would in time become known as economics). Petty had made his fortune in Ireland, surveying the island for Oliver Cromwell, in preparation for selling off the best arable land to English settlers. It was said, probably with good reason, that Petty had used his position deceitfully to enrich himself. His income from land rents was said to be £18,000 a year, putting him among the very top echelons of the contemporary rich list.
Petty’s beginnings could not have been more different. His parents had, like Graunt s, been in the rag trade, and he had, like Graunt, largely educated himself in his early years. The difference was that Petty had started lower, as a cabin boy, and climbed higher; academically trained in Holland, he had become personal secretary to Thomas Hobbes, the mathematician and philosopher, before studying medicine at Oxford.
Petty, with his rigorous education, was better versed in mathematics than Graunt. Thanks to his status as an aider-man, however, Graunt was able to help Petty – who was now, because of his wealth and education, his social superior – recommending him for the professorship in music at Gresham College, London’s only institution of higher learning. The college had opened to promote the latest and most advanced learning at the beginning of the century, when the merchant philanthropist Sir Thomas Gresham bequeathed his mansion to the city. Gresham had made his money in several spheres of business, including the building of the Royal Exchange at the western end of Cornhill, where London’s stock trading took place.
In the spring of 1660, Petty had a more mundane problem on his mind: he had been thrown out of his Gresham College rooms. Thanks to the military crackdown, the army had commandeered the college for barracks. The building was ideal for the purpose, being a large mansion with a courtyard, situated inside the city walls. Petty, along with his friend and fellow professor Christopher Wren, resigned from the college in protest at its requisitioning. His rooms having vanished, Petty’s mind turned to staying with his friends, the Graunts.
The route of Petty’s coach to the Graunt home in Birchin Lane would have taken him south along Bishopsgate and up the slight incline of Cornhill. Here Petty found himself atop the middle of the three hills on which medieval London was built. To his west was Ludgate Hill, crowned by St Paul’s Cathedral, an ancient crumbling church of great significance to Londoners by virtue of its antiquity rather than its architecture; to his east, Tower Hill, named after the huge, grey Norman keep of the Tower that sat between it and the river.
At this point, Petty had to force his way across the constant stream of people, carriages and carts pouring into Leadenhall immediately to his left, one of the city’s greatest streets, where once had stood the Roman forum. Now, together with Cheapside, Leadenhall was
London’s international shop window, selling the most exciting goods from around England and the world. Terraces of graceful, timber and plaster buildings rising six storeys high lined the road. Their pointed gable ends faced out onto the street, giving the roofline a vibrant rhythm. Foreign visitors marvelled at Leadenhall’s luxury and vivacity.
Turning away from Leadenhall’s delights, Petty would head west along Cornhill, one of the most congested parts of the city. A flood of humanity flowed past his carriage; shoppers, idlers, deliverymen with their barrows, draymen on their carts, pickpockets, the poor, the industrious and the rich. The streets, already narrow, were reduced to tracks by the hordes of street sellers, licensed and unlicensed, selling poultry, vegetables, butter, cheese, beer, cutlery and woollen cloth. Petty’s coach turned south off Cornhill, leaving behind the merchants and millers haggling over seasonal prices, to descend into Birchin Lane, where he reached his destination, a substantial property on the west side of the street. This was Graunt’s home and shop, just across the street from the house where he had been born.
Born on 24 April 1620, Graunt served in London’s militia through the Civil War years and into the Commonwealth and Protectorate. He would therefore have been a Parliamentarian, like most of London’s middle classes and proletariat. His friend Petty had worked directly for the Cromwellian regime in Ireland and so we can assume they shared political opinions. How strongly held these were we cannot say with certainty, but soon enough both men would be willing to accept privileges from the King.
London was a city of chiming clocks. Almost every parish church had a clock, which struck the hour and sometimes the half-hour and the quarter. They did not chime in unison, so Londoners took the time from each parish as they passed by the neighbourhood clock. London was a city in which timekeeping mattered.
