The King's City

by Don Jordan

  Looking back at his work from our own age, one of the most remarkable illustrations was Plate 8, a piece of cork, which when viewed either straight on or obliquely was revealed to be composed of a regular pattern of pockets, giving it its springy, buoyant quality. From the extraordinary divided structure he observed, Hooke was reminded of the structure of a beehive and coined the word ‘cell’ for the individual building blocks he saw. From his observations, he estimated that one cubic inch of cork contained more than 1.2 million cells.

  No less astonishing to the eye were the images in Plate 9, of mould on the leather cover of a book. Under Hooke’s microscope, a small white spot measuring 1/32 of an inch was revealed to be composed of a forest of elegant stems at the head of which were frothy, broken heads, for all the world like miniature chrysanthemums. His illustration of a stinging nettle revealed spikes with points much sharper than that of the man-made needle in his first illustration, attached to a cucumber-like bladder which fed stinging liquid up the hollow needle. Equally marvellous was the image of a bees sting, very long and hollow like the nettles points but armed with barbs. A drawing of a fish scale (from the skin of a sole) is surprisingly beautiful, aided in no small part by Hooke’s prowess with a pen and his engraver’s skill with a burin.

  One of the last images in this encyclopaedic book of the author’s many interests is of a little creature that, in the author’s words, ‘fears not to trample on the best; and affects nothing so much as a Crown; feeds and lives very high, and that makes it saucy, as to pull any one by the ears that comes in its way’. He is referring to the louse. In seventeenth-century London, the louse was a pest to all. Hooke pictured it in glorious fold-out enormity, with a monstrous, conical, alien head and six multi-jointed legs. In his drawing, the louse appears to be clutching the stem of a plant but Hooke informs us this sturdy bough is in fact a human hair. He tells us he kept several lice in a box until they were very hungry, then took one out and put it on his hand where it began sucking his blood through a snout that was not so much a mouth as a feeding tube. Under his microscope, Hooke could see his blood entering the translucent creature and being taken up into a sac in its body. He marvelled at how the insect could draw up blood without penetrating beyond the outermost layer of his skin, so proving, he said, that human blood vessels were dispersed into every part of the skin – even, as he put it, ‘into the Cuticula’.4

  To draw detailed descriptions of his insects, Hooke had to keep them still. This was more difficult than might be imagined. At first he simply killed the insect. He discovered that when he did so he invariably crushed some part of the animal, rendering it useless to observe. Next, he tried sticking the creatures feet in some sticky substance such as honey or glue. He described how an ant twisted and wriggled so much in attempts to break free that he abandoned the idea. His solution was as ingenious as one might expect from so questing a mind. He discovered that if he dipped an ant in brandy before putting it under his microscope it lay stunned for thirty minutes or more, before reviving and going on its way.

  Two months after Micrographia appeared in print, the small journal entitled Philosophical ‘transactions was published for the first time. Appearing on 6 March, priced at one shilling, this was the world s first journal devoted to science – although, as with so many great things, the momentousness of the event was not initially apparent. The Transactions, as it would come to be simply known, introduced to the world the process whereby scientists reviewed one another’s work, allowing particular experiments or theories to be evaluated by the emerging scientific community. From the beginning, the little journal was an international platform for the dissemination of scientific knowledge.

  The journal was the idea of one man, a 46-year-old German émigré named Heinrich Oldenburg. A former diplomat and teacher with a fondness for discovering the latest ideas in all areas of knowledge, Oldenburg had met many of the foremost theologians, scientists and scholars in Europe during a peripatetic life as a tutor to the sons of wealthy families. Among those he had tutored was the scientifically minded seventh son of the ist Earl of Cork. Robert Boyle would go on to become Oldenburg’s patron, keeping him afloat financially through thin times in the 1650s and later.

