The Tudors and Europe E-Book

John Matusiak

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 719

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

In 1517, a certain Dr Beale, rector of St Mary Spitall in London, roused the capital's mob by laying the blame for an increase in poverty squarely upon the shoulders of grasping foreigners. 'God has given England to Englishmen,' he fumed, 'as birds would defend their nest, so ought Englishmen to cherish and defend themselves and to hurt and grieve aliens for the common weal.' But migration was not the only factor influencing Tudor attitudes to Europe. War, religion, commerce and dynastic security were all critical in linking England to developments abroad, in ways that remain strikingly relevant today. What were the forces that shaped the shifting perspectives of Tudor men and women and their rulers towards a continent at the crossroads? And what, in turn, were the responses of sixteenth-century Europeans to their counterparts across the Channel? The Tudors and Europe looks at a time when the very survival of England hung critically in the balance and asks if it has lessons for the present.

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First published 2020

This paperback version first published 2025

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Contents

I Contours and Connections

1 Peoples, Perceptions, Prejudice: Tudor England and the Discovery of ‘Europe’

2 Maps, Cities, Dynasties, States

3 Travel, Travellers, Communication

4 Trade

5 Immigration

6 Minds and Creeds

II The Tudors: Rulers and Statecraft

7 Henry VII: Peace, Security, Pragmatism

8 Henry VIII: Puissance and Penury

9 Years of Trauma and Survival: Edward VI, Mary Tudor and the Legacy of the Father

10 Elizabeth I: The Semblance of Glory

Acknowledgements

I

Contours and Connections

1

Peoples, Perceptions, Prejudice: Tudor England and the Discovery of ‘Europe’

Why should Europe be so called, or who was the first author of this name, no man has yet found out.

From the introduction by Abraham Ortelius to his atlas of 1570, Theatrum Orbis Terrarum

In an impassioned oration of 1599, the French scholar and political philosopher Louis Le Roy bewailed the condition of ‘our common mother Europe’, which, ‘as though in answer to Mohammedan prayers’, now found herself ‘soaked in her own blood’. Some three decades or so earlier, the religious reformer John Calvin had also spoken of ‘Europae concussio’ – ‘the shattering of Europe’ – as he reflected upon the divisions that he, in no small measure, had actually helped to propagate. Yet when England’s first Tudor ruler readied for battle on Bosworth Field in the high summer of 1485 with the intention of ending once and for all the meandering thirty-year contest that we now call the Wars of the Roses, the vast majority of his 8,000-strong force, including those very continental mercenaries whom he had enlisted to his cause, neither recognised nor remotely comprehended any such term as ‘Europe’. Nor, indeed, would matters alter appreciably for the majority of Englishmen over many decades to come. For when Falstaff staked his claim in Act IV of Henry IV, Part 2, to being ‘simply the most active fellow in Europe’ – ‘an I had but a belly of indifferency’ – Shakespeare’s intentions remained purely comedic, as he sought to lay bare the underlying ignorance of the braggart knight who, like most of his contemporaries, equated ‘Europe’ with little more than what later generations might have considered ‘Timbuktu’.

As early as 1471, in fact, the astronomer Johannes Müller had seen fit to declare Nuremberg ‘the middle point of Europe’, while in 1505 Jakob Wimpheling became another to employ the expression in his eulogy for Strasbourg’s splendid cathedral:

I would say that there is nothing more magnificent on the face of the earth than this edifice. Who can admire this tower sufficiently? Who can adequately praise it? With its stone tracery, its sculptured columns, its carved statues which describe so many things, it exceeds all buildings in Europe in beauty.

But if a negligible minority of mainly French and German writers were slowly sleepwalking their way towards a broader sense of identity beyond their national boundaries, the process proved markedly more tentative on the English side of the Channel – and for good reason. For although the fighting was sporadic, the armies small and the material losses inconsiderable, the tortuous struggle between the two rival branches of the Plantagenet line during the second half of the fifteenth century had nevertheless been more than sufficiently disruptive to ensure that Henry VII’s new kingdom remained an inward-looking and comparatively insignificant backwater on the Continent’s damp and misty fringe. The Crown, after all, had become little more than a political football when Henry VI lost his throne to Edward IV at Towton in 1461, only to retrieve it in 1470 with the help of Edward’s former henchman, Warwick the Kingmaker. Nor had things improved eight years later when the restored king once more made way for his resurgent rival. And in the meantime England’s entire strategic relation to ‘Europe’ had altered accordingly in the wake of the events of 1453 when she was forced to forsake the last of her French lands, excepting Calais.

For it was only at this point, at the end of the Hundred Years War, that England, without realising it, became once again an island of the sort that it had been before 1066 – that is, an autonomous political unit, territorially and psychologically distinct from Europe. Until this turning point, despite the Channel, the North Sea and the Straits of Dover, the kingdom had been intimately linked with France in particular, to the extent indeed that the long conflict between the two realms had actually taken place at what amounted to a more or less provincial level. In other words, England – or more specifically its elites – perceived the Anglo–French domain as a single entire unit that became, in consequence, both battlefield and prize until the two sides gradually disentangled themselves from the huge field of operations that had sapped their resources for so long. Even then, however, the notion of England’s physical linkage to Europe through France was not dead, as Henry VIII subsequently revived the dreams of his Lancastrian forebears, and sallied forth once more with bold ambitions to recapture the French Crown – notwithstanding the warning delivered to the House of Commons by Thomas Cromwell in 1523 that a war of conquest ‘would cost just as much as the whole of the circulating money in the country’. Such a policy, he suggested, was likely to force England to adopt a leather currency, which would become especially problematic if the king were taken prisoner and ransom became necessary, since ‘the French … would probably refuse to return the English king on payment of leather, as they refused even to sell their wine except on payment of silver’. In the event, no such expedient proved necessary, as the second Tudor’s ambitions foundered on reality’s reef even more decisively than Henry V’s had ultimately done before him, and Calais finally fell to the French Crown eleven years after his death. Its return was insincerely promised at the Treaty of Cateau-Cambrésis in 1559, and the last Tudor ruler of England would briefly gain possession of Le Havre before its recapture in 1562. But more than a century earlier, the die had already been effectively cast. Thereafter, the Channel, the Straits of Dover and the North Sea were not so much a gateway to the perceived natural inheritance of England’s ruling class as a heaving watery bulwark protecting the island from alien influences and hostile foes.