While Petty fretted about his lodgings, Captain William Rider, seafarer and merchant, waited for the daily chime of the bell in the tower of the Royal Exchange, summoning all merchants to trade. The Exchange was the city’s commercial heart, modelled on the great Burse at Antwerp, Europe’s first stock exchange, which in its sixteenth-century heyday had attracted bankers from all over Europe.4 London’s Royal Exchange did not deal on such an international scale, but it was where London’s business was done. It sat at the intersection of six streets, forming a natural focal point for the eastern portion of the walled city, just as St Paul’s Cathedral did for the western end. Twice a day, at twelve noon and six in the evening, the bell in the Exchanges tower rang. In its Italianate piazza, stocks were traded, shares bought and sold, gossip exchanged.
Rider personified commercial London. For generations, the city’s merchants had enjoyed elevated status, their prestige recorded in the city’s ancient livery halls, grand homes of the city trade guilds. Stained glass windows, rich plateware in silver and gilt, ceremony and ritual marked their members out as nothing less than mercantile heroes.
We should define here what constituted a merchant in seventeenthcentury London. A merchant was a wholesaler who almost certainly traded goods on the international market. Those who sold goods or services on the domestic market were never known as merchants; they were simply known after their trades, as haberdashers, shipwrights, vintners, tailors, and so on. A merchant had a status well above the average person in a trade. Some merchants, it was said, were as rich as princes.
Rider was not quite a merchant prince, but he was on the way up. With the knack of thriving in any weather, he had made his money under both monarchy and Commonwealth. During the reign of Charles I, Rider laid the foundations of his fortune as master of a ship trading in the Straights – the common name for the
Mediterranean, so called after its narrow entrance from the Atlantic. The Mediterranean had been a mainstay of London’s foreign trade for hundreds of years. Shakespeare nodded to this important link in several plays: TheTwoGentlemenofVerona,RomeoandJuliet(set in Verona), TheMerchantofVeniceand Othello(whose full title was Othello,theMoorofVenice).Trade with Italy, Turkey and the Levant was well established from Tudor times, bringing spices, cloth and luxury goods for sale in the metropolis’s upmarket shops, or to be sold on into other West European countries. Londoners were acquainted with the Ottoman Empire both via the tales of those who went there – sailors, merchants and their factors – and by the goods that emanated from it. Queen Elizabeth had strengthened trade links between the vast empire and her small realm off the coast of Europe.
From his trading activities in the Mediterranean, Rider made sufficient money to become a major investor in the East India Company (EIC). This great speculative machine controlled the majority of London’s eastern foreign trade, chiefly with the emperors, nabobs and sultans of countries such as China and India. Those who ran the EIC believed that no foreign ships should trade along routes or in foreign ports it considered as its own. Trading voyages might take two years or more, but the potential profits were great. So were the risks. The EIC allowed merchants like Rider to split the risk on voyages. Each year, the company would assemble a fleet bound for the cast. The merchant princes and aristocrats who owned stock in the company shared in the profit – or loss – of all ventures. Later, the rules were altered to allow merchants to buy parcels of investment in each of the ships. Thus each merchant was not open to all the company’s risk, but only to that in the voyages he helped finance.
With his fingers in many pies, Rider was far from unusual. Many wholesale merchants had multiple interests. In Rider’s case, the business that had made him wealthy was the prosaic, everyday matter of supplying the navy. During the Commonwealth years, he
imported timber, tar and pitch via the Baltic, chiefly from Sweden, making himself essential to government.
What men like Rider hoped was that any new government, especially a new monarchy, would continue to find them indispensable. In the meantime, impermanence in government was bad for business; orders were not made, bills not paid. For Rider, a political settlement of whatever nature was best arrived at soon. Merchants like him provided the economic powerhouse that made London what it was –a city grown fat on trade, where all social classes lived cheek by jowl in the maze of its medieval streets and the entrepreneur was never far from the next deal. For such men, a change of government was something to be weathered rather than feared.