  Over much of his life, Oldenburg maintained an incomparable network of correspondents throughout European intellectual circles. He kept up a voluminous correspondence with leading philosophers, experimenters, theologians and political theorists, conversing with each about their particular fields of interest with apparent ease. Among his circle of correspondents were Leibniz, Spinoza, Milton, Boyle, and Boyle’s sister, Katherine, Lady Ranelagh, a woman whose place in London’s intellectual circles was long overlooked. So great were Oldenburg’s interests and so widespread his contacts that in his own time he was widely recognised as a leading virtuoso and intelligencer.

  At the end of his career Oldenburg settled in London, where he became known as Henry rather than Heinrich. Thanks to his diplomatic status, he lived in the exclusive upmarket street of Pall Mall, by the walls of Whitehall Palace gardens, where he was a neighbour of the esteemed physician Thomas Sydenham and of Countess Ranelagh.* An excellent linguist, his perfect English was commented upon by all with whom he had dealings, among them Joseph Glanvill, a clergyman and a leading member of the newly emerging virtuosi.5 Oldenburg’s interests ranged from the trivial to the global. He was as interested in fanciful musings as he was in actual breakthroughs. His friend Glanvill made one such prediction, saying the time would come when mankind would be able to communicate with people around the world by means of ‘magnetic waves that permeate the ether’.

  Although Glanvill showed an eerie degree of prescience, such predictions were not in themselves unusual in philosophical circles of the time. The Fellows of the Royal Society loved making wish lists of developments they would like to see become reality. In this, as in other things, they took their cue from Francis Bacon, who had seen such lists – desiderata, he called them – as part of the method by which mankind stretched itself and advances were made.6 Oldenburg’s patron Robert Boyle compiled a 24-part list beginning with his hope for ‘The Prolongation of Life’, continuing with ‘The Recovery of Youth’ and on to the ‘Art of Flying’, making it the most famous of all such lists.‡

  Through his close connection to Boyle and so many of the founders of the Royal Society, it was not surprising that Oldenburg was asked to become one of the society’s two founding secretaries, before being appointed as a Fellow in 1664. Oldenburg immediately saw the need for a journal in which the flow of ideas between scholars and experimenters could be aired and discussed. At first, he funded the journal entirely out of his own meagre funds. He dedicated it to the Royal Society: ‘In these rude collections, which are only the gleanings of my private diversions in broken hours, it may appear that many minds and hands are in many places industriously employed. . . in pursuit of those excellent ends, which belong to your heroical undertakings.’7 The introduction to his first newsletter set out his plan:

  Whereas there is nothing more necessary for promoting the improvement of Philosophical Matters, than the communicating to such . . . it is therefore thought fit to employ the Press, as the most proper way to gratifie those, whose engagement in such Studies, and delight in the advancement of Learning and profitable Discoveries, doth entitle them to the knowledge of what this Kingdom, or other parts of the World, do, from time to time, afford . . .

  The first edition of the Transactions opened a window into the connected world of Mr Oldenburg. It began with a report from Paris on improvements in ‘Optick Glasses’ for use in telescopes. Another account, also from France, concerned the mathematics necessary to predict the movements of a comet. These writings were translated by Oldenburg into English, as were all those originally written in Latin or another language. There was an account of whaling off Bermuda and a report on lead ores found in Germany and Hungary, followed by one from a military officer on a British naval ship on duty in the Leeward Island
s on the superior accuracy of pendulum watches in determining longitude. The death was reported of Pierre de Fermat, the French lawyer and mathematician who would earn lasting posthumous fame for a piece of marginalia he had jotted down in a book of ancient Greek mathematics, and which would become known as Fermat’s Last Theorem. Oldenburg described Fermat as a universal genius, excelling in mathematical science and other activities: ‘That, which is most of all surprizing to many . . . he composed Latin, French and Spanish verses with the same elegancy as if he had lived in the time of Augustus, and passed the greatest part of his life at the courts of France and Spain.’ 8

  To complete the contents of his first edition, Oldenburg turned to work from two of his fellow members of the Royal Society. The first was an account of Robert Boyles latest book, entitled New Observations and Experiments in order to a History of Cold. Boyle also gave an odd report of a deformed calf discovered in Lymington, and there was a report from Robert Hooke on how he had recently used a twelve-foot telescope to observe one of Jupiter’s belts moving from east to west about half the length of the planet’s diameter in the space of two hours.