In 1477, the Burgundian ruler of the Netherlands, England’s ancient ally, finally yielded possession of the Somme towns, Picardy, and the ancestral Duchy of Burgundy to France; and fifteen years later another old ally, the Duchy of Brittany, was, likewise, annexed to the French Crown. Together these events stripped away the wide belt of possessions and friendly or satellite territories that had formerly served as a land buffer against invasion, and left the entire southern coast of the Channel from Brest to Boulogne directly in French hands – all of which was certain to bring far-reaching changes not only in England’s domestic economy and internal politics, but, no less importantly, in her broader perception of the world beyond her waters. For with Edward IV’s eventual death in 1483, and the subsequent succession of his brother, Richard III, the dynastic merry-go-round had begun yet another giddy circuit, which ended only when Henry Tudor, great-grandson of a fugitive Welsh brewer wanted for murder, at last made his way from French protection to Market Bosworth in England’s midland heart to stake his own flimsy claim to primacy. Outnumbered by two to one, he would ultimately triumph in a particularly foul and inglorious fray fought on blood-soaked fen and moorland, only to inherit a kingdom that had arguably grown more insular than at any previous point in its history.

And how, of course, was it ever likely to have been otherwise when self-interest and endemic lawlessness had robbed his subjects of any broader vision or direction? ‘The French vice is lechery and the English vice treachery’, ran the saying at the time, and no impartial observer could surely have doubted at least the second half of this maxim when the first Tudor cautiously mounted his throne. For it was no coincidence that one contemporary parliamentary petition justly complained how ‘… in divers parts of this realm, great abominable murders, robberies, extortions, oppressions and other manifold maintenances, misgovernances, forcible entries, affrays and assaults be committed, and as yet remain unpunished’. On the contrary, estate jumping, abduction of heiresses and casual brigandage had become, in effect, a modish pastime for the high-born Englishmen depicted to this day on their tombs and brasses in plate armour. Indeed, no less a figure than Sir Thomas Malory who had written in Morte D’Arthur ‘that we fall not through vice and sin, but exercise and follow virtue’, found himself in prison in 1485 for sheep stealing, sacrilege, extortion, rape and attempted murder. And in such circumstances it seemed only natural that England’s first Tudor ruler should continue to limit his horizons and abandon temporarily his predecessors’ medieval ambitions to win and hold dominions abroad, settling instead for a safer status as ruler of a kingdom ‘off’ rather than ‘of’ Europe, while securing alliances, where possible through marriage, as a guarantee of firm government and sound finance at home.

While that process unfolded, moreover, his subjects, just like the residing majority of their contemporaries overseas, would continue to consider themselves members of ‘Christendom’ rather than ‘Europe’. In 1565, just under half a century after Martin Luther had put paid once and for all to the universalist pretensions of the Roman Catholic Church, a devout citizen of Milan nevertheless saw fit, on the advice of his confessor, to include in his family devotions, a prayer that ‘us and all of Christendom’ be kept ‘in perfect union and love’. And so it was with the young Cornishman Peter Mundy, who as late as 1620, having laboured his way back across the Turkish-dominated Balkans after a trip to Constantinople, passed the boundary of the Venetian enclave of Spalato (Split), to declare with no little relief how ‘wee were no sooner past it, but we entered into Christendome, then seeming to be in a new world’. Long before both men wrote, of course, the realistic prospect of a Corpus Christianorum united by its beliefs and aspirations, first adumbrated by Charlemagne more than eight centuries earlier, was already effectively defunct, to be finally laid to rest amid the ashes of the Thirty Years War of the following century. But the notion persisted stubbornly throughout a long process of transition, which was reflected, aptly enough, in 1590 by the alternating references of the much-travelled English squire Sir John Smythe to the countries of western ‘Europe’ and the ‘nations of the occidental parts of Christendom’ – not to mention the Italian Jesuit Michele Lauretano’s coining of the phrase ‘the Christendom of Europe’ in 1572.

Certainly, the old medieval term carried with it comforting connotations of what amounted to a sacred sheep-fold, within which the Continent’s peoples shared at least the residing ideal of a common faith, while ‘Europe’, by contrast, appeared to embody no intrinsic unity beyond the geographical landmass that it represented and, as the sixteenth century progressed, an emerging sense of the moral and civilising superiority of the states and peoples that comprised it. Nor, in particular, did it seem to foster any special understanding or mutual appreciation, let alone collective consciousness, among the residents of its competing kingdoms, as was clear from the observations of one Venetian visitor to England in 1497:

The English [wrote the author of the so-called Italian Relation] are great lovers of themselves, and of everything belonging to them; they think that there are no other men than themselves, and no other world but England; and whenever they see a handsome foreigner, they say that ‘he looks like an Englishman’, and that it is a great pity that he should not be an Englishman.

Just over a century later, moreover, in 1598, a German commentator would make almost the identical point, highlighting how his English hosts, upon seeing a foreigner ‘very well made or particularly handsome’, were inclined to reflect how ‘it is a pity he is not an Englishman’. Doubtless, an Elizabethan audience of The Merchant of Venice two years earlier would have been fully conversant with the stereotypes underlying the spirit of Portia’s list of suitors, in which the Italian from Naples – that unrivalled nursery of riding schools – ‘doth nothing but talk of his horse’, and the Frenchman ‘is every man in no man’. ‘If I should marry him,’ she continues, ‘I should marry twenty husbands’, while the weakness of Germans was drink, leading her to conclude disdainfully: ‘I will do anything, Nerissa, ere I will be married to a sponge.’

In Portia’s view, predictably, the Englishman ‘is a proper man’s picture’. ‘But alas,’ she declares with an injection of impartiality not often evident among many of her contemporaries, ‘who can converse with a dumbshow’. And if the traveller Fynes Moryson was at least prepared to reflect favourably upon the fact that ‘the Germans do not make water in the streets’ after his extensive travels on the Continent from May 1591 to May 1595, and to acknowledge the skill of his Teutonic hosts as artificers, even he could not resist adding how:

I think that to be attributed not to their sharpness of witt, but to their industry, for they use to plod with great diligence upon their professions.

They were, he concluded, ‘somewhat inclining to the vice of Dullness’ – a regrettable but altogether less rancid national characterisation than those afforded by Thomas Nash to other ‘Europeans’ in his novel of 1594, The Unfortunate Traveller, in which the hero, an exiled English earl in Rome, holds forth energetically about the shortcomings of a range of his foreign counterparts. What is to be learned in France, he rails, save ‘to esteeme of the pox as a pimple’, in Spain save to copy a ‘ruffe with short strings like the droppings of a man’s nose’, in Italy ‘save the art of atheism, the art of epicurising, the art of whoring, the art of poisoning, the art of sodomitry’, in Holland save how ‘to be drunk and snort in the midst of dinner’. ‘No,’ concludes the Earl, ‘beleeve me, no bread, no fire, no water doth a man anie good out of his owne country.’