The close proximity of London’s social classes reflected the city’s history. A wall around any city initially dictated the limits of building. The great and the wealthy lived cooped up with the low and the needy. When the threat of invasion receded and the city could expand outside the walls, the new suburbs tended to cater for a growing workforce rather than for the wealthy. Only with the western expansion of London towards Westminster in the early 1600s had an area grown up specifically for the aristocratic classes. The merchants, many of them spectacularly wealthy and members of merchant dynasties, tended to stay put in the original city, next to their businesses and close to their rivals. By and large, this meant they rubbed shoulders daily with the poor and the ordinary. All shared in the atmosphere of urban vibrancy on a level unknown anywhere else. The urgency, the fun, the immediacy, the opportunity and the unhealthy stench all made London what it was. There was simply nowhere else like it in England.
It was therefore no surprise that the retailer John Graunt and the plutocrat William Rider lived among the same crowded streets. In what had once been the heart of the Roman city’, along Lombard Street and thereabouts, merchants built their houses of brick or dressed stone, marking them out among the medieval wood and
plaster cityscape. These grand houses were generally set behind courtyards, distancing their inhabitants from the noise and bustle of the street.
For most who could afford it, that was not enough; taking a leaf from the aristocrats’ book, a country house was required. Rider was one of those who could afford it. He could escape the old city’s smells and filth by taking a coach through Bishopsgate and driving a mile north-east to his Elizabethan country house, Kirby Castle, in the pleasant agricultural hamlet of Bethnal Green.
A man like Rider spent most of the week at his city house, from where it would take minutes by carriage or sedan chair to the Royal Exchange or to a tavern where fellow merchants congregated to gossip and do deals, or else to the waterfront where the core of the city’s business lay among the warehouses and shipping. From the Exchange, Rider’s journey to his warehouses took him down Water Lane, where sat the headquarters of Trinity House.‡ This was the corporation that oversaw safety at sea, building lighthouses, marking channels and providing pilotage on the Thames. In the spring of r66o Rider became a trustee of Trinity House, an honour that allowed him to take a small but important step into the establishment.
From Trinity House, Rider had only to turn the corner to enter Thames Street, fronting the river. If Leadenhall was the chief retail artery of the city, the Thames was its beating heart. So important was the Thames to London that the city’s Lord Mayor was the ‘conservator’ of sixty miles of river from ‘Gravesend in the East, to a place called Colme Ditch in Surrey’ (possibly the point at which the River Colne joins the Thames at Staines).5 Lining the old city’s southern edge were the quays and docksides along the river. This was the Pool of London, the deep anchorage stretching from London Bridge to the Tower. Standing on the quays, Rider could see before him a constantly changing scene of ships coming and going, barges
putting in and out, wherries criss-crossing; the sky was filled with the persistent movement of masts, sails and spars.
On the landward side of Thames Street ran a continuous wall of solid buildings with small, barred windows. These were the warehouses. Ships and lighters tied up at the wharfs to unload pepper from Java, cinnamon from Istanbul or Malaya, sugar from Barbados and Jamaica, tobacco and indigo from Virginia, wool from Yorkshire, coal from Newcastle, tar and timber from Sweden, cotton, silk and saltpetre from the Bay of Bengal. Here could be found more of London’s wealth than anywhere else in the city, except perhaps for the strongboxes of the goldsmiths in Cheapside, under the afternoon shadow of St Paul’s Cathedral,
William Petty watched and wondered about the economic laws that underpinned the city’s economic activity. Bringing his analytical mind to bear, he formulated theories about the nature of trade and the economic forces at work which would influence Adam Smith in the eighteenth century, Karl Marx in the nineteenth and John Maynard Keynes in the twentieth. In the 1660s the merchants of London worried about more immediate things: how the King would affect their business, what taxes might be imposed, and whether or not London could find a way to compete with its great rivals, the Dutch. Amsterdam’s trade was greater than London’s, its merchants wealthier, its global reach further and more secure, its shipping better developed and its navy stronger. As London waited to welcome its king, Amsterdam was the great cloud on the horizon.
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For the warehouses to be filled, emptied and filled again required a huge army of workers, each one connected in some way to the next – chandlers, sailors, shipping agents, warehousemen, customs officials, carters, shipwrights, ropemakers, sailmakers, tavern owners, potboys, victuallers, cooks and more. Their living depended not only upon their own efforts, but on those of people from across
the world whom they would never meet. London was the hub of a global economy, linking China, India, java, Borneo, Zanzibar, West Africa, the Americas, the West Indies, Sweden, Turkey, the Levant and Russia. London was not simply a city, it was a great engine of trade.
