Long story short

At the very peak of the Protestant Reformation campaign to trash the great classics of antiquity as works of heretical paganism deadly to the fragile Christian soul, comes this 12-year-old aristocrat, his mind stuffed by his tutor with the works of the ancient Greek and Roman poets and playwrights. Finding himself sidelined as a living relic of what had once been his nation’s ruling class, the human bearer of a priceless title with no more role to play than to behave himself; he sees how, in a sort of “may game,” the magic of Print could free a poet, “tongue-tied by authority,” to hide behind rows of unidentifiable little black marks on paper. Taking advantage of the money-lending opportunities available to one of his rank, opportunities denied to less privileged poets, sensing that the printing press may offer a different kind of power than the sort that was driving the nation’s monarch and her ministers, he ventures, under cover of the anonymity provided by Print, to try a handful of his own literary experiments in the public market.

By creating plays for the young choristers at Paul’s Cathedral––once central to the Catholic religion, now something of a local community center and employment bureau––he enjoys himself by helping the boys, most of them his own age or younger, to support themselves by providing them and their grateful Choir Master with revisions of old plays left over from the days when young King Henry VIII was in a playful mood. When these become popular with the Queen and her ladies, he moves on to entertaining her Court over the winter holidays with concerts and full length plays.

When what he writes for the Court escapes to a public starved for pleasure by the grim tenets of the sin-obsessed State religion, he experiences a thrill far greater than the cautious response he gets from his nervous Court audiences, the age-old “smell of the grease paint and roar of the crowd” that grips all theater folk. Irresistable to a lonely soul, denied from birth by his rank the give and take of ordinary folk, he finds community and fellowship with the actors and musicians to whom and for whom he will devote himself from then on.

In his thirties, with the rise of a military threat to his nation from its enemies on the Continent, he’s enrolled by the current Secretary of State to arouse the patriotism of the coastal populations that will be England’s first line of defense against the coming attack, by dramatizing how it dealt with such attacks in the past. For the new touring company created chiefly for that purpose he writes plays that dramatize the heroism of Henry the Fifth and the various valiant––and not so valiant––commoners that once followed the noble young king to France. This, plus other tales of defiant heroism, were enacted with humor and the kind of rabble-rousing speeches that he and the Secretary hoped would reach the hearts of the young men in these distant public audiences. Thus was launched what would eventually become the great series of lessons that dramatized for a still illiterate public the history of their nation.

Misunderstood and repressed by the power-hungry ruling family into which he had been rather forcibly married, he reacts by satirizing them onstage. Over time this leads to a showdown from which, protected by the laughter-loving Queen, he emerges relatively safe from further harassment, but condemned to remain forever lost to history as the creator of the London Stage. Thus was born in the silence created by these powerful enemies, maintained for centuries by their descendants, the Fourth Estate of government, the very instrument that  has become what today we call The Media, the unofficial but only truly effective control on the autocratic impulses of Authority and the right of a free people to assemble in public.

His story––still almost as unknown as it has been for the past three hundred years––when taken together with that of his younger cousin (by marriage), the second-greatest genius of their time, how they, with the help of three other brilliant writer-thinkers, created the words written and spoken by half the world today, either as their first or second language. Theirs is a story that lies at the heart of today’s worlds of politics and literature, and it’s a pip! Hopefully, God willing and the creek don’t rise (any further than it has already) we’ll have it for you, the first half anyway, by the end of this year.

Stay tuned.

PS: After posting the above it struck me that, had the enemies of the London Stage––having stopped Christopher Marlowe from producing more plays like Tamburlaine or Massacre at Paris––been successful in their long ongoing efforts to prevent the author of Hamlet, Julius Caesar, Richard III and Richard II from performing and publishing these plays, would the American filmmakers and producers of the 1970s been moved to give America movies like Viva Zapata, On the Waterfront, All the President’s Men, or Three Days of the Condor?  

Courage inspires courage. Fear inspires fear.

“Tragical trifles . . . darkly figured forth”

In the 15th and 16th centuries, modern imaginative literature (poetry, novels and plays) errupted out of feudal darkness at the courts of European kings and princes, for nowhere else was there the leisure to create it or the literacy to enjoy it.  This is not to say that the uneducated and illiterate did not have a rich heritage of spoken and sung story and verse, one shared by educated and uneducated alike, it’s that it was not until the Renaissance that it was combined with the literatures of ancient Greece, Rome and the Middle East into elegant national literatures.