At the same time, the corrupting influence of the foreigner was an equally familiar Tudor theme. Hans, the first Netherlander to be portrayed on the English stage, in the morality play Wealth and Health of c. 1557, was duly depicted – once again entirely in accordance with the audience’s preconceptions – as a lurching drunkard. And notwithstanding nearly two subsequent generations of English admiration for Dutch art and music – not to mention ongoing co-operation with the northern Netherlands as a military ally from 1585 onwards – this same stereotype could still be trotted out by Sir John Smythe with no apparent inkling of the irony involved in a fellow-Protestant pot calling a continental kettle black. Writing only five years after the outbreak of war with Spain, which England’s Dutch allies had already been waging since 1568, Smythe would nevertheless note how ‘this detestable vice’ of drunkenness had ‘taken a wonderful root’ within his own country ‘that in times past was wont to be of all other nations of Christendom the most sober’. By contrast, a French scholar such as Joseph Scaliger was at least prepared to acknowledge from his quiet seat in Leiden how the Netherlands was not without ‘some good people’ and that the country people, men and women, and almost all the servant girls can read and write’. But English commentators, in the main, remained stubbornly ungenerous.

And if a weakness for alcohol was widely held to have infected England’s shores from across the North Sea, so the contagion of decadence and moral collapse from Italy was frequently highlighted with no less vigour. Three years before the death of Elizabeth I, an English translator of Livy reflected mournfully upon the current condition of the classical poet’s homeland, ‘so farre degenerate are the inhabitants now from that ancient people, so devoute, so virtuous and uncorrupt in old time’. But it was Roger Ascham, author of the widely influential educational handbook The Scholemaster, who had first gone so far in 1570 as to claim that the Italianate Englishman was nothing less than ‘a devil made flesh’ – a view echoed by the German Barolomew Sastrow, who later quoted it as a familiar proverb. ‘Italy now,’ Ascham maintained, ‘is not that Italy that it was wont to be, and therefore not so fit a place, as some do count it, for young men to fetch either wisdom or honesty from thence’ – a sentiment that would help explain, perhaps, why Giordano Bruno was jostled and insulted during his stay in England between 1583 and 1585, and one that also pointed the way ultimately to John Webster’s two great tragedies of 1612 and 1623 in which Italians poisoned their victims in four different ways: by the leaves of a book, the lips of a portrait, the pommel of a saddle and an anointed helmet.

Yet it was a companion of Frederick, Duke of Württemberg, writing in 1592, who recorded how the English ‘care little for foreigners, but scoff and laugh at them’, making it small wonder, of course, that those on the receiving end should sometimes have responded in kind. In deprecating the tendency of English women to disdain the advances of his fellow-countrymen, for example, a Spaniard of 1554 duly saw fit to observe how, given ‘the sort of women they were’, this was ‘an excellent thing for the Spaniards’. Four years later, meanwhile, a Frenchman who, along with his peers, had been treated to taunts of knave and dog, and branded a son of a whore, readily concluded that the English were more false and lacking in conscience than snakes, crocodiles and scorpions, while another gibe to have a long history was the aristocratic Italian Pietro della Valle’s dismissal of the English ambassador in Constantinople as ‘a better shopkeeper than a soldier’. Some Englishmen such as George Pettie, the translator of Guazzo, were, it is true, mildly apologetic for the arrogance of their own countrymen, blaming it on the changed behaviour of the English when they crossed the Channel. England, wrote Pettie, ‘is the civilest countrey in the worlde: and if it be thought otherwise by strangers, the disorders of those traveylers abrode are the chiefe cause of it’. But a Mantuan diplomat would nevertheless write home from London to confirm that the land of his current domicile, though a would-be paradise, was actually inhabited by devils, while, in spite of Henry VIII’s best efforts to patronise Italian artists, craftsmen and military engineers, Benvenuto Cellini – who was happy to work in France – flinched at the very prospect of living amongst ‘such beasts as the English’.

The medieval notion – half superstition, half belief among the French – that English invaders sported tails rolled up inside their breeches, had, it is true, faded in the second half of the fifteenth century, only to resurface in a propaganda poem of 1513 when Henry VIII set forth across the Channel in hope of emulating his conquering forebears. The same poem, too, had spared no venom in describing the marauding foe as hideous, loathsome, stinking toads. But when English troops subsequently sacked towns like Ardres and turned their dwellings to charcoal, it was hardly surprising, of course, that French children, long reared on stories about the Hundred Years War when the ‘Goddams with tails’ had pillaged and plundered their land, should once again have regurgitated the myths of their elders. For most English troops remained belchingly contemptuous of French peasants, whom they believed to be so backward and exploited that they drank only water and tended their masters’ fields unshod, while even in times of fleeting peace, French merchants in London were both cheated and intimidated, and deprived of even their most basic dignities. Forbidden to attend English cloth fairs, stripped and searched at every opportunity and imprisoned as spies if found loose upon the streets at night without a candle, they were left in no doubt either that the English king’s incursion upon their homeland in 1513 would not be his last. For no more than one year later, not only in a newly built armoury at Greenwich, but also in rented houses and cellars throughout the capital, German craftsmen were soon busy fashioning weapons of all descriptions for the next invasion, from the finest iron brought specially from Innsbruck.

As late as 1603, the Duc de Sully, when on an embassy to London, would warn Henri IV how ‘the English hate us, and with a hatred so strong and so widespread that one is tempted to number it among the natural dispositions of this people’. And it was small consolation that his hosts were, of long tradition, far from limited in their antipathies, since not only Frenchmen but all foreigners in England’s capital were susceptible to intimidation and indeed violence, as the German mercantile community of the so-called ‘Steelyard’ on the north bank of the Thames, by the outflow of the Walbrook where Cannon Street station now stands, would discover to their cost in the autumn of 1497. By that time, according to the account provided by Edward Hall’s chronicle, the King of England had already ‘not only banished all Flemish wares and merchandise out of his realm and dominions’, but gone on to light the blue touch paper for what followed by restraining ‘all English merchants from their repair and traffic into any lands and territories of the king of the Romans [i.e. Germany] or the Archduke his son’. And the results were indeed explosive, since ‘the restraint made by the king’, we are told, ‘sore grieved and hindered the [English] merchants being adventurers’:

For they [Hall continues], by force of this commandment, had no occupying to bear their charges and support their countenance and credit. And yet one thing sore nipped their hearts, for the Easterlings [i.e. Germans] which were at liberty brought into the realm such wares as they were wont and accustomed to do and so served their customers throughout the whole realm. By reason whereof the [English] masters being destitute of sale and commutation neither retained so many covenant-servants and apprentices as they before were accustomed and in especial Mercers, Haberdashers and Clothe workers, nor yet gave their servants so great stipend and salary as before that restraint they used to do. For which cause the said servants intending to work their malice on the Easterlings, the Tuesday before St Edward’s day came to the Steelyard in London and began to rifle and spoil such chambers and warehouses as they could get into. So that the Easterlings had much ado to withstand and repulse them out of their gates.

