by Ian Mortimer
We in the modern world believe we are living through a communications revolution – and no one in his or her right mind would doubt it. But people in Restoration Britain are experiencing a similar transformation. Faster, affordable communications are a major part of that story. Even more noticeable, however, are the newspapers sold at stationers and read in coffee houses. By 1663 the bibliophile George Thomason has managed to collect more than 7,200 editions of English newspapers and news-sheets published since 1640 (as well as a further 15,000 pamphlets). There were no newspapers before the Civil Wars, largely due to the legal restrictions on printing, but now that the publishing cat is out of the bag, it is very difficult for the government to return things to the way they were. Although Charles II reintroduces control of the press by way of the Licensing Act of 1662, a stream of newspapers pour out of the capital with names such as Mercurius Politicus, The Public Intelligencer and The True Protestant Mercury, each appearing once a week. Samuel Pepys’s newspaper of choice in the early 1660s is The Kingdom’s Intelligencer.34 From 1665, The Oxford Gazette is published: this is the government’s official newspaper, which is renamed The London Gazette in 1666.A Scottish equivalent, The Edinburgh Gazette, first appears in 1699. Similar official publications from foreign countries, such as the Gazette de France, the Gazeta ordinaria de Madrid and the Lisbon Gazeta, and unofficial English newsletters such as The Weekly Pacquet of Advice from Rome, are sent to London; the news they contain is quickly recycled, so that important events are made known to everyone who cares to be informed. In their old age, Evelyn and his wife set aside Wednesday and Saturday nights as ‘lecture nights’, when they read out the newspapers to each other. During the Long Frost, the ports are all frozen and Britain is cut off from the rest of Europe; the thaw thus brings a flood of news, as all the European newspapers for the last two months arrive at once.35 Mr and Mrs Evelyn have difficulty keeping up.
The real communications revolution – as far as the media are concerned – comes at the end of the Restoration period. Before then, the terms of the Licensing Act of 1662 restrict printing presses in England to London and the universities of Oxford and Cambridge – and what is to be printed requires the permission of a ‘surveyor’ or censor. In 1663 this role is filled by Sir Roger l’Estrange, an editor of three newspapers who, ironically, opposes the general public reading them, ‘because I think it makes the multitude too familiar with the actions and the counsels of their superiors’.36 (You can’t help but feel he is in the wrong job.) That year a pamphlet justifying the execution of Charles I is discovered in the press of John Twyn, who is tried for the crime of printing it. Despite his protestations of innocence, he is found guilty and hanged and quartered, his head being set on Ludgate and the four quarters of his body displayed above the other gates of the city. People are appalled and, indeed, the rigidity of press control contributes to calls for a change in the law. In 1695 Parliament refuses to renew the Licensing Act, thereby making way for the first time for a free press. New journals are swiftly published, with titles such as The Post Man, The Post Boy and The Flying Post emphasising their speed and thus their up-to-dateness. These are printed two or three times a week and in editions of 3,000–4,000, not far short of The London Gazette’s print run of 6,000 copies.37 Sitting down in a coffee house in 1695, with the sun streaming through the windows on the printed newspaper on the table before you, and the steam of your coffee rising in the sunlight, you may well think that you’re not so far from home.