  The mere dissemination of knowledge was not enough for Oldenburg. He indicated from the start that he hoped his publication would play an active role in the advancement of new discoveries. Those who were ‘addicted to and conversant in such matters, may be invited and encouraged to search, try, and find out new things, impart their knowledge to one another, and contribute what they can to the Grand design of improving Natural knowledge, and perfecting all Philosophical Arts, and Sciences’.

  By the fourth edition of the Transactions, published in June 1665, debate among Oldenburg’s acquaintances was well established – even to a vitriolic degree. The first reported row involved Hooke, a man not afraid of a spirited discussion. A French correspondent, M. Auzout, took exception to some of the claims Hooke had made about his mechanism for grinding optical glass. One can surmise that the Frenchman did not realise just what – or who – he was taking on. Nor did Hooke and Oldenburg see eye to eye. This was awkward for the society, for they were its chief working office holders. The pair were eventually to fall out.

  From the moment his journal was under way, Oldenburg reported on significant moments in the history of observational science. The sixth edition of the Transactions carried a review of Micrographia The book’s most famous image is Plate 32, the huge, two-page fold-out engraving of a flea, described by Hooke as ‘adorned with a curiously polished suit of sable armour’ and equipped with the most ingenious legs, which it could fold up and then spring out, all six together, to allow it to jump with its whole strength. This insignificant creature was already making its mark on London.

  * Archbishop Ussher (1581–1656) deduced from biblical studies that the world had begun at 9 a.m. on 26 October 4004 BCE.

  † Oldenburg had one rocky moment during his long sojourn in England. During the second Anglo-Dutch war he was suspected of being a spy, but was exonerated. He would die at his home in Pall Mall in 1677, aged fifty-eight.

  ‡ For Boyle’s complete list, see Appendix III.

  CHAPTER 11

  THE YEAR OF THE FLEA

  In the spring of 1665 plague broke out in the parish of St-Giles-in-the-Fields, outside the old city, to the north of Covent Garden. At first it affected just a few people in one family, then a neighbouring family, then another. Although London had been through it before, most recently in 1636, what was to grow from these small beginnings was truly terrible.

  Bubonic plague is a bacterial infection of the body’s lymphatic system. When a plague-carrying flea bites its victim, the bacteria enter the system and travel to the nearest lymph node. These nodes are distributed throughout the body with clusters around the groin, the abdomen, the armpits and neck. Among the first symptoms is a swelling of the lymph nodes. With plague infection these nodes become enlarged and can even break open. Along with the swelling, the patient usually suffers a variety of flu-like symptoms including a temperature, headaches and vomiting. The infection in most cases progresses rapidly, with the patient suffering great pain, gangrene in extremities such as the toes, fingers and nose, and necrosis of other parts of the body, causing black spots to appear as the skin dies – hence the term Black Death. In the ultimate stages there is vomiting of blood, delirium and finally death. The disease is very contagious and only a small number of those who contract it survive.

  As the plague took hold in the slums of outer London, relations with the Dutch reached crisis point. The sporadic maritime skirmishing between the two nations had escalated since the previous year. English privateers harried Dutch shipping, capturing many vessels and taking them to English ports. War was now inevitable. Many factors were involved, including interference by the House of Stuart in Dutch domestic affairs in order to support the political ambitions of Charles’s nephew, William, Prince of Orange. There were the individual ambitions of the Duke of York and the Earl of Arlington, both of whom hoped to benefit from the annexation of Dutch colonies. There was the desire for war among naval commanders hoping to grow rich on prize money. All of these had to be measured against the outcome of the First Anglo-Dutch war, fought during the Commonwealth era, when the English were victorious but failed to destroy the Dutch fleet. Since then, the Dutch had been building new warships at a furious rate.