Ultimately, indeed, only the actions of the Lord Mayor – as well as the intervention of English carpenters and blacksmiths ‘which came to their aid by water out of the borough of Southwark’ – saved the embattled foreigners. But ‘above eighty servants and apprentices (and not one householder)’, Hall tells, were nevertheless found guilty, and their leaders ‘sent to the Tower and there long continued’.

Nor was this the last episode of its kind. For in 1517 the xenophobic riot of ‘Evil May Day’ would involve further assaults and looting of foreign shop owners by apprentices of the capital’s craft guilds who had long envied the prosperity of foreign communities, and been stirred once more by agitators stoking widespread fears of unemployment through foreign competition. Already in April 1516, bills had been posted upon the door of St Paul’s cathedral, as well as at the church of All Hallows in Barking, suggesting that the king himself had been lending money to Florentine merchants, who were then using it to trade at advantage over their English competitors. And such was Henry VIII’s concern at the resulting stir that he subsequently ordered an enquiry to be made in every ward of the City, so that the handwriting of all apprentices could be checked. Yet the sullen antipathy of the London mob could not be quelled for long, and no gathering for the particular purpose of unleashing an anti-foreign crusade could have been more fitting than the motley crowd of merchants and shopkeepers, apprentices and bargees, who, during the Easter and Whitsuntide holidays, crowded round the pulpit of St Mary Spitall, to take in the customary sermons, which were also preached before the mayor and aldermen of the city.

So it was that on the Tuesday of Holy Week, a canon of St Mary’s by the name of Dr Beale saw fit to lay the blame for the increase in the capital’s poverty squarely upon the shoulders of grasping aliens. God had given England to Englishmen, he fumed in the old familiar manner, and ‘as birds would defend their nest, so ought Englishmen to cherish and defend themselves and to hurt and grieve aliens for the common weal’ – with the result that only a few days later, on 28 April, Beale was taken at his word when some foreigners were buffeted in the streets and thrown into a canal. And this was not the end. For although arrests were made by order of the mayor, a rumour soon spread that on May Day the whole of the capital would rise and all foreigners be slain, prompting Thomas Wolsey in the meantime to send for the mayor and give orders that on the eve of the fatal day every Londoner should stay indoors between the hours of nine o’clock in the evening and seven the following morning.

Nevertheless, as a certain Alderman Munday was attempting to enforce the order in Cheapside, an angry crowd of watermen and apprentices, carters and priests, drawn from every quarter of the city began to run amok. The jails were forced open and even Newgate was made to yield up those men who had already been imprisoned for the patriotic cause. Thus reinforced, the crowd proceeded to surge through St Nicholas’ shambles towards the liberty of St Martin’s-le-Grand – one of the principal resorts of London’s foreign colony – where none other than Thomas More, then serving as under-sheriff of London, tried in vain to reason with them. For, as the uneasy parley was unfolding, the foreign inhabitants of the threatened buildings chose to seize the initiative with a volley of stones and other missiles, at which point the fury of the rioters finally span out of control. Sacking and plundering as they went, they first wrought vengeance upon St Martin’s and then steamed off to loot the foreigners of Cornhill and Whitechapel.

In the process, the king’s French secretary, Meautis, barely escaped with his life, though the Italian merchants who came under heaviest attack were, by contrast, too well armed to be pillaged with impunity, and it was largely due to their resistance and Wolsey’s personal influence that the forces of order finally rallied. Doubtless in recognition of his own unpopularity, the cardinal had initially strengthened his residence at York Place with men and ordnance, before arranging for the lieutenant of the Tower to shoot some rounds of artillery into the crowded streets. At the same time, he also alerted the Earl of Shrewsbury to be ready with reinforcements, while the Howards, leading some 1,300 troops, set about the task of restoring order, since the apprentices, who were ready enough to loot a foreigner’s house or bludgeon a peaceful Flemish merchant or two, were altogether less inclined to come to close quarters with trained soldiers. Instead, those who were able to do so wisely made good their escape, though thirteen were eventually tried upon a far-fetched charge of high treason, and for some time afterwards the city gates would be gruesomely decorated with their quartered remains.

Mob violence on such a scale was, it must be said, rare. But ill feeling, in the capital especially, continued to surface against a variety of real or imagined offences associated with outsiders. Low-standard price-cutting, the forging of trademarks, and the seduction of honest citizens’ wives were, for example, perennial complaints, as even the more law-abiding found themselves accused in a no-win situation of keeping themselves aloof from the native community among whom they dwelt and reaped their profits. ‘Though they be demised or borne here among us,’ ran one late sixteenth-century accusation, ‘yett they keep themselves severed from us in church, in government, in trade, in language and marriage’, while Andrew Boorde’s depiction of a north Italian merchant in 1542 was merely one more pebble in the mountain of unfavourable portrayals of Italians in general: ‘I am a Lombard and subtyll craft I have/To decyve a gentleman, a yeman or a knave.’ No more trustworthy than Jews and no less harmful than Scots and Irishmen, it seems, the Italians, like all other foreigners in England’s capital, were to be kept at bay within their huddled communities, and derided accordingly on those rare occasions that they might choose to venture forth.

Not, of course, that chauvinist prejudices were the unique preserve of English men and women. On the contrary, sixteenth-century ‘Europe’ was awash with such preconceptions, stereotypes and antagonisms. Whether, for instance, Henry VIII really was ever stricken by what the English called the French disease, the French termed the Italian pox, the Italians dubbed the Spanish complaint and the Spanish, in their turn, duly designated the English disease, remains doubtful. But the moral of the varying terminology was plain enough to discern, and no less impervious to cure, for that matter, than the dreaded ailment of syphilis itself – one victim of which, Ulrich von Hutten, seemed keen to salve with a diet of diatribes more than worthy of the most scathing Englishman:

I send you more salutations [he wrote from his sickbed in 1517] than there are thieves in Poland, heretics in Bohemia, boors in Switzerland … pimps in Spain, drunkards in Saxony, harlots in Bamberg, children of Sodom in Florence.

