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What were the political consequences of the defeat at Chatham and the subsequent concessions made at Breda? How did the English react to their government's failure to defend them against the wrath of the Dutch navy? How did they account for their defeat? Certainly the end of the war was initially greeted as “good news” throughout the country. In London the peace was announced “with trumpets and kettle drums, and the people shouting for joy,” and villages throughout the country the rumor, and eventually the proclamation, of peace prompted huge celebrations: bells were rung, guns went off, fireworks were exploded. “The bells have hardly lain still in all the country about ever since the news of peace,” reported one of Williamson's corespondents from Lyme. In Weymouth the peace “raised the dead to life” This display of popular emotion largely reflected relief at the conclusion of a war which had proved devastating. The end of the war meant the possibility of economic revival. Throughout the country people expected the peace to reinvigorate sagging commerce. From Truro Hugh Acland reported that “many people” were convinced that “if the treaty take effect” they would “be in better condition for the future.” In Bridgewater “trade advances in hope of a successful treaty.” “If a peace follow,” predicted Sir Andrew Riccard the Presbyterian governor of the East India Company, “the East India Company purpose to renew their trade, to attend it with as much or more vigor than ever.” [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

The critics of the government “in whose hands we are yet entirely as to his Majesty's supply” were creating so much mischief in Parliament that “you will not wonder we make no more despatch in our preparations for the next year,” complained Arlington to Sandwich who was now ambassador in Spain. At the moment that the Dutch fleet was systematically burning his navy and terrifying the residents of his capital, Charles II fumed to Sir Thomas Osborne, one of the Duke of Buckingham's closest associates, that “we might thank those men” – those Parliamentary allies of Buckingham – for the Dutch fleet lying now upon our coast, for had the money been given in time “we had had a fleet in readiness” So powerful was this analysis, so seemingly prophetic was Arlington after the devastating Dutch raid on the Medway in June 1667, that it has become the accepted explanation for the English failure to set out a fleet in the spring of 1667. Members of the House of Commons, whether out of a lust for personal power or because they knew the country was simply unable to finance another year's campaign, are said to have successfully obstructed the war effort. The enthusiasm with which members of the House of Commons had resolved to support their king with a generous supply for the war at the outset of the Parliamentary session, and the consistently anti-absolutist tone of much of the criticism of the conduct of the war, demand a reconsideration of the government's case. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

The clinching English victory never came. Instead of bonfires lighting English celebrations, and great guns informing the countryside of English victories the following summer brought with it the flames of English men-of-war fired in the Medway by the Dutch navy and the sounds of Dutch guns bombarding the English coast. What had happened? Why did the English, who had seemed to be on the threshold of a total victory over the Dutch and their allies in the autumn of 1666, suffer such an ignominious defeat at the hands of the Dutch republican leader John De Witt the following summer? At the exact moment in which English hopes for victory were being widely expressed, they received a damaging blow in the Netherlands. In early August 1666 the English government's chief Orangist agent, the Sieur de Buat, mistakenly delivered to John De Witt a letter from Arlington which “enlightened” De Witt as to “the design of promoting the sovereignty of the Prince of Orange, and of the constraining of the States to conclude a peace to the betraying of their liberties.” Buat was quickly incarcerated, brought to trial and ultimately beheaded for his treason. At his trial, Buat claimed – and the States General did everything to publicize Buat's statements in his own defense – that “what he did was with a good intention,” an intention to “make the King of England the greatest monarch in the world.” [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

This ideological shift in English popular opinion reflects the ambiguous nature of the Restoration itself. Presbyterians and Anglicans, moderate constitutionalists as well as those with more absolutist tendencies, had supported the Restoration of Charles II in 1660. All, of course, had been confident that their king would be everything that they had hoped for, would fit their own very different images of what a good English king should be. “The people in general desired a king,” the republican Algernon Sidney was forced to admit during the Anglo-Dutch War, but they had hoped “to see an abolition of taxes, the nation established in happiness, riches, strength, security, and glory.” Instead by the autumn of 1666 the English were overwhelmed with taxes, made miserable by economic hardship and the plague, and fearful of a French invasion. The hopes of moderates that “having been brought up in the school of affliction [Charles II] had there learned temperance in his prosperity; that the experience he had gained when he was abroad would so have armed him against the deceits and flatteries of courtiers that he would yield to nothing but reason and justice” were certainly not realized. Instead many began to believe that Charles II and many of his courtiers had returned from France with an affection for the French style of government, the French religion, and – despite the war which Louis XIV had declared against his cousin Charles II – the French king. In the end the English lost the war not so much because the government's economic infrastructure had collapsed – though the sheer extent of popular misery certainly fueled the criticism of the government – but because the government was no longer fighting the war that a large segment of the political nation wanted it to fight. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

