How to Enter a City Like a King

The streets, we’re told, were paved with men. Or, in the 17th-century spelling of Thomas Dekker’s book, paued:

The Streets seemde to bee paued with men: Stalles in stead of rich wares were set out with children, open Casements fild vp with wo∣men. All Glasse windowes taken downe, but in their places, sparkeled so many eyes, that had it not bene the day, the light which reflected from them, was sufficient to haue made one: hee that should haue compared the emptie and vntroden walkes of Lon∣don, which were to be seen in that late mortally-de∣stroying Deluge, with the thronged streetes now, might haue belieued, that vpon this day, began a new Creation, & that the Citie was the onely Work∣house wherein sundry Nations were made.

What were these people waiting for? The arrival of the king. Finally, he arrived:

And behold, A farre off they spie him, richly mounted on a white Iennet, vnder a rich Canopy, sustained by eight Barons…

King James I entered London in March of 1603, accompanied by his wife and son. It was his first entry into the city after the death of his predecessor, Elizabeth I. He had traveled from Edinburgh, where he had ruled as King of Scotland for some time. According to Dekker, the city came to a halt that day to greet its new king.

James passed through seven gates that had been erected for the occasion. Each of them represented a different aspect of the empire or a group that wished to pay tribute to the new king. Even though they were meant to be temporary structures, these gates were elaborate:

An Italian-themed gate featured an orator hailing James (in Latin) as a philosopher-king; near Fleet Street, a 90-foot tower displayed a rotating globe showing the scope of James’ empire and personifications of Justice, Virtue, Fortitude, and other virtues. At Westminster, he passed between two pyramids and under a rainbow.

Ben Jonson even wrote a play called The Coronation Triumph, which contained various mythological scenes that were performed for James as he passed through town:

James couldn’t actually endure every entertainment prepared for his special day; Dekker tells us that

Reader, you must vnderstand, that a regard, being had that his Majestie should not be wearied with teadious speeches: A great part of those which are in this Booke set downe, were left vnspoken: So that thou doest here receiue them as they should haue bene deliuered, not as they were.

But he confirms that the day had been a great success, an auspicious beginning for the reign to come:

That as his Majestie had left the Citie of London, happy, by deliuering it frō the noyse of tumult: so he would crowne this place with the like joyes; which being done, shee reckons vp a number of blessings, that will follow vpon it.

This extravagant pageant was memorable, for sure — but not all that unusual. James was participating in the venerable tradition of the Royal Entry (or, as some put it, the Joyous Entry), which commemorated the first visit of a monarch to a major city. In the case of James’ visit, it coincided with a coronation; rulers would often then travel around the country and accept the greetings of every major city in the country.

The ceremony was, in addition to being a giant, lavish party, a careful dance of symbolism and politics. Amidst the pomp and circumstance was an excuse for rulers to bask in the adoration of their subjects, for localities to cement their relationship with the crown, and for monarchs to demonstrate that they were acceptable to the populace.

Though James’ entry into London was a bombastic exercise of royal power, the early Joyous Entries were more of a negotiation.

In late medieval Europe, kings ruled loosely over their domains. Many cities were fortified, in part to keep the monarchs and their armies out. Cities often had old feudal charters that guaranteed them certain rights and freedoms, but the arrival of a new monarch was a moment of tension: would the king uphold these old agreements, or would new ones have to be arranged?

Like all diplomacy, a Joyous Entry came to rely on ritual and symbolism. According to Neil Murphy, a carefully choreographed set of festivities made sure that everyone understood their place and their relationship with the new regime.

First, a king (Like John II of France in the image below) or a member of the royal family would approach the city with a large procession to demonstrate his power.