And similar, if sometimes less earthily expressed, sentiments were common across the Continent’s kingdoms, usually incorporating an unfavourable contrast between the virtues of the author’s homeland and the vices of neighbours. ‘On the whole,’ wrote Louis le Roy in 1576, ‘the Spanish are haughty … the English and Scots proud, the Greeks cautious and subtle, the Italians wary, the French bold.’ Likewise, the late medieval Spanish Poem of Alexander had highlighted the superiority of the Iberian temperament, though in doing so acknowledged the martial prowess of the French emphasised by Le Roy more than a century later:

The people of Spain are vital and active,

The French we see as bold warriors,

The English are braggarts with false hearts,

The Italians [Lombardos] are cowards, the Germans thieves.

And as the tide of vitriol swirled, so even the standard bearers of what might be optimistically construed as a budding European consciousness found it difficult to forgo their own generalising sideswipes at the national characteristics of their less worthy counterparts. For even Erasmus, that arch-advocate of peace and brotherhood, would nevertheless pigeon-hole the Germans as feckless and crude, the French as violent beneath a veneer of refinement, the Italians as vain and devious. While Kharon the ferryman, he declared, might willingly carry Spaniards across the Styx because they were abstemious, the English, by contrast, were resolutely banned from passage, so crammed were they with food that the boat was likely to sink under their load.

In 1536, foreshadowing Shakespeare’s Portia, the protagonist of Pietro Aretino’s Dialogue in which Nanna teaches her daughter Pippa to be a whore alerts her eager protégé to the differences in behaviour to be expected from her French, German, Spanish and Swedish clients, while precisely a decade later the Venetian ambassador to Charles V was meticulous in reporting the pitfalls to be anticipated from the employment of troops from different lands. ‘Now that the country has become commercial, and is filled with beautiful and luxurious cities,’ he wrote of the Dutch, ‘the ancient valour has degenerated.’ But it was for the Germans that his profoundest misgivings were reserved:

The insolence of this nation is almost incredible. They are impious towards God, and cruel to their neighbour … They are fearless of death, but can neither foresee, nor take advantage of any passing occurrence. In the assault of a city, where much skill and dexterity is required, they are the worst people that can be: and in the case of a skirmish their interminable baggage is always in the way. They are most impatient of hunger and thirst, and will insist upon being paid at the appointed moment.

Nor did stereotyping of this kind cease as one travelled to the eastern reaches of the Continent, which, as the comments of the Polish diplomat Christopher Warszewicki made clear when his Latin treatise, On Ambassadors and Embassies, appeared in 1595, were already closely integrated into the affairs of the West. Altogether more sober in its assessments, the book nevertheless adumbrated the national variations that all sixteenth-century writers considered, in effect, ‘natural’:

The position in Moscow is suited to wary men, for there ‘the Greek faith’ is practised and nothing can be done without lengthy disputes … To Spain, individuals of calm temperament should be sent … In Italy it is right that the state be represented by civilised and courteous men … France is a place for versatile men of speedy intellect … In England, handsome, high-born envoys are best suited, for the English have a great respect for that sort of person, telling them apparently that it is a pity they are not Englishmen themselves. In Germany, diplomats need to keep their promises, the Germans being famed from time immemorial for their constancy and perseverance.

Altogether more curious, however, was the claim of Carlos García who, in reflecting upon the Treaty of Vervins between France and Spain in 1598, would confess how he had often wished that he had interviewed midwives in both countries to determine whether the glaring differences in temperament and attitudes might at least be partially explained by variations in the delivery methods for babies. The French, he suggested, grasp an intellectual point quickly, and then let it drop, which makes them more practical, while the Spanish absorb inferences slowly, enjoying the process of pondering. This is why, he contended, ‘there are few native Spaniards who practise mechanical skills, as weavers, cobblers, tailors’, and why, to the distress of travellers, there were so few innkeepers. ‘But for the French to understand something,’ García continues, ‘is to turn it to practical advantage’, with the result that ‘they hate inactivity’ and thus not only ‘immerse themselves in all sorts of manufactures’, but apply themselves also to study of the law rather than to the less practical study of scholastic theology. This much, he concludes, is clear:

… the French are choleric, the Spanish patient; the French are sprightly, the Spaniards slow to act; the former are volatile, cheerful and impetuous, the latter are ponderous, sombre and introspective; the French eat a lot, the Spanish little; the French are givers, the Spaniards savers – one could go on comparing the one with the other and find nothing but contraries.

Yet if García’s The Antipathy between the Spanish and French Peoples is altogether more successful in highlighting contrasts than offering explanations and solutions, it at least represented not only a commendably balanced but earnest early attempt at analysis on the basis of external as opposed to innate influences. Nor was it entirely alone in its efforts, since climate, too – not to mention cosmic influence – was perceived increasingly widely as part of the general reason why the inhabitants of one country were so different from others:

There is no help for it [claimed Stephano Guazzo in 1574] but you must … thinke that every nation, land and countrie, by the nature of the place, the climate of the heaven, and the influence of the starres hath certaine vertues and certaine vices which are proper, naturall and perpetuall.

It was on this basis therefore, as Giovannia Botero elaborated in 1589, that ‘a Spaniard doubles his energy when he goes to France, while a Frenchman in France becomes languid and dainty’:

Those who live in northern countries but not in the extreme north [he confidently asserted], are bold but lack cunning; southerners on the other hand are cunning but not bold … The former are simple and straightforward, the latter shy and artful in their ways. They are as the lion and the fox; whereas the northerner is slow and consistent in his actions, cheerful and subject to Bacchus, the southerner is impetuous and volatile, melancholy and subject to Venus … Mountain-dwellers are wild and proud, valley people soft and effeminate. Industry and diligence flourish in barren lands, idleness and refinement in fertile ones.