In England, however, because the Renaissance had been preempted by the Reformation, unlike the other nations of Europe, the Renaissance urge to write got so thoroughly and completelyforced undergroundby Calvinistic fears of Hell and the Devil that it took on a most peculiar appearance. This didn’t mean that nothing got published (though necesarily much was surpressed, particularly the works of Catholic poets). What it meant was that the process of getting it published forced it to assume an obscure and defensive posture, pretending to be something it wasn’t, and seemingly written by persons who apparently had nothing to lose, or who were utterly unknown at Court or anywhere in London.

There was a lot more hiding going on in 16th-century English literature than just the hiding of Shakespeare’s identity. In fact, it might be stated without fear of exaggeration that the entire canon of early modern English literature was one long exercise in hiding––authors, central figures, publishers, patrons, some printers, dates of publication, and most of all, messages, for the Reformation didn’t like the kind of messages that were emerging from the push for intellectual freedom that was the English response to the Italian Renaissance. If the message was too obviously Catholic, too ornate, too passionate, too sexy, too ironic, too satirical, they wanted it toned down or better, squashed. As we puzzle out the truth about these early works, we need to keep this in mind.

For instance, take the tag “No less pleasant than profitable”found in one form or another on almost every work of imagination published between 1540 and 1640. What on earth does that mean? If it’s got you puzzled, you aren’t alone. What it seems to be saying is that what you are about to read is just as pleasant as it is profitable, so why not say that? Instead it says the opposite, as though the publisher is providing some tiresome instruction, promising to make it as enjoyable as possible: not exactly an enthusiastic message. In other words, it looks like a promotion, it sounds like a promotion, but it doesn’t really promote.

Titles can be just as confusing. According to one academic, “Whether the title had an immediate or remote reference to the subject-matter does not appear to have been considered material, or, in fact, whether it had reference to anything at all in particular.” He’s right about the title, but this isn’t true of this or similar tags, which did have a meaning, however obscure to present day literary historians. The message it conveyed to the silent seekers of a particular kind of writing was that this was a work of imaginative literature,a poem, story, or later, a play, as opposed to a scientific tract or religious sermon, works that apparently were safe from the Devil.

It’s said that during this time, the Jesuits were training their missionaries in a sort of double-speak known as equivocation, so that if grilled by the Protestants in northern Europe or the Inquisition in Italy and Spain, they could find ways of answering without either lying under oath or condemning themselves. Many in those days believed the fate of their souls was bound up with what answers they gave under oath: if they lied to the Inquisition they’d get burnt at the stake; if to God, they’d still get burnt, only later, perhaps for all eternity. Equivocation was simply a more serious form of the kind of wordsmithery that was the intellectual bread and wine for these early Reformation/Renaissance writers.

Where did it come from?

Usually it was not the author but the bookseller or publisher who composed a book’s title page and front matter. His primary objective, of course, was first to get it past the censor, and second to sell as many copies as possible as quickly as possible. Over time, much experimenting would lead to a formula that worked. A tag like “No less pleasant than profitable” met the Reformation requirement that everything, even joke books, had better advertise itself as having a serious purpose or it was in danger of getting a closer look and possibly rejected. So for the publishers of the 1590s, t’were best to take the easy way––give the work a confusing name, then use the front matter to distract the censor from taking too great an interest in the content.

While some could withstand such an examination, many, in particular those that “darkly figured forth” real persons and politics, could not. And that there was a growing audience that fed on such works is evident from the complaints by writers of attempts to read into their innocent tales personal and political comments that were simply not there. Among those who complained the loudest was Thomas Nashe, the worst offender of all, whose complaints have to be taken with the same grain of salt required for almost everything he wrote.

Human nature being much the same in every age, by the 1590s, when publishing had become a commercial industry generating a considerable volume of submitted manuscripts needing to be read by the censors, what could be more likely than when the stack got too high, the junior official in charge of weeding out problematic submissions was likely to give each a quick once-over, initial and return it to the publishers, only holding out for a closer look the one or two that were likely to cause real trouble. Thus by the 1590s, publishers would have been well aware that so long as the title page, introduction and first few pages looked kosher, a book had every chance of getting past the censor. Those who enjoyed these works were unlikely to blow any whistles, unless the material got so raw they they feared for their souls, or more likely were offended by satires about themselves or their friends. Some such scenario is undoubtedly behind Stephen Gosson’sattacks on the playwrights of Bishopsgate following the first rash of plays for the Children of the Chapell, the Queens Men, and Paul’s Boys in the early 1580s.

Profit or pleasure?

