The Invention of News: How the World Came to Know About Itself (16 page)

The Rouen pamphlets are especially valuable because they give us a rare glimpse of a news community beyond the privileged members of the political decision-makers and the informed citizenry of the capital. By the spring of 1544 the Emperor had led his forces deep into northern France. Yet even during these perilous months readers in Rouen were offered a stream of optimistic bulletins of minor imperial reverses. However misleading in terms of the general strategic situation, which was dire, Rouen readers consumed these pamphlets eagerly. The news of war sustained two separate printing houses there for six years. After peace was signed in September, they quickly faded away.

How effective were these intense and, it must be said, quite unprecedented attempts to marshal public opinion? In 1543 the English ambassador in Paris reported ominously that the French king's subjects ‘murmureth marvellous, not only here but universally through his realm’.
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But he was the representative of a hostile power, and hardly an unbiased witness. In fact, at this moment of profound crisis, the nation held together. Some of this at least can be ascribed to the concentrated printed propaganda of the period. An anonymous Parisian chronicler of the time, known usually as the Bourgeois of Paris, wrote a narrative of events compiled largely from documents in the public domain, making good use of these news pamphlets. He takes them very much at face value: his journal reveals a natural conformist, keen to understand royal policy in its own terms. Even in the case of those with more privileged access, the successful diffusion of the official patriotic view can be discerned in contemporary historical writings and literary works. Authors such as Jean Bouchet, who offers detailed and well-sourced accounts of the military campaigns, were firm in ascribing responsibility for the war to the king's enemies. Guillaume Paradin justified the war of 1542 as a consequence of the Emperor's treachery, even ascribing to Charles responsibility for the death of the Dauphin in 1536, ‘poisoned by the Emperor's unheard of malice’. Echoes can even be found in Rabelais's
Gargantua and Pantagruel
, namely in the unflattering lampoon of Pichrochole, a ruler who sees himself as a new Alexander.

Attempts to present a positive view of royal policy and the events of war were generally well received: the French Crown faced a greater danger when it left a news vacuum, such as in the aftermath of the evident disaster at the battle of Pavia in 1525. The news of the defeat and the capture of Francis I were communicated to local administrators by private letter. The public, however, were told nothing. Not surprisingly, rumour filled the vacuum, leading another contemporary diarist to conclude that the defeat signalled ‘the total loss and destruction of the kingdom’.
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In the Netherlands efforts to forge patriotic identity through a lively culture of news met with less success. The seventeen provinces brought together under Charles V had never been a nation; incorporation of the last independent territories was completed only in 1543, with the subjugation of the Duke of Gelderland. Each of the provinces carefully nurtured its own separate relationship with the Emperor, who was Count of Flanders, but Duke of Brabant, Lord of Holland, and so on. It was thus by no means straightforward to promote the perception of a common cause against a common enemy. This was particularly the case in the southern French-speaking lands, an extremely permeable border zone from which it was hardly possible to exclude contrary points of view. French Tournai engaged in a lively dialogue with Habsburg lands roundabout. When the city fell to the English in 1513, Henry VIII was unimpressed by what he described as its ‘incorrigible and ill-conditioned people, making farces, ballads and songs about their neighbours’.
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Netherlanders were notoriously disinclined to help neighbouring communities, who might be commercial rivals, in time of war. The raising of funds and levies to pursue the war with France provided Emperor Charles with the opportunity to persuade his Low Countries subjects that they should recognise a common obligation to ‘acquit themselves in the defence of their fatherland’.
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But words alone could not create a sense of common identity where none had previously existed. Even ceremonial entries, the formal occasions in which a city celebrated its mutual obligations with the prince, could leave an unwanted legacy. The volumes that depicted the celebrations and tableaux for the entry into Antwerp of Charles's son Philip in 1549 were cited years later as evidence of inappropriate extravagance. The Netherlands came together as an entity most obviously in times of danger. The defeat of the enemy general Maarten van Roersum after his destructive incursion during the Emperor's war with the Duke of Gelderland in 1542 was celebrated throughout the territories. But the development of a true sense of nationhood would await the second half of the century when this national sentiment was turned against the Habsburgs: they were portrayed not as the protectors of Netherlandish liberties, but as the foreign oppressor.
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Times of warfare inevitably stirred strong emotions. In promoting mainly regime-friendly, patriotic news the publishers of news pamphlets mirrored the hopes and passions of their readers. Dispassionate analysis of the true disposition of forces was hardly to be expected, even had it been permitted. By this time most states in Europe had developed mechanisms for control of the press, aimed at preventing the publication or circulation of disapproved texts. Since the Protestant Reformation these systems of pre-publication inspection of copy (more theoretical than practical) had been reinforced by brutal penalties for any who challenged the local orthodoxy. Printers knew they had to tread carefully. But it would be wrong to ascribe the overwhelmingly loyalist tone of the news pamphlets primarily to censorship. Although the French press was carefully regulated, most printers cooperated readily in the output of patriotic literature. In the fog of war it became impossible to learn the true state of affairs by print alone. Those who needed more accurate information, merchants with consignments of goods on the road, for example, continued to guard their own confidential means of keeping in touch.