But if such attempts at geographical determinism lent an objective veneer of sorts to the debate, they nevertheless continued in the main to reinforce the ongoing tendency of contemporaries to rank the conduct of nationalities demeaningly, particularly when it came to standards of civilised behaviour. Early in the fifteenth century, the Florentine Leonardo Bruni had congratulated his fellow countryman Poggio Bracciolini on bringing back to Italy a manuscript of Quintilian from a Swiss monastery to ‘deliver him from his long imprisonment in the dungeons of barbarians’. And a similar superiority and self-satisfaction extended especially to specific groups, such as the native Irish and Russians, who represented, it was said, parts of Europe impervious not only to orderly government but decorous manners of any kind – a sphere in which even supposedly enlightened commentators might not be entirely impartial. For when Erasmus noted in De Civilitate morum puerilium libellous (1530) – the first treatise in western Europe on the moral and practical education of children – that it was a custom of Spaniards to brush their teeth with urine, the Dutchman’s apparent fastidiousness was by no means unconnected to the growing opposition to his works in the Iberian peninsula and, in particular, the liberal Catholicism he condoned.

As Europeans rankled under the load of their political and economic rivalries, moreover, they bristled with no less passion than Tudor Englishmen at the peaceable introduction of foreigners into positions of privilege and power within their own lands. When the future Holy Roman Emperor Charles V inherited the Crown of Spain in 1516, for example, he caused virulent and lasting offence by bringing with him a corps of officials and advisers from his native Burgundy, while Catherine de’ Medici’s lavish patronage of Italians, her former compatriots, caused widespread resentment in France between 1559 and 1589. At its peak, in the 1570s, Henri Estienne produced a diatribe against ‘the new Italianised French language’ and reprimanded courtiers for aping Italian mannerisms, since ‘the French are not by nature given to gestures and do not like them’. And in the meantime, further afield in Poland, the arrival of Bona Sforza in 1518 after her marriage to Sigismund I had lit the slow fuse of what can only be described as a floodtide of italophobia later in the century. Royal attempts to exert some measure of centralised control over the self-patrolled anarchy of the Polish nobility were directly interpreted as the imposition of Italian, ‘Machiavellian’, political theory, while resentment at the economic success of Italian immigrants, exacerbated by tax exemptions on their import–export dealings, led to mockery of them as effeminates with big brains topping feeble bodies. As their unwelcome visitors thrived in mining, publishing and the growing commerce in luxury goods, Poles continued to denounce them as unmanly ‘lute players’ and sent their sons to German rather than Italian universities.

Not long after the death of Elizabeth I, the Englishman Fynes Moryson was at least able to denote the existence of certain distinctions between ‘Italians’:

The Milanese [he wrote in 1617] are said to be little jealous and to hate fat women; the Mantuans to love women that can dance; the Florentines to love a modest woman, and one that loves home; the Neapolitans to love a stately high-minded woman. Those of Lucca are said to love constantly, the Venetians contrarily, and to desire fat women with great dugs.

But generalisations – and almost invariably unfavourable ones at that – remained the order of the day for all national types, notwithstanding the fact that, occasionally at least, there were fleeting glimpses of empathy, even sympathy, between Europeans, as with the brutal sacking of Rome on 6 May 1527 when the rampant German and Spanish troops of Charles V provoked widespread horror and disgust. ‘Never,’ wrote one outraged commentator, ‘was Rome so pilled neither by Goths nor Vandals’ after relics and sacred shrines had been destroyed, virgins spoiled and wives ravished, and perhaps a quarter of the entire population killed by frenzied soldiers who, besides their other misdeeds, were said to have ‘punished citizens by the privy members to cause them to confess their treasure’. Even more extraordinarily, however, Italians soon came to settle down with remarkable indifference under Spanish rule in the 1530s in the formerly independent Duchy of Milan, just as they had done in the kingdom of Naples since the beginning of the century. Though in literature, resentment found a timid outlet in portrayals of vainglorious Spaniards and their bragging troops, well-to-do Italians nevertheless freely adopted Spanish costume and manners with more than passing enthusiasm, and beyond the Alps too, there were some early inklings of growing intercourse and acceptance. For on the broader level, the increasing traffic across the Continent of diplomats, merchants, artists and scholars all played their part in encouraging a modicum of mutual understanding. All countries also employed foreign mercenaries and, ironically enough, at least among the officers within rival forces, friendships and mutual admiration were not unheard of, as is clear from Pierre de Brantôme’s Lives of the Captains and, indeed, a whole range of military memoirs.

Even so, it was not until around 1600, it seems, that voices were raised more generally against the free-for-all consolations of snap judgements and routine prejudice, since by then the pressing need for international peace and the sense of responsibility of more widely educated men was at last encouraging a less blinkered vision. The German cosmographer Johann Rauw noted in 1597, for instance, how ‘the old saying is true: no country is worth three pennies more than any other’. And the very early stirrings of a significant sea change were evident elsewhere, too. ‘There is hardly a nation under the sun that has no special faults and merits,’ wrote the Dutchman Karel von Mander in 1604 when recommending the virtue of travel for artists, while four years later Joseph Hall – though once more acknowledging that ‘the French are commonly called rash, the Spaniard proud, the Dutch drunken, the English busy-hands, the Italian effeminate, the Swethens timorous, the Bohemians inhuman, the Irish barbarous and superstitious’ – nevertheless went on to ask, ‘is any man so sottish as to think that France hath no staid man at all in it, Spain no meacock [weakling], or Germany none that lives so soberly?’

Nor, it must be said, were the actions of Hall’s Tudor compatriots towards foreigners invariably as harsh as their words or occasional outbursts of violence might suggest. Certainly, the eventual association of Protestantism with patriotism and economic expansion afforded Flemish refugees in the second half of the sixteenth century an altogether different reception from that dealt out to aliens during the Steelyard riots of October 1497 or the Evil May Day disorders twenty years later. ‘You would never believe,’ wrote Clais van Wervekin to his wife, ‘how friendly the people are together and the English are the same and quite loving to our nation … Send my money and the three children. Come at once and do not be anxious.’ This was from Norwich in 1567, and Protestant patriotism was likewise the force that created the English intervention in the Dutch wars against Spain when, in May 1572, the first three hundred men, paid for by public subscription, left London to help the privateering Sea Beggars newly established in Flushing.