On 21 April 1664 the House of Commons passed a resolution declaring “that the several, and respective wrongs, dishonors and indignities done to his Majesty by the subjects of the United Provinces, by invading his rights in India, Africa, and elsewhere; and the damages, affronts and injuries done by them to our merchants are the greatest obstructions of foreign trade,” adding “for the prevention of the like in future; and in prosecution thereof, this House doth resolve, they will with their lives, and fortunes assist his Majesty against all opposition whatsoever.” Though Samuel Pepys thought it “a very high vote,” Joseph Williamson waxed enthusiastic: “Great zeal is in the Parliament to get themselves justice by the only argument that moves Holland, arms.” Historians have explained the passage of the April trade resolution either as the result of pressure from the London mercantile community, or as an attempt to reassert English national honor. However, that the resolution was passed by a Parliament convinced of the urgency of eradicating sectarianism and sedition, makes one wonder whether it was the straightforward piece of economic confrontationalism or national self-aggrandizement which historians have claimed it to be. Indeed at least one important member of Charles's Privy Council saw the resolution as part and parcel of the Anglican Royalist reaction.2 It will “be a point of infinite reputation to his Majesty's government,” wrote Sir Henry Bennet to the Duke of Ormonde, that “in so short a session the world shall see the Triennial Bill repealed, and such a vote as this, after they had been prepared to expect nothing but contests and disputes with the crown in the most jealous points belonging to it.” [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

Heraclides of Byzantium, ambassador of Antiochus, presented himself to Publius Scipio and warned him: ‘Let the Romans limit their Empire to Europe, that even this was very large; that it was possible to gain it part by part more easily than to hold the whole.’ Scipio was unimpressed. ‘What seemed to the ambassador great incentives for conducting peace’, Livy tells us, ‘seemed unimportant to the Romans.’ But Heraclides' words would return to haunt later European empire-builders who could, with hindsight, see all too clearly that Scipio should have been a little more attentive to what the ambassador had told him. None of the early modern European empires were, perhaps, more conscious of this than the Spanish and none more prone to self-doubt and to self-reflection. The reasons for this are not hard to find. Spain was driven for longer and more consistently than its French, British and later Dutch, rivals by an ideology of evangelization, an ideology which demanded continual re-assessment of both the behaviour and the motives of those engaged in the colonizing project. It was also simply the largest – larger, as its ideologues rarely tired of stressing, even than Rome itself been; its territories were the most widely distributed and embraced the greatest number of different cultures. Uniquely, it also possessed an extensive European base. From the accession of Charles V to that of Philip V, the centre of the ‘Spanish monarchy’ – for as John Elliott has frequently reminded us, if this was an ‘empire’ in fact, it never was in name – was always Europe: the Netherlands, Portugal between 1580 and 1640 and above all Italy, ‘the garden of the Empire’, as Mercurio de Gattinara, echoing Dante, once called it. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

In terms of territory and dependencies, the Spanish monarchy in early modern times was essentially a Mediterranean and trans-Atlantic empire. It extended across the southern flank of Europe and included an immense portion of the New World. Yet, paradoxically, during most of the age of Spanish greatness, the principal strategic pivot and main military base of the monarchy was located far from both the main territorial blocs of which the empire was composed – in northern Europe. In the opening decades of Spain's ascendancy down to the 1530s, its principal armies operated in Italy or the Iberian peninsula itself. But from the 1540s onwards, for well over a century, the Spanish crown chose to concentrate its military might, resources and expenditure, and thus its capacity to influence international affairs, in the Low Countries. This remarkable enduring strategic posture ceased only with the peace of the Pyrenees (1659) when Spain definitively lost its place at the head of the European powers, to France, and turned its efforts to attempting to recover Portugal. There were several reasons for this, at first sight, rather illogical choice of main strategic base but the most compelling, during much of this long period, was the need to combat French power and influence, France being Spain's chief rival for hegemony in Europe. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