That nothing during this era was ever published purely for entertainment, but all must be utilitarian (even the most lascivious and violent, for these claimed to teach readers what to avoid) can be found in everything from the title page to the preface by the printer, to the introduction and poems by the author and his friends, to the dedication to some important figure and the various complimentary letters to the author, all meant to be taken as guarantees of the book’s legitimacy. Take it as a given, the more questionable the work, the more equivocal the introductory material, and more likely that the names and dates on the title page are less than 100 percent trustworthy. Efforts to obscure the real nature of a work are most elaborate in the early years, as we see in this excerpt from the “Letter to the Reader” that introduces Brooke’s Romeus and Juliet:

The glorious triumph of the continent man upon the lusts of wanton flesh, encourageth men to honest restraint of wild affections; the shameful and wretched ends of such as have yielded their liberty thrall to foul desires teach men to withhold themselves from the headlong fall of loose dishonesty.  So, to like effect, by sundry means the good man’s example biddeth men to be good, and the evil man’s mischief warneth men not to be evil. . . .  And to this end, good Reader, is this tragical matter written, to describe unto thee a couple of unfortunate lovers, thralling themselves to unhonest desire; neglecting the authority and advice of parents and friends; conferring their principal counsels with drunken gossips and superstitious friars (the naturally fit instruments of unchastity); attempting all adventures of peril for th’attaining of their wished lust; using auricular confession, the key of whoredom and treason, for furtherance of their purpose; abusing the honourable name of lawful marriage to cloak the shame of stolen contracts; finally by all means of unhonest life hasting to most unhappy death. This precedent, good Reader, shall be to thee, as the slaves of Lacedemon, oppressed with excess of drink, deformed and altered from likeness of men both in mind and use of body, were to the free-born children, so showed to them by their parents, to th’intent to raise in them in hateful loathing of so filthy beastliness. Hereunto, if you apply it, ye shall deliver my doing from offence and profit yourselves.

Whoever wrote this preface either had no idea what Brooke’s long narrative poem was really about, or was deliberately describing it in totally opposite terms. Rather than “thralling themselves to unhonest desire,” the love Romeus feels for Juliet is portrayed as a natural force over which neither the boy himself nor the Friar’s advice have any power. As for the Friar, not only is he not “superstitious” or a “naturally fit instrument of unchastity,” he is loving and wise, a genuine spiritual counselor, whom the poet describes as “beloved well, and honoured much of all.” Nor is there any “loathing of filthy beastliness” in his description of the young lovers’ wedding night, nor moral drawn against their desire for each other.  Instead the poet admits:

I grant that I envy the bliss they livéd in;
Oh that I might have found the like, I wish it for no sin,
But that I might as well with pen their joys depaint . . . . .

If Cupid, god of love, be god of pleasant sport,
I think, O Romeus, Mars himself envies thy happy sort.
Ne Venus justly might, as I suppose, repent,
If in thy stead, O Juliet, this pleasant time she spent.

The only possible reason for such a dishonest preface is that the publisher wrote it, or had it written, to distract the censor. Published in the early 1560s, when such works were still only a trickle, the same scenario continues to play out on title pages and in introductory material in almost every work of the imagination published throughout the Elizabethan and Jacobean era. As the trickle becomes a flood, these red herrings get briefer and more mechanical, but at the same time more cleverly worded.

Finally the constant reference to poetry or any sort of fiction as a frivolity appropriate only for young men before the serious matters of adult life banished such timewasters from their minds, was a judgement heard not only from conservative Reformers and older members of society but also from the poets and storytellers themselves, who were ever wont to apologize for what they invariably describe as “childish toys” written merely to pass the time, things not to be taken seriously by readers or authorities.

The Big Five

That the dominant force driving this revolution was led by five of the nation’s premiere aristocrats should not surprise us since lesser beings would not have had the protection of their status to keep them from being silenced at the outset, or murdered like the commoner Christopher Marlowe. That, in addition, Fate had arranged it so that the leader of this group was the ward of the Court official who was the primary enforcer of the English Reformation, or that his son was the man who later led the movement to destroy this leader’s fledgling literary establishment was said leader’s own brother-in-law, is one of those things that turns history into drama, or will once the story reaches readers who genuinely care about both History and Literature.

As peers these authors could not be punished without damage to the nation’s internal harmony, already strained to the breaking point over the changes in religion. That some of them needed, or at least badly wanted, posts at Court that not only gave them prestige abroad, but a voice in their government at home, made their preoccupation with literature a genuine sacrifice. Some, like Francis Bacon and Philip Sidney, badly needed the income. All this was denied them. In her standoff with her Protestant bishops, knights and rooks, the Queen, it seems, was powerless to defend or promote the pawns, the playwrights and composers who created her much needed “solace.” At least she always did what she could to see to it that they didn’t starve.