There was one London trade in which the merchandise at its heart did not have to enter or leave the city to make money. This was the African slave trade. The business consisted of trading textiles from the East Indies and other goods for slaves in East Africa, who were then sold in the slave markets in the West Indies and America. The slaves were shipped across the Atlantic via what was known as the Middle Passage to English colonies. On the return voyage the ships were loaded with tobacco, sugar, indigo and other produce to be offloaded in British ports, before completing the triangular journey back to Africa. The trade was slow and haphazard. For it to become an organised economic force a figurehead was required, someone who could give the trade new impetus and focus. In the spring of 1660 such a person was yet to appear.
As the spring days lengthened, there seemed no escape from the rumours and speculation. The gossip spread out beyond the city walls at Ludgate, across the Fleet River, and into the lawless alleys of the ragged urban slum known as Alsatia. Built across a former monastery garden, this was now home to some of the most villainous people in England. In a maze of streets sandwiched between the Tudor walls of the Bridewell prison on the east and the lawyers’ leafy enclave of the Temple on the west, debtors, scroungers, murderers and thieves were left to manage their own affairs and think their own duplicitous thoughts. The area was so notorious that it would provide the material for a play, Thomas Shadwell’s TheSquireofAlsatia.
West again was the Strand, where speculation circulated among the wealthy aristocrats and gentry who inhabited fashionable modern mansions and older houses built in Tudor times. For aristocrats, the
return of the King mattered a great deal, for without a king, the aristocracy had no meaning. The aristocratic system worked on patronage flowing downwards from the monarchy. If the King returned, patronage would flow once more; status and power would be restored to nobility who during the Cromwellian era had been seen as less valuable than, in Cromwell s famous dictum, ‘the middle sort of men’.
North of the Strand lay the mildly disreputable area of Covent Garden. Only a few years before, it had been fashionable, after Francis Russell, 4th Earl of Russell, commissioned Inigo Jones to create a square with a church and a terrace of fine houses in the 1630s to replace a shanty town that had offended Charles I. The area had fallen down the social ladder once more when taverns and brothels opened up around the south end of Jones’s innovative Italianate piazza, copied from that at Livorno. One of the inhabitants of the Piazza was the artist Peter Lely. If the King returned it could herald a great commercial opportunity for Lely, who had been making his living painting the portraits of wealthy merchants and Parliamentarian grandees. A reinstated royal court might be a major new source of commissions.
Lely was one of a large and varied population of foreigners living in the city. They included German merchants, Jewish traders, diplomats from many states, a handful of men of letters, and commercial agents and merchant seamen from many lands. A member of a small group of foreign, chiefly Dutch, artists who had come to earn their living in England, he was bom in Germany to Dutch parents; his real family name was van der Faes. The name Lely derived from a lily carved over the door of the house where his father was bom in The Hague.
Lely arrived in England in the early 1640s aged twenty-one, at what seemed an excellent time for an ambitious young artist. The arts were flourishing in England. Charles I was a great patron of painters, commissioning works from many of the finest European artists.
England had few notable painters of its own: the break with Rome and the rise of Protestantism had seen to that. Only the great William Dobson rose out of a sea of home-grown mediocrity. With the death of Antony van Dyck in 1641, and Dobson five years after that, there was room for a new premier court painter.
Lely hoped his time had come, but within a year of his arrival civil war broke out. It had been a hardscrabble existence since then. He had been reduced to giving painting lessons, among his pupils being a keen boy of very limited financial means and a real aptitude for drawing: his name was Robert Hooke, the son of a curate and schoolteacher on the Isle of Wight. Perhaps with the return of the King, Lely could give up teaching and get back to producing the great landscapes he longed to paint.