A crowd would have assembled outside to greet him, as we can see in this depiction of Don Juan of Austria — the Holy Roman Emperor’s son — entering Brussels:

Sometimes, the king would have conquered the city, in which case the citizens might kneel and beg for mercy:

But in most cases, leaders, like this Milanese dignitaries bowing to Archduchess Margaret of Austria, would pay their respects in a less desperate way:

The royal visitor would also show respect to the citizens of the city. A king or queen might kneel before the city walls and swear to uphold the town’s traditional municipal liberties.

The arrival of royals also provided the local elites with an opportunity to sort out their own hierarchy. Before the big day, people like those in the image above would have carefully figured out a pecking order. Those who were allowed to talk to the visiting dignitaries were establishing themselves as important people in the city; a few minutes of the monarch’s attention legitimized their position in the urban hierarchy.

Even though James tried to avoid it, the Joyous Entry was, then, an opportunity for every local gasbag to try to make a speech to the king; one can imagine the tedium as each one of them climbed up on the stage and tried to outdo the others with purple prose and symbolic gifts.

The local gentry weren’t the only people who turned out for the king. Sometimes, the monarch would be greeted by criminals in chains. He would then declare that these prisoners could go free, and their shackles would be dramatically removed. Often, the pardons were for ordinary criminals who had served enough of their sentences; sometimes, the pardons were more political as the king showed mercy to people who had backed a rival for the throne or forgave a city its debts to the crown.

These mass pardons were meant to demonstrate the magnanimity and generosity of the king, although they occasionally caused tension. It turned out that locals didn’t always want criminals freed and tried to talk the monarchs out of these acts of generosity.

In the earliest years of the tradition, the Joyous Entry was often a legitimately tense affair. Monarchs would approach a city not knowing exactly how they would be received, and there would be a real negotiation outside the city walls before they were allowed inside.

But as time went on, these events became more scripted and ritualistic, more an expression of royal power than anything else. This change went hand in hand with the desire of monarchs to outdo one another with the spectacle of their entries. Even in the 1500s, things had started to escalate. Henry II entered Lyon in a floating castle:

And had naked men stage a mock battle between Brazilian allies of the French and their enemies in Rouen:

The arrival of Archduke Ernest in Antwerp featured some serious pyrotechnics:

And Henry IV of France got hold of some elephants:

The processions got bigger, as when Maria Therese entered Paris:

And the structures got more elaborate, with triumphal arches everywhere:

Sometimes, Joyous Entries were not all that joyous. In 1583, Francis, the Duke of Anjou and son of Henry II, decided that he needed to occupy Antwerp to shore up his authority in the Netherlands. The citizens of Antwerp — who had lived through a Spanish sacking of their city just seven years before — were not about to take this lying down.

Francis tried to disguise his attempt at conquest as a Royal Entry. It was a grand scene, and at first appeared to be going quite well. But as soon as Francis and his soldiers were inside the city walls, the city guard shut the gates and trapped them in the streets. People threw everything they had — rocks, metal, wood — at the French army, and the local militia opened fire from close range. It was a bloodbath:

Francis managed to escape with a few of his men. His failure to conquer Antwerp was commemorated in this painting. Here, the “Dutch Cow” attracts the attention of several European dignitaries. Queen Elizabeth tries to feed it, and King Philip of Spain struggles to ride it. Francis brings up the rear, splattered by the cow’s manure:

After peaking in the 1600s, the Joyous Entry began to decline in its splendor. In Protestant areas, its lavishness clashed with local values, and the ideas of the Enlightenment made it seem rather tacky. The nature of monarchy had changed, as well. In absolutist countries, there was little need for local urban charters or the reaffirmation of relationships after every change in leadership.

So the Joyous Entry slowly faded away, a relic of a bygone age. The rituals had done their work; it no longer seemed necessary for kings to ask for the loyalty of their subjects, and rulers preferred to maintain the mystique that came with remoteness. I wonder if it’s a coincidence that the decline of the Joyous Entry was followed by challenges to monarchies across Europe. Perhaps it was more important for people to see the king up close and watch him at least go through the ritual of asking for their city’s loyalty than it seemed in King James’ time.

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