Sheer self-interest, too, might sometimes act as a restraint upon any more typical inclination towards xenophobia. Earlier, in January 1528 for example, textile workers had rioted in Somerset, Wiltshire and East Anglia when English sales in the Netherlands and Spain were disrupted by Thomas Wolsey’s declaration of war against Charles V, while opposition to Henry VIII’s divorce from the emperor’s aunt, Catherine of Aragon, was just as firmly underpinned by the fall in short-cloth exports from London to Antwerp, which had stood at 75,000 in 1529 before tumbling to 66,000 at the height of the marriage crisis. In 1525, likewise, the tax known as the ‘Amicable Grant’ stirred overwhelming opposition – to the extent that royal councillors were jostled in the streets by irate crowds who denounced the war with France as a waste of money, likely to conquer ‘not one foot’ of the ancient enemy’s territory. Sir Thomas Boleyn was roughly handled in Maidstone, while the new Duke of Norfolk, who had succeeded his father the previous year, was met with stiff opposition at Lavenham and Sudbury in particular. And as Cambridge students rioted at the prospect of foreign conflict, so Huntingdonshire and Essex also rumbled, along with the men of Chelmsford and Stansted who refused to pay, causing certain commissioners to report how ‘some fear to be hewn in pieces if they make any grant’.

In this case, of course, it was ‘Captain Poverty’ rather than compassion or any sense of commonality that explained Englishmen’s reluctance to wreak havoc upon helpless French peasants. But at a spiritual level, undeniably, some large groups of anonymous Tudor folk felt at one time or another that their experience of life only made sense in association with the beliefs of a broader, united Christendom, as in 1536 when the Pilgrimage of Grace shook Thomas Cromwell’s protestantising government to its foundations and, to a lesser extent, in 1569 when the rebellion of the Northern Earls had a not altogether dissimilar impact. Even so, of course, the forces of religion and commerce cut both ways, and were always more likely to fuel further vilification of foreigners among Shakespeare’s ‘mutable rank-scented many’, especially when commercial exclusion went hand-in-hand with what Tudor Englishmen, high and low alike, interpreted as manifest collusion between Rome and Spain. Ironically, in 1549 the so-called ‘Prayer Book’ rebellion had originated in Cornwall partly as a result of vexation at the introduction of Protestant innovations derived from the Continent, but as the second half of the century wore on, it was invariably Catholicism’s relationship with Spain, and in particular the papacy’s association with Spain’s commercial monopoly in the New World, dating back to the Treaty of Tordesillas in 1494, that confirmed the darkest suspicions of English men and women – suspicions amplified exponentially as a result of sentences such as those pronounced against Sir John Hawkins’ sailors by the Inquisition’s auto da fe in February 1574:

William Collins, of Oxford, age 40, seaman, ten years in the galleys; John Farenton, of Windsor, 49, gunner, six years in the galleys; John Burton, of Bar Abbey, 22, seaman, 200 lashes and six years in the galleys; Paul de Leon of Rotterdam, 22, seaman, 200 lashes and six years in the galleys; William Griffin, of Bristol, 24, seaman, 200 lashes and eight years in the galleys; George Ribley, of Gravesend, 30, seaman, burnt at the stake, but first strangled; John Moon, of Looe, 26, seaman, 200 lashes and six years in the galleys; John Lee, of ‘Sebria’ [sic], 20, seaman or gunner, 200 lashes and eight years in the galleys; William Brown, of London, 25, steward, 200 lashes and six years in the galleys; Thomas Goodal, of London, 30, soldier, 300 lashes and ten years in the galleys; John Gilbert, of London, 29, seaman, 300 lashes and ten years in the galleys; Roger Armar, of Gueldres (Netherlands), 24, armourer, 200 lashes and six years in the galleys; Michael Morgan (alias Morgan Tillert), of Cardiff, 40, seaman, 200 lashes and eight years in the galleys; John Brown, of Ireland, 28, seaman, 200 lashes and eight years in the galleys; John Williams of Cornwall, 28, 200 lashes and eight years in the galleys; Robert Plinton, of Plymouth, 30, 200 lashes and eight years in the galleys; John Grey, Englishman, 22, gunner, 200 lashes and eight years in the galleys; George Dee, Englishman, 30, seaman, 300 lashes and eight years in the galleys.

In the wake of Hawkins’ account of his fight at San Juan de Ulúa in September 1568, moreover, the smouldering antagonisms, hitherto checked by politics, were allowed ever freer play, as Spanish Catholicism was alternately dismissed as mere hypocrisy or damned as an outright encouragement to vice. ‘For matter of religion,’ wrote Sir Walter Raleigh in his account of Sir Richard Grenville’s death at the Battle of Flores in 1591, ‘it would require a particular volume, if I should set down how irreligiously they cover their greedy and ambitious pretences with that veil of piety,’ while James Wadsworth, the English double agent, informed his readers how:

the Spaniards were and are little better than Atheists, only making use of the Pope for their own particular ambitions and ends, as to confirm and establish him in unlawful monarchies, and under colour of Religion to make Subjects become slaves.

More serious still from the moralist’s perspective was the assertion of Sir Francis Drake’s chaplain, who claimed that ‘the poisonous infection of Popery’ is introduced wherever the Spanish go, and that there is therefore no city, village or house in the Indies ‘wherein (amongst the other like Spanish virtues) not only whoredom, but the filthiness of Sodom, not to be named among Christians, is not common without reproof’. According to Raleigh’s lieutenant, Lawrence Keymis, this was to be explained by the fact that Spaniards considered themselves ‘well and surely blessed, however they live, if their towns and houses be religiously crossed’.

Yet in 1555, while Mary Tudor still shared the Crown of England with Philip II, some Englishmen like Richard Eden, translator of Peter Martyr’s The Decades of the Newe Worlde, were nevertheless ready to declare how the kings of Spain ‘are more deserving of the name of hero than those men of antiquity who are generally accounted such’, since in ‘enlarging the Christian world’ they had set an example for all nations. For Eden, furthermore, the repression associated with Spanish rule was actually nothing less than commendable, particularly in relation to the Indians of their subject American lands whose:

bondage is such as is much rather to be desired than their former liberty which was to the cruel cannibals rather a horrible licentiousness than a liberty, and to the innocent so terrible a bondage, that in the midst of their fearful idleness, they were ever in danger to be a prey to those manhunting wolves. But the Spaniards as ministers of grace and liberty, brought unto these new gentiles the victory of Christ’s death whereby they being subdued by the worldly sword, are now made free from the bondage of Satan’s tyranny.