  The loss of New Amsterdam to the English led the Dutch to retaliate. They retook their erstwhile outposts in West Africa and seized the economically important English colony of Barbados. On 4 March the Dutch fleet was issued with orders to fire at will when threatened by English ships. Charles took this as a provocation and declared war. Both sides now prepared their fleets for the set-piece naval battles they hoped would settle the matter.

  While England and Holland headed into a naval war, a single shipping tragedy took place in the Bay of Biscay. In April 1665 The Experiment, Sir William Petty s double-hulled ship, sank in a storm on its way home from Portugal with all hands lost. The ship was a further development of the one the King had mocked three years before. Many in the shipbuilding industry were pleased the revolutionary boat had failed. The Experiment had been described as ‘dangerous’; it was argued that if the Dutch copied its shallow draught and impressive carrying capacity they might be able to transport an army right up the Thames to London and invade. The failure of the ship in heavy weather was the most serious setback for any practical project by the Royal Society to date. Petty had put at least £1500 of his own money into the venture, while other investors had put in £3000, and Petty’s close friend and supporter Wren had contributed not money but his opinions and judgements.1 For Charles, the Royal Society’s patron, hopes for the society were pinned on practical advances in shipping and navigation. The society’s prestige undoubtedly took a beating from the sinking of The Experiment. It is fair to say that Charles lost some interest in his pet scientific brains trust.

  As England plunged into another war, the plague stealthily established itself throughout the closely packed houses of the shipbuilding community on the marshy riverside at Deptford. From there it spread west and north, entering the crowded ancient city. By April the death rate was rising rapidly. The authorities had no accurate records to tell them the increasing death toll was caused by plague, but they knew the signs from previous epidemics. Parish authorities responded by quarantining suspected households. Those who read John Graunt’s tables could see for themselves the growing numbers of cases and decide whether or not to remain in the citv. In truth, his tables mattered little. Despite his success three years before, when the results of his study of the bills of mortality had been published to royal enthusiasm, no one thought much about them now, though they had been republished in a second and a third edition.

  The chief problem with Graunt s system was that it was still in an embryonic form. For his early warning method to work adequately he would need to publish regular data, perhaps every week, with very fine changes tabulated for the whole of London and outl
ying areas. This was beyond Graunt’s resources. To collect and work on the mortality figures as they came in weekly from all 122 parishes throughout London, taking in the area inside the walls, Westminster, the liberties and suburbs, would have been a tremendous task. It could probably not lrave been done at all well with the methodology and bureaucracy available in the mid-1660s.

  In the early summer of 1665, moreover, people coidd see for themselves what was happening. Those as yet unaffected by the outbreak heard quickly enough once word began to spread. Houses were boarded up in the parish of St Giles, often with their families inside, an almost certain death sentence. Riots broke out and crowds forced open some of the boarded-up houses.

  The King and the Privy Council met to consider how to contain the plague, which had now appeared in several towns across England. They had the experience of previous outbreaks to draw on. A list of fifteen ‘Rules and Orders’ was quickly drawn up to be sent to local officials in towns and cities around the country.2 Under the rules, public gatherings were banned and free movement into and out of towns was restricted to those with certificates of health signed by a physician. As the burning of herbs was believed to cleanse the air from the contagion, fires were to be lit during church services. Searchers were to be appointed to seek out the infected. The houses of those infected were to be shut up for forty days, with the ill incarcerated inside, down officials were to care for and feed the poor, if necessary raising a local rate (tax) to do so. Cats and dogs, thought to carry the contagion, were to be banned from the streets. Pest houses in which the infected could be isolated were to be built outside the town. Those who died of the plague were not to be buried in churchyards or graveyards, but in isolated graves away from towns and villages.