Close to Lely’s house in Covent Garden Piazza, in an alley off Drury Lane, Mrs Helena Gwyn struggled to bring up her two daughters Rose and Eleanor (the latter known either as Nell or Nellie). Mrs Gwyn had been bom in the parish of St Martin in the Fields, and had lived in the parish almost all her life. Her husband, who was said to have been a Welsh army captain, had abandoned the family, leaving mother and daughters to fend for themselves. Mrs Gwyn took to the bottle and to keeping a brothel in Coal Yard Alley. It can’t have been an easy business in a Puritan town. Her girls grew up knowing they had to make their own way in life without the expectation that anyone would help them. Families like the Gwyns had more to worry about than whether or not the King was likely to return.
Further west, in the drawing rooms along the well set-up streets around Whitehall Palace, political gossip competed with social chatter. Here were located the houses of the nobility most closely connected to the royal court. In 1660 the few former courtiers who remained in residence shared the comparatively clean streets and air of Westminster with the Parliamentarians, soldiers and political revolutionaries who had run the country under Oliver Cromwell. Included among them were those who had sat in judgement on the
old King and sent his head rolling on a scaffold outside his own Banqueting House. Such men had especially good reason to ponder how the dead monarch’s son might deal with them if and when he were restored to the throne.
The aristocrats, too, had reason to be wary; as the political wind backed and veered, it was not impossible that a more draconian regime might emerge that would not look kindly on the nobility. Many stayed out of town, glad to find an excuse to keep away.
Family matters called Katherine Jones, Viscountess Ranelagh, to Ireland and ensured she was well away from any unpleasant developments. She was one of the most important figures in Restoration London. The so-called ‘invisible college’ that preceded the Royal Society may have met at her house. London was her natural milieu; there she mixed in the circles of the most brilliant minds of the day. Her brother, Robert Boyle, who was yet to carry out the scientific work that-would grant him lasting fame, was also in Ireland, finding life on the family estate increasingly unrewarding. A settlement that restored stability would attract those of wealth and status hack to London.
Secrets, no matter how vital, were hard to keep. From drawing rooms, taverns and the teeming streets, talk of the King swirled down to the Thames, to be picked up in the hundreds of wherries that sculled across to the far bank of the river, taking the gossip to the industrial slums of Southwark, where the unskilled and the skilled worked and lived together. The rumours flowed down the river, to the shipyards where ships that sailed across the Atlantic or the Indian Ocean and beyond were built, maintained and lay at anchor between voyages. A procession of ship owners, captains, investors and merchants daily made its way up and downstream to see how their new ships were coming on, their rowers dodging between the hundreds of other wherries criss-crossing the river.
Downriver, beyond the Deptford shipyards, the land was low-lying and given to swampy pools; these harboured mosquitoes that caused malaria – swamp or campaign fever, as it was called. Yet the air here was cleaner than in the city. Here were several more of London’s shipyards, some military, others commercial. Next to the shipyards of the Fast India Company, across two hundred acres of land, John Evelyn and his wife Mary had created their Garden of Eden, a unique collection of trees and shrubs, many of them rare species from overseas. Evelyn was a cultured man of inherited wealth. He and his wife had evaded the horrors of the Civil War and the subsequent problems associated with being Royalists by travelling in Europe. Evelyn was warm-hearted, a steadfast friend to those he considered worthy. He had a puritanical attitude to all forms of licentiousness, along with a well-developed sense of duty to the state – and on the debit side was as dreadful a snob as any man whose father made the family fortune from the manufacture of gunpowder.
When Evelyn was not thinking about horticulture and his beloved garden, he thought about London, its great capacity for wealth and its current parlous state. He compiled lists of the practical trades, the processes involved in manufacture, and the types of businesses undertaken. His hope was to produce encyclopaedic profiles of London’s business and trades. The sheer diversity and complexity of the material defeated him, and he abandoned it. This allowed his inquisitive mind to be taken up with the unstable political situation. In the autumn of 165g Evelyn had anonymously published a pamphlet entitled AnApologyfortheRoyalParty, arguing that the interregnum had brought nothing but unfulfilled promises propped up by military might. Only the restoration of the monarchy could, he reasoned, bring the order and stability he saw all around him in his garden.
In his modest house in Holborn, John Milton had Evelyn’s pamphlet read to him. The poet was now totally blind, but he could plainly see the way the political wind was blowing. He dictated a broadside in
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