Plainly, what was resolutely construed as wickedness by the time of the Spanish Armada could still be construed as piety just over three decades earlier amid the swirling eddies of political circumstance. But as fever mounted steadily against the ‘dark Popish Domdaniel’ of Spain during the reign of Elizabeth I, so two books, perhaps more than any others, achieved particular popularity and, in doing so, stirred English audiences to new heights of outrage. One was a curious volume entitled A Discovery & Plaine Declaration of sundry Subtill practices of the Holy Inquisition of Spain by ‘Reginaldus Gonsalvius Montanus’ – an unknown figure probably connected in some way with the Lutheran community of Seville, which was destroyed in that city during 1557–58 – and the other was John Foxe’s Actes and Monuments, which in 1570 incorporated an appended section in recognition of the growing interest in Spanish wrongdoing. Both works took pains to emphasise what Foxe termed ‘the extreme dealing and cruel ravening of these Catholic Inquisitors of Spain, who, under the pretended visor of religion, do nothing but seek their private gain and commodity, with crafty defrauding and spoiling of other men’s goods’. But Foxe, in particular, was keen to highlight the ‘brutish and beastly madness’ entailed by the Inquisition’s activities in cases like that of the English merchant Nicholas Burton who, on 5 November 1560, was seized while discussing commercial matters and placed in Cadiz jail. After questioning, not as to his faith but only with regard to the location of his goods, he was held without charge for fourteen days before being taken to Seville and burnt on 20 December. Likewise, both Foxe and Montanus, as well as Richard Hakluyt the Younger, recorded the case of another merchant, John Fronton, who lost his goods for omitting the final Sancta Maria mater Dei ora pro nobis peccatoribus in saying his Ave Maria, though the most memorable tale of its kind came perhaps from Sir Walter Raleigh, who reputedly discovered some Spaniards about to walk off with an innocent Fleming’s worldly treasures. When the poor fellow protested that he was a good Catholic, the rascally Iberians nevertheless declared that while he himself was undoubtedly of the True Faith, his goods were heretic and therefore subject to confiscation.

As William Warner paraphrased it in Albion’s England (1602), ‘This Spanish Inquisition is a Trap so slyly set/As into it Wise, Godly, Rich, by Blanchers base are met.’ Elsewhere, Fox tells us how Spain’s Inquisitors were equally capable of extorting their own countrymen and exacting similar punishments to those meted out upon English victims. In one story, we hear how a maker of holy images was offered a fraction of the going price for one of his wares, and, unaware of the purchaser’s identity, swore to smash his work rather than sell it so cheaply. Whereupon, goaded beyond endurance, the poor fellow made good his word, only to be arrested immediately as a desecrator of sacred images. Later burned, his fate was suitably exploited by Foxe to reinforce the recurring theme:

The abuse of this inquisition is most execrable. If any word shall pass out of the mouth of any, which may be taken in evil part, yea, though no word be spoken, yet if they bear any grudge or evil will against the party, incontinent they command him to be taken, and put into a horrible prison, and then find out crimes against him at their leisure, and in the meantime, no man living is so hardy as once to open his mouth for him.

All things, Foxe tells us, were done ‘hugger mugger and in close corners, by ambiages, by covert ways and secret counsels’, and while Montanus describes prisoners treated worse than dogs, imprisoned together in holes, several at a time, and subject to the use of hot coals – notwithstanding the fact that such a torture was expressly forbidden by the Instructions of Valencia of 1561 – Foxe himself embroiders his own account with a description of cells in which the wretched prisoner ‘cannot see so much as the ground where he is, and is not suffered either to read or to write, but there endureth in darkness palpable, in horrors infinite, in fear miserable, wrestling with the assaults of death’:

Add moreover to the distresses and horrors of the prison [Foxe concludes], the injuries, threats, whippings and scourgings, irons, tortures and racks which they there endure, sometimes also they are brought out, and showed forth to the people as a symbol of rebuke and infamy. And thus they are detained there, some many years, and murdered by long torments, and whole days together are treated more cruelly out of all comparison, than if they were in the hangman’s hands to be slain all at once.

For Montanus’s translator, Thomas Skinner:

… the monstrous racking of men without order of law, the villainous tormenting of naked women beyond all humanity, their miserable death without pity or mercy, the most reproachful triumphing of the Popish Synagoge over Christians as over Paynims and Ethnics … ought surely … to move us to compassion.

And his appeal, along with others like it, not only struck home potently, but ensured the steady emergence of figures like Francis Drake as national folk heroes – notwithstanding the fact that the very term ‘nation’ was still of limited currency at that time.

For in England as elsewhere, the word was hardly ever used before the seventeenth century to refer to all the inhabitants of a particular country. Instead, either it pertained to men of a particular category, regardless of their origin, as in the educationalist Roger Ascham’s denunciation in 1570 of ‘the barbarous nation of scholemen’, or it was applied to a discrete body of foreigners living abroad. In universities where there were large numbers of foreign students, such as Bologna, Padua, Paris and Montpellier, the partly self-governing sections into which they were divided were known as ‘nations’. And the same was true when the banished Italian merchants of Lyons – mainly Florentine in origin – petitioned Henri IV in 1494 for a restoration of their privileges there, appealing in the name of ‘the Florentine nation’. Where other forms of expression were used to specify what might be considered some inchoate sense of nationhood, they were invariably employed in exhortation rather than routinely: in other words, to arouse a feeling of common identity rather than to reflect a pre-existing one. Thus, Rudolf Agricola might speak of ‘our Germany’ and Martin Luther of ‘we Germans’, while Niccolò Machiavelli appealed emotively to ‘Italy’ and ‘the Italians’, and Guillaume Budé paid homage to the ‘Genius of France’. But for most ‘Germans’, as the saying went, ‘Hesse was fatherland and Bavaria abroad’, and the same was no less true of Florentines, Neapolitans, Milanese and Venetians, not to mention Parisians, Gascons, denizens of Provence, citizens of Languedoc or any other region of the patchwork of local communities constituting early modern France. Far more acutely aware of ‘foreigners’ than of their own ‘national’ identity, the sentiment of nationhood therefore only rang true within a country at exceptional moments of danger from outside threats, and even then such rallying calls from the centre faded to whispers and eventually to silence wherever men slowly passed along unmade roads into regions with their own forms of speech and patterns of local loyalties. As such, ironically enough, it was only gut reactions to ‘them’ that gradually served to forge a more refined notion of ‘us’ whether as Englishmen, Frenchmen, Germans, Italians or, ultimately indeed, as ‘Europeans’.

Nor, of course, was this surprising when it is remembered that in all languages ‘foreigner’ had, in any case, a double meaning – applying not only to aliens but also to ‘outsiders’ from as little as 10 or 20 miles away who arrived to compete for jobs or burden local charitable services. ‘Countries’ were, indeed, still little more than congeries of regional and local identities themselves, and the approach of a popular German geography textbook – Johannes Honter’s Rudimenta Cosmographica