Politeness
Monsieur Misson remarks that ‘the people of England when they meet, never salute one another otherwise than by giving one another their hands and shaking them heartily; they no more dream of pulling off their hats than women do of pulling off their head cloths.’38 This is not quite true: men do take off their hats to one another, especially to social superiors; however, you need to note the importance of the handshake. Other forms of greeting will similarly be familiar to you. If you meet Pepys, he may well say ‘How do you do?’ as a form of welcome. If you meet the king, he will hold out his hand for you to bow to and kiss. Ladies should hold up their heads to a gentleman to kiss them on greeting, but they should bow to kiss the king’s hand. For people who are significantly higher in status than you but not royal, removing the hat and bowing is the norm. As for saying goodbye, that word ‘good-bye’ itself is appropriate. Restoration people understand it to mean either ‘God b[less] ye’ or ‘God be [with] ye’.39
When it comes to addressing important people, modern practice is useful in so far as forms have not greatly changed. You should address the king as ‘Your majesty’ and a duke or an archbishop as ‘Your grace’. Speaking to lesser lords and bishops or their wives, you can simply say ‘Your lordship’ or ‘Your ladyship’, and to clergymen ‘Your reverence’. If a man is a knight or a baronet, then call him ‘Sir John’ or whatever his first name is. His wife is ‘Your ladyship’, ‘Dame Alice’ or ‘Lady Smith’. Gentlemen are referred to as ‘Mister’ or ‘Master’ (both written ‘Mr’). The term ‘Esquire’ is used after a gentleman’s name to indicate that he has a coat of arms – note that it is not used for non-armigerous gentlemen. Nor do you call a tradesman or ordinary farmer ‘Mr’ – at this time he does not have a pre-title, only his name. Wives, sisters and daughters of gentlemen are addressed as ‘Mistress’ (written ‘Mrs’ or ‘Mtress’), whether they are married or not, and letters should be directed to them as ‘Mrs Smith’, even if they are under the age of ten. I would strongly recommend that you do not address an unmarried woman in the 1660s as ‘Miss’: this is the way people refer to noblemen’s concubines.40
Most other aspects of politeness are much as they are in the modern world. All the social norms about spitting and blowing your nose in public were laid down in the Middle Ages (see The Time Traveller’s Guide to Medieval England for details). Certain things do change, however: the wearing of hats is one. Men should take off their hats indoors unless they are working, so a tradesman might wear one in his shop but not in another man’s house, especially if it is the house of a social superior. It is not acceptable for men to wear hats in church but some nonconformist ministers do, on the basis that preaching is their job.41 Until about 1680 hats are put on to eat dinner (to avoid catching cold), but are removed when drinking someone’s health. By that date most gentlemen habitually wear a wig so there is no need for a hat; the rest of society follows their example, giving up wearing hats indoors altogether, even at mealtimes.42
The etiquette of the nobility is extraordinary: it will amuse you greatly to watch the excruciating politeness of those who have practised the art for years, and I mean both the fawning servants and the noblemen themselves. Best of all is when two high-ranking aristocrats from foreign countries meet. Each of them is of course unfamiliar with the protocol in the other’s country. Therefore, intensely aware that the honour of their homeland is at stake, they both feel obliged to express even more politeness than might normally be expected of them. How far Grand Duke Cosimo must stand beyond the front door of his house in London to welcome the king’s brother is crucial: he must go so far out of his mansion to make the greeting look generous – but not too far, as he is a head of state and James is merely a royal duke. Cosimo must allow James to enter the house first but then, when going up the stairs, it is necessary for Cosimo’s gentlemen to precede him and his guests, as they are receiving the Englishman, not vice versa. At the top, Cosimo must turn to the duke to invite him into the drawing room, where all the assembled Italian gentlemen there should bow to him as he makes his way through to the room where he and Cosimo will finally be able to talk to one another.43
At the other extreme, the art of the insult is a highly polished one. Ned Ward is with a friend in a coffee house one day, listening to the banter between some women from Billingsgate Market. His friend remarks in a low voice, ‘Come away. Let’s seek another apartment or these saucy-tongued old whores will tease us to death.’ Unfortunately his words are overheard by one
of the women, who stands up and ‘gives her lungs a breathing’:
You white-livered son of a Fleet Street bumsitter begot upon a chair at noonday between Ludgate and Temple Bar! You puppily offspring of a mangy nightwalker who was forced to play the whore an hour before she cried out to pay the bawd, her midwife, for bringing you, you bastard, into the world. Who is it you call whore?44
One other little piece of advice that you’re unlikely to find in traditional history books: where do you go to the loo, if you are caught short away from home? Most towns are still small enough that you can take yourself off discreetly to find a bush on the roadside. In London, however, this is not possible. You will therefore find ‘houses of office’ at certain points, such as over the Fleet (before the Great Fire) or on London Bridge. You will also find them by the stairs leading down to the Thames. Most men can, of course, relieve themselves in the river itself, but those with more pressing needs and females will want to resort to one of these public conveniences. If you are nowhere near the river or a public house of office, then the thing to do is to visit a public house and pay for something that entitles you to use the facilities. In 1660, faced with a sudden looseness in the bowels, Pepys does exactly that: ‘I went into a little alehouse at the end of Ratliffe and did give a groat for a pot of ale and there I did shit.’45
Thank you, Samuel, for recording it for posterity.