The weakness of their position may be one of the reasons Raleigh did not take literature as seriously as did Oxford, Sidney or Bacon, at least not until he ended up in the Tower and had nothing else to do. Bacon, raised in luxury at York House, only feltpoor, but like anyone who had ever served in the military, Raleigh had known real poverty. During the mid-80s while he was still revelling in the Queen’s favor, Sir Walter must have been aghast to see what Marlowe was doing to himself. (I can’t help but love Raleigh, perhaps because the historians hate him almost as much as they hate Oxford.)

By revealing the real Shakespeare, who he was, how he got his name, why his identity was hidden, we are revealing, not just the gifted, flawed, real human being who put pen to paper, but the nature of an entire era, and in many ways, the exciting truth about its history. To get a bit mystical for a moment: Hamlet is Shakespeare the Poet (his poem to Ophelia), the Court’s artistic director (his speech to the players), whose place in Celtic times had been that of Bard, poet priest and shaman King. His forbears murdered, he himself must turn to drama––“the play’s the thing”; equivocation: “now Hamlet, where’s Polonius?” “Not where he eats, but where he is eaten”; and underhanded tactics: Rosencrantz and Guildenstern “hoist by their own petard”––merely to survive. After 400 years of burnt toast, where’s the harm in taking this operatic scenario for the banquet it provides?

The schools have done us no favors by separating the English Department from the History Department. A nation’s literature is the soul of its history, its heart. With its literature cut off and separated from its history, that history withers into a lifeless list of names and dates. In Moliere’s Tartuffeis told the real story of the 16th- to 18th-century French bourgeois merchant class bamboozled by sanctimonious Jansenist (Puritan) posturing. In Cervantes’s Don Quixoteis the excruciatingly tragic and funny story of 16th-century Spain’s self-defeating romance with feudal chivalry.

Works like these need to be taught along with the history of their times, for separated, both lose nine-tenths of their life and their meaning.



Source of the name Shakespeare

Here’s a chapter from the forthcoming first part of Shakespeare and the London Stage:

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Among the many facts that the Academy fails to note about Shakespeare are two that should be perfectly obvious: first, that the name Shakespeare is not now and never was a typical English name, and second, that the man Shakespeare was, first and foremost, a poet, so that if spear can be seen as a poetic meme for pen, it describes his role as a playwright, that is, by shaking his pen he fills the stage with spears, i.e., actors in costume. If this seems far-fetched, it would not have seemed so to the rhymers for whom the Bard provided the wordplay that Dr. Johnson referred to as quibbles, for the love of which, as he churlishly argued, the Bard was willing to sell his soul. That the name Shakespeareis just such a “quibble” is a fact of considerable importance, if seen through the perspective of the double lens of English History and English Literature.

The multitude of spellings

Perhaps the most obvious issue for anyone researhing the name Shakespeare is the trouble the scriveners of the sixteenth century had with spelling it. Admittedly, spellings were all over the place then, but with a name like Brown, where an might be added at the end, or Smith, where the i might be replaced with a y, nothing comes close to the 83 different versions of the name as it was spelled by English clerks from 1562 through 1635, as detailed by E.K. Chambers in Volume II of his William Shakespeare: A Study of Facts and Problems (1929).

Beginning in 1248 with a William Sakspere, hanged in Gloucestershire for robbery, the name, though never numerous, pops up here and there all over England, but predominantly in Warwickshire, where Stratford is located. Among these, the version of the name the Lord Chamberlain’s Men put on his published plays appears  along with the more common Shaksperes or Shackspeers, and other variations such as Schakespere, Schackspere, Schackespeire, Shaxespere, Shakyspear, Shakysspere, Saxper, Chacsper, Shakisspere, etcetera. Long story short, the version used by the Lord Chamberlain’s Men was not unique, but it did not predominate until they popularized it by putting it on a handful of his plays, beginning in 1598 with Richard III and Richard II. Yet even as late as 1605, a scribe reporting on plays performed for King James over that year’s winter holidays spelled it Shaxberd.

Totally focussed on how many times it had occured and how many different ways it had been spelled, Chambers never thinks to ask why this variety? Common sense would suggest that the name was not easy to pronounce, that such wildly divergent spellings reflect problems with pronunciation, which suggests that it began as something  unfamiliar to the English ear.