The foreign policy and domestic government of any sovereign state can never be divorced and understood in isolation. Together they constitute the broader subject of national policy. This is particularly true, as we have seen, of Caroline England. Charles's policies came to form an overall pattern which politically and ideologically, had its internal logic. This chapter examines the way in which English policy interacted with the international scene and, to this end, treats English foreign policy as a subject in itself. This was a momentous period of the Thirty Years War. The recovery of Protestant fortunes, after terrible reverses at the hands of the Habsburgs, meant that by 1632 the balance of forces could be said to be even. English policy exemplified the tension between interventionist and isolationist policies in Europe at this time. England's withdrawal from the war was critical in the reorientation of Protestant alliances and the erection of Richelieu's new anti-Habsburg coalition. How was English foreign policy formulated during this era? One, and frequently both, Secretaries of State conducted diplomatic correspondence under the oversight of the king and the Council's committee for foreign affairs, which consistently reviewed despatches. Yet with the political eclipse of the Council, the roles of individual ministers were more important than conciliar deliberation. Conflict over policy led to secret and competing lines of diplomatic communication. Thus the distinction between official and unofficial channels is often difficult to draw. As Secretary, Dorchester was responsible for the royal foreign correspondence. In addition, he operated a system of diplomatic and military patronage among Charles's subjects serving in the Protestant countries of northern Europe. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

The emerging character of the Caroline regime, of its policies in Church and state, was definitely discernible by 1630. That character was very much the product of Charles's personality, of his views, and of the efforts of those in government who shared them. The king was the guiding spirit, not by virtue of charisma, but because he was the legally rightful ruler of his people. Charles's title to the kingdom did not, however, mean that he shared in the necessary qualities of kingship. It is appropriate to dwell here on the character of Charles Stuart the man, before examining the circles in which he chose to move. The highly emotive circumstances of Charles's eventual death, and the dignified bearing which, amid them, he achieved, have often overshadowed the shortcomings of his rule and their role in creating the tragedies of his reign. Above all, there is a complexity – and inscrutability – about Charles which has hampered our historical understanding. These elements were reflected in the ambivalence with which those who had served him, even for years, summed up his character. Laud saw Charles as a mild and gracious prince who knew not how to be or be made great. Sir Philip Warwick regretted the way in which the king, admittedly in the latter days of the civil war, could be temperamental and uncommunicative in Council. Clarendon, at pains to point out Charles's merits as man and king, was forced to conclude unhappily: ‘His kingly virtues had some mixture and allay that hindered them from shining in full lustre, and from producing those fruits which they should have been attended with.’ [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

Sir Thomas Barrington, writing to his mother, captured the threatening atmosphere overhanging the end of Charles's third Parliament. No man knew what to do, he wrote, ‘the distraction was so sudden and so great …’ Barrington hinted at the possibility of bloodshed which he seems to have feared as the likely outcome of the events of 2 March. He concluded: ‘he whose heart bleeds not at the threat of these times is too stupid. I pray God send us better grounds of comfort, and with all to be armed for the worst that can befall us … ’ The imprisonment of those who had staged the demonstration in the House of Commons was part of Charles's response to what was, from a royal point of view, an extremely threatening situation. Contarini wrote on 6 March: Parliament is dissolved in anger, and without deciding anything… The present times were not suited to disputes of this sort … The courtiers are very disconsolate, foreseeing that they will remain a long time in need, without money, as they have been for many months. The kingdom is furious against the Treasurer, and bears the king very little love … It is bad news for Italy, and the king of Denmark also will be compelled to do what he does not wish … What matters is that Parliament has retained the full possession of its privileges without yielding a jot, for on the last two occasions the king has always yielded something. […] [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

The onset of the Thirty Years War after 1618 destroyed the foreign policy of James I. That policy was very much a product of the king's personality. James was a pacifist who had reacted against the violence of his Scottish background. He was also a lazy man who resented the difficulties posed by conflict and war. In addition he was ambitious. He wished to link his family to the royal line of the Spanish Habsburgs, still the virtual rulers of the world, and he sought to achieve the role of peacemaker in the Europe of his day. On becoming king of England he agreed to end the long Elizabethan war with Spain, and later played an important role in bringing about the twelve years’ Truce of 1609 between Spain and the Dutch. In 1613 the marriage of his daughter Elizabeth to Frederick V, elector Palatine and the leading Calvinist prince of Germany, symbolized his commitment to the Protestant world. His aim was to combine this initiative with the marriage of his son and heir to a Spanish princess and so to fulfil both his diplomatic and dynastic ambitions. When Henry, prince of Wales, died in 1612, negotiations with Spain had come to nothing, and so from 1614 onwards James set about trying to achieve a similar marriage for his younger son Charles. But the king's pan-European diplomacy was dealt a devastating blow by the rash action of his German son-in-law. Against all sound advice, including that of James, in 1619 Frederick accepted the crown of Bohemia in an election disputed by Emperor Ferdinand II. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