Units of Measurement
The measurement of distance, area, volume and weight is slowly becoming standardised across England. Most people recognise a standardised inch, and a foot of twelve inches, a yard of three feet, a chain of twenty-two yards, a furlong of ten chains and a statute mile of eight furlongs. For some specific distances you have specific measures. In measuring the height of a horse, for instance, you use the hand of four inches. In measuring depth, you use the fathom of six feet. In measuring cloth you use the ell of 45 inches. With regard to area, the standard form is based on the pole (or rod) of five and a half yards; a rood is a pole wide and a furlong long, and four roods make an acre. However, ‘most people’ does not mean everyone. There are parts of the country where locals will recognise few of the above measurements apart from the inch, and in Scotland even the inch is different.
As Celia Fiennes travels through northern England, she reflects on a hard day’s travelling and remarks, ‘the miles here are very long so that at least it may be esteemed the last 20 mile as long as the 30 mile gone in the morning’. It is not just that the miles seem very long, they really are longer than usual.46 Although the statute mile of 1,760 yards referred to above was standardised back in 1593, many northerners still use the old English mile of 1,500 paces, each pace being five feet, so a mile is 2,500 yards. Just to confuse you, there is another ‘old English mile’ of eleven furlongs, or 2,420 yards, and an ‘old British mile’ of 2,428 yards.47 In Oxfordshire three different sorts of ‘mile’ are in use, according to Robert Plot’s Natural History of Oxfordshire (1677), including one of nine and a quarter furlongs (2,035 yards). Hampshire miles are similarly a little longer than a statute mile, varying from place to place, but mostly at this time being about ten furlongs (2,200 yards). The only thing of which you can be certain, wherever you are in the country, is that the person telling you the mileage from here to there is surer of the actual distance than you are.
Miles are easy by comparison with other measures. Area is especially complicated – for the simple reason that standardisation tends to take place when people trade their goods, and acres of land can’t be taken to market. Purchasers have to accept the local customary ways when they buy land. Although in most places an acre is an area 40 poles by 4, the eventual size of your acre depends on how big your pole is. The standard size is 16.5 feet, but in Cumbria you will come across poles or rods of 18, 20 or 21 feet.48 And that’s just in Cumbria. Go to Cornwall and everything is madly different. There a fathom is 5 feet, not the usual 6. A mile is much longer than a statute mile (although no one seems to know exactly how long), and an acre is a similarly ill-defined area, often the equivalent of an ancient hide or 120 statute acres.
Weight is even more complicated, as it depends on what you are weighing. If it is bread, grain, gold, pearls, silver or apothecaries’ drugs, then you weigh according to troy pounds. In this system there are only 12 ounces per pound – but note that the ounces in question are a little heavier than the ounces you know. Almost all household items except bread are weighed according to the avoirdupois pound: this has 16 ounces to the pound, but using an ounce that is only 73⁄80 of a troy ounce. Hence the old quip: ‘a pound of iron weighs more than a pound of gold but an ounce of gold weighs more than an ounce of iron’. Confused yet? Wait until you get to the West Country: in Cornwall and Devon there are 18 ounces to the pound, not 12 or 16.
Complications increase further with volume. You probably know that four gills make a pint, and eight pints make a gallon. You may also be aware that 54 gallons make a hogshead, two hogsheads make a butt and two butts make a tun. That is true of beer – but only in London, and then only when measuring beer; if it is ale (brewed without hops) then there are 48 gallons to the hogshead. Outside London a hogshead of beer or ale is 51 gallons. But note that these are ale and beer gallons of 282 cubic inches, which are larger than wine gallons (231 cubic inches); you need 63 of the latter to make a hogshead of wine.49 Some imported wines come in hogsheads of yet different volumes: a hogshead of claret is 46 wine gallons. A hogshead of brandy is 57 wine gallons. It’s enough to drive you to drink.