Of Tax and Chickens

The persistent warfare of the sixteenth century required a vast expansion of the apparatus of government. Armies grew larger, campaigns longer and defensive fortifications more elaborate. All of this required the development of a complex bureaucracy, and the raising of ever more cash. Whatever their theoretical aspirations to rule unquestioned under God, in practice Europe's rulers understood that the repeated demands for financial contributions from hard-pressed subjects required explanation and a measure of persuasion. This was a society still wedded to the historic principle that the king, like other great lords, should live from the income of his own lands. Although this had long ceased to be the case, it had not been replaced by a more practical recognition that subjects should surrender a regular portion of their income to underpin the apparatus of state. Aside from inevitable and resented duties on consumption, levies on property or income were always exceptional. The ruler had to make a case for burdening his subjects in this way.

This communication of the business of government made increasing use of print in the sixteenth century. These printed edicts, laws and proclamations were ostensibly intended to make citizens aware of new obligations and regulations, to raise money, to command obedience, and to warn against disorder. But they also had an important news function. To encourage the citizenry to contribute willingly to taxation, the state authorities often offered quite detailed explanations of why it had become necessary to impose fresh levies.
The same was true of the regulation of crime or commerce. Such statements of intent were often set out in the preamble to a printed edict, and these texts could offer a surprisingly frank account of the policy-making process.

In this way the making of law played an important role in spreading the news. News pamphlets may have been popular, but not many people outside the political and commercial elites would have been directly touched by the events they described. The law, in contrast, made demands on everyone. To be effective, laws had to be widely known. The problem was particularly acute in the national states of western Europe, where the king's command had to be made known to a dispersed population, most of whom would never, in their lifetime, see the fountainhead of this authority. In France the monarchy consciously used the taxation system to communicate justifications for its foreign-policy objectives. In the first half of the century, even though the Crown's right to levy taxation was in theory untrammelled, requests for additional levies were frequently accompanied by detailed explanation of why they were necessary. The 2.4 million livres of
taille
levied in 1517 was justified as the price of achieving peace; a similar sum raised in 1522 instanced the need for new artillery to resist the English invasion of Brittany.
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In 1526, a time of manifest crisis after Pavia, the regent accompanied the request for additional funds with a careful justification of the policy decisions that had drawn the king so disastrously into Italy, while offering reassurances of her constant striving for peace.

Many of these communications were conveyed by the traditional means of manuscript circular letters to the provincial estates. Their authors took into their confidence a limited circle of the leaders of local society. For many of the population, information would have come from briefer demands for taxes sent down from the provincial capital. As the century wore on, however, an increasing number of royal edicts was rendered into print. Only 2 per cent of the royal acts of Francis I was printed, but by the time of his grandson Francis II (r. 1559–60) this proportion had risen to 20 per cent. In the troubled times of the French Wars of Religion the Crown made extensive use of print to promote religious peace. Over the course of the century royal edicts were published in more than five thousand editions.
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Edicts published in Paris were spread into the provinces by a relay of local reprints.

In England, successive rulers faced the difficult task of reconciling a sometimes baffled population to the frequent adjustment of familiar patterns of worship. Henry VIII's repudiation of the Pope was translated into a full Protestant settlement in the reign of his son Edward VI (1547–53). With the succession of Mary in 1553 it was clear to the politically aware that Catholicism would be restored. This was effected by an Act of Parliament in 1554; but the
process was begun by action taken to supress religious debate and unwanted demonstrations against the queen's policy.

Mary's wishes were set in hand by a proclamation of August 1553 forbidding religious controversy, and banning unlicensed plays or printing. The text progresses cautiously to the heart of the issue. It assured the reader that the queen, although compelled by conscience to follow her religion, had no intention of imposing her choice on her subjects unless such a measure was taken by common consent. It laments the disorder caused by religious dissent. Only after six hundred words (and remember, this was meant to be proclaimed aloud) does the proclamation arrive at the heart of the matter: all are forbidden ‘to print any books, matter, ballad, rhyme, interlude [play], process or treatise, nor to play any interlude, except they have her Grace's special licence in writing for the same’.
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4.2 Elizabeth I. Proclamation for the bringing into the realm of unlawful and seditious books.

Printing was a London matter; but the staging of offensive plays could have a corrosive impact on obedience anywhere in the kingdom. The proclamation was therefore printed by the queen's printer for distribution. The local officials who received the copies would no doubt read it in detail, and convey its essence to local enforcement officers. It is difficult to envisage a text of this complexity making sense if it had only been communicated by the traditional means of being read out in public places. The circulation of printed texts thus played an increasingly essential part in the communication of public policy. Royal acts and proclamations were exhibited on posts or on boards in public places. It should be noted though that this proclamation, like many Tudor proclamations, was a single sheet printed on both sides; it would not have been particularly easy to read if affixed to a board. So, more practically, piles of them were made available for perusal in public buildings or shops. In April 1537 Adam Lewes, a schoolmaster of West Malling near Maidstone in Kent, went into a local shop ‘where lay certain Actes concerning apparel, artillery and unlawful games’.
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In 1563 Queen Elizabeth faced an even more delicate task. Her bold attempt to wrest back a foothold on French soil through alliance with the French Huguenots had ended in disaster. The English expeditionary force, cooped up in Newhaven (Le Havre), had been struck by plague. The expedition's commander, the Earl of Warwick, had no choice but to make what terms he could to extricate the remnants of the garrison.
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As the defeated army straggled home, the government issued a proclamation explaining that this reverse should be put down entirely to the visitation of sickness: the army had conducted itself nobly and with honour. The considerable sum of £17 was allocated to pay for messengers to carry the printed copies through the realm.
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The Flemish agent in London saw this extraordinary acknowledgement of a foreign policy catastrophe as an attempt by the queen's chief advisor William Cecil to avoid the blame for what might have been a career-ending blunder.