When on 1 July 1701 Marlborough left England with William his role was to act as the king's deputy. The dual appointments which he held also reflected a situation in which war against France was highly likely, but not yet inevitable. As ambassador extraordinary he received instructions to negotiate with French and Spanish diplomats at the Hague for a settlement on what by later standards were very generous terms – a French evacuation of the Spanish Netherlands and satisfaction to the Emperor for his claims. His instructions did not spell these out because it was for Marlborough to negotiate them in working out the terms of the Grand Alliance. Secondly, as commander-in-chief of the English and Scottish forces assembling in the Dutch Republic Marlborough was to assume the active role of general which William's failing health made it impossible for him to sustain. However William would still have been in the background, and had he lived longer would certainly have intervened, a serious complication which Marlborough was spared. William's choice of Marlborough, despite their mutual dislike and past antagonisms, was dictated by the king's life-long commitment to subordinate all personal considerations to the mission of containing and reducing the excessive and aggressive power of France. William knew that the recent parliamentary and journalistic onslaughts against the employment of foreign soldiers made it impossible to nominate a Dutch general, such as the experienced Athlone (Ginkel) or the royal favourite Albemarle to whom he had recently given the Garter, still withheld from Marlborough. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

After Malplaquet the strategy which Marlborough and Eugène had followed lost its validity, and as a result the campaigns of 1710 and 1711 in France and the Low Countries were bound to be inconclusive. The allies after Marlborough's three victories and Eugène's expulsion of the French from Italy had concentrated on forcing the enemy to fight a major set-piece battle which they confidently expected would result in the final destruction of the main French army, and so compel Louis to accept peace on allied terms. The survival of Villars's army disproved this belief, something that Marlborough, but not Eugène, came to realise. From the autumn of 1709 it was the defensive strategy adopted by the French that became valid: Villars had only to avoid defeat in a major battle for a compromise peace settlement to become inevitable, and he had already demonstrated his ability – on the Moselle in 1705 – to checkmate the allies without having to risk one. In the campaigns of 1710 and 1711 Marlborough executed a succession of brilliant manoeuvres to out-flank French defensive lines, and he covered a number of sieges deep in enemy territory, but he did not succeed in pinning Villars down and forcing him to fight under unfavourable conditions. When Marlborough did find himself with an option to fight a battle it was only when Villars faced him from behind defences as strong as those at Malplaquet, and no assault was attempted. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

John Churchill came from an obscure family of minor provincial gentry impoverished by the Civil Wars. Its only real asset were social connections which enabled John's father Sir Winston to find places for his children at Court; thereafter everything depended on their using their opportunities to advance themselves. In the first decades after the Restoration the ruling class had not yet narrowed into an oligarchy, and ministers and leading politicians who originated in the gentry (although mostly from families more substantial than the Churchills) outnumbered those from established aristocratic and Court families and connections. Several upward routes existed for the politically and socially ambitious, of which the commonest way was through leadership in Parliament combined with patronage management, direction of royal finances or the execution of other major administrative and legal functions. But with the exception of Monck and possibly Sandwich, and both earned their distinction by bringing about the Restoration, nobody rose to the very top through military or naval service. Certainly John Churchill did not. He owed his rise to prominence and great influence to his skills as a courtier, not a soldier. It was as an adept courtier that he obtained a succession of opportunities, all of which he turned to maximum advantage and which culminated in his command of the allied armies in the Low Countries in 1702–11. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

The bequest of commerce and commercial finance As Amsterdam's preeminence as a European entrepôt waned in the late seventeenth century, the importance of financing trade grew. An adaptable banking system eased that shift, although credit facilities in the city were independent and often highly individualistic. The Exchange Bank of Amsterdam, founded in 1609 and administered under the supervision of municipal authorities, emerged as a source of stable media of exchange, a secure depository where payments could be made by book transfers, and a central clearinghouse for international payments. The monopoly over exchange initially given the bank was soon relaxed, permitting the reemergence of private cashiers (kassiers), whose activities had been curtailed in 1609. To Amsterdam's monetary system the bank contributed a unit of account, the bank-money guilder, which traded at a premium (agio) or discount (disagio) against current money. Until the disagio crisis of 1789 the eighteenth-century bank-money premium was usually between 2 and 5 percent. Although the bank was dominant early in the eighteenth century in bank-money transactions, Amsterdam's cashiers, who acted as agents of collection and payment, exchanged bank-and current-money drafts, and issued transferable receipts for clients, controlled the increasingly important field of current-money transactions. Together bank, cashiers, and, by midcentury, bankers specializing in the bill trade formed the Amsterdam clearinghouse of commercial finance. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]