Now is probably not the moment to tell you that Scottish weights and measures are all different from the English ones. But just in case: four Scottish gills make a mutchkin, and two mutchkins make a chopin, two chopins make a Scottish pint, and eight pints make a Scottish gallon. Therefore although a Scottish gill is only three-quarters the size of an English gill, a Scottish gallon is more than three times its English namesake. A Scottish ell is 37 inches and a Scottish fall is 6 ells, and a Scottish chain is 4 falls, a Scottish furlong 10 chains and a Scottish mile 8 furlongs. This would make a Scottish mile longer than an English one by 640 feet, except that a Scottish inch as standardised in 1661 is fractionally longer than an English inch, making a Scottish mile longer than an English one by just under 650 feet.50 Frankly, the complexities of weights and measures are such that you cannot possibly hope to understand them all. You simply have to do what everyone else does, and that is become familiar with local measurements and learn by experience not to pay over the odds. This is why local customs have lasted such a long time. And if you are travelling away from London, you just have to accept that some miles really are longer than others.
Money
Look at the coins in your purse. Pick one out. Think of all the hands it has passed through, whether being spat on for luck by a London market trader first thing in the morning or daintily pushed across a counter at the Royal Exchange. It may have travelled the length and breadth of the kingdom several times over, passing through thousands – if not tens of thousands – of hands. It may have travelled around a city many times, and through the centre over and over again, sewing itself into the social fabric as it goes in and out of pockets and purses, money boxes and palms. It has been everywhere and has bought almost everything: rent, debts, bread, wine, houses, sex, clocks, jewels, books, guns, loyalty and betrayal. To a thief, a half-crown may mean death; to a beggar, life. It is like a memory-less ghost passing between us, part of the indefinable essence of humanity that makes society more than the sum of its parts.
Despite all this strange mystery that coins represent, they are also subject to change. And the second half of the seventeenth century is probably the most revolutionary period in the entire history of money.
Let’s begin with the coins themselves. At the start of the period, the currency is a bit of a mess. The denominations are much the same as in previous and later centuries – the pound sterling in England and Wales is composed of 20 shillings, each shilling being of 12 pence (written ‘1
2d’), and each penny (1d) being four farthings (¼d) – but apart from a few machine-made or ‘milled’ examples from the reigns of Elizabeth I and Charles I, the coins in your purse are all hammered. That is to say, they have been minted by being placed between two die and struck hard with a heavy hammer, by hand. They are generally of a low quality; they wear easily and are liable to be clipped around the edges by people hoping to take a little of the precious metal and sell it on. This practice is technically treason and is punishable by hanging, drawing and quartering or burning alive, but it still continues. There is also an acute shortage of small change; many tradesmen (especially in London) have taken to minting their own ½d and ¼d tokens in copper, tin and lead. These are accepted and collected by the proprietors of shops who, when they have a sufficiency, exchange them with the issuer for silver. For a few years in the 1660s, Irish shillings of the reign of James I are used as 9d pieces.51 Obviously a money supply that includes thousands of unofficial and outdated coins is unsatisfactory. And Charles II has no wish for people to see Cromwell’s head on a coin. For all these reasons and many more, coinage reform is desperately needed.
The new coins start to appear in 1662 with a handsome silver crown of 5 shillings. They are milled on heavy machines that leave a far clearer imprint, and have a raised edge to reduce the level of clipping. The crown is followed in 1663 by a silver half-crown, a silver shilling and a golden guinea – a new denomination so called because it is made from gold that comes from Guinea in Africa. Its value is initially set at 20s but fluctuates thereafter with the price of bullion, rising as high as 30s in the 1690s, before settling down to 21s 6d for the last few years of the century. Over the next decade, high-quality five-guinea, two-guinea and half-guinea pieces are also minted in gold, and sixpences, groats (4d), threepences, tuppences (2d) and pennies are produced in silver. From 1672 the government starts to mint good copper halfpennies and farthings (although tin is used from 1684, to help the Cornish tin industry). Charles II orders this new copper coinage to bear the image of Britannia ruling the waves, thereby giving us a national icon at the same time. The unofficial tokens quickly fall out of use.