1066 and all that

English names from the Elizabethan period were primarily derived from one of two languages brought to England over the centuries by continental invaders. The original British Celts having been driven by various invaders to Devon, Cornwall, Scotland and Ireland, by the sixteenth century the language spoken by the rest of England was predominately Anglo-Saxon, the most determined of the early invader-settlers. Also known as Old English, it gave the language the germanic root words it bears to this day. The other source was Norman French, imposed on the Saxon population by the invasion of William the Bastard, an aristocratic knight from Normandy, out to carve a domain for himself and his followers on the other side of the English Channel.

Saxon names often refer to a geographic feature, a hill, field, lake or wooded area; to a trade like Smith, Miller, or Carter; or to a father, like Thomson, Johnson, or Wilson. Since Shakespeare is certainly not a place, a trade, or a patronym, Norman French is the most likely source. The name of Shakespeare’s great literary predecessor, the poet Geoffrey Chaucer, is the English version of the French word for shoemaker, chausseur.

By the sixteenth century, many of the original French names had been “Englished” to a point where their origin can’t be deciphered, but Shakespeare is easy. Since Sh in English sounds almost exactly like how the French pronounce as in “je suis jolie” (I am pretty) or Jean (John), if pronounced Shackspeare, the name sounds like the way the French pronounce Jacques-Pierre, the kind of double name that French Catholics still give their offspring, two saints’s names linked by a hyphen, as with the actor Jean-Pierre Aumont or the filmmaker Jean-Luc Goddard.Thus it would seem that Shakespeare began, not as a surname, but as a first, or given, name, only becoming a surname later as with names like William Peters or Peter Williams.

By the Tudor era, most members of the upper levels of the English aristocracy were descended from French nobles who had come over with the Conqueror, a fact reflected in anglicized names like Seymour, the family name of the Duke of Somerset, originally St. Maur, or Devereux, the family name of the Earl of Essex, Queen Elizabeth’s favorite, from the Conqueror’s friend “Robair” d’Evreux. That Shakespeare derived from a first or given name suggests someone of a less elevated status, a serf or bond slave, a member of the “Jacquerie” that did without surnames.

Shack vs. Shake

By the 1590s the name Jacques-Pierre had long since  been anglicized into something easier to say in English––exactly what we can’t know for certain, but the spellings left us by the clerks and scribes of Stratford offer some suggestions . And as Dr. Ewan Johnson, research associate at Lancaster University in Lancashire, whose area of study includes the “Norman diaspora,” has affirmed (via email), Stratford was located well within the area settled by the Norman French in and after 1066. He also affirms that: “large numbers of servants and tradespeople accompanied the Normans,” and that, not surprisingly, their “assimilation is a matter of yet unresolved debate.” Thus William’s ancestor would have been one of the 8000 French immigrants that, according to Wikipedia, accompanied the conquering Norman nobility during and after 1066.

Chambers notes that of the 83 different spellings of Shakespeare, those that begin with “Shack, Schak, Shax, are nearly as common as those [that begin with] Shake . . .” (372). Although the pronunciation of vowels has changed considerably since the sixteenth century, as the OED shows clearly in its treatment of two simpler words, back and bake, both derived from Old English, that their pronunciation is indicated by the fact that they were always spelled then, as today, with ack for back and ake for bake. So if, as we surmise, the name Shakespeare originated with the French Jacques-Pierre, it would make sense that in Stratford, and the rest of England, for those who knew the name from hearing it spoken (not from reading it), the first syllable would have been universally pronounced Shack. What then of the spellings that appear to begin with Shake?

As usual, the Devil is in the details, in this case, the number of syllables. If we consider the possibility that spellings like Shakespeare may reflect its pronunciation, not as the two-syllable Shake-speer of today, but as a three-syllable word, Sha-kes-peer, suggested by spellings like Shakespeyr, Schakespeire, Shakesspere, Shakisspere and others listed by Chambers on page 371. Were there only one or two of these they could be considered anomalies; numerous as they are they must be taken as genuine efforts to capture how the name was pronounced.

Some spellings may suggest where a scribe copied the French name from an earlier document. Unaccustomed to the French habit of glossing or ignoring final consonants (unless followed by a word beginning with a vowel), he could well have attempted to transcribe what appeared to be the final syllable of Jac-ques, into kes or kiss. As for the final syllable, the fact that several of the variations reported by Chambers end, not with pear, peer, or pier, but pyeer or pyere, suggests Pierre.

Shake-speare the pun

But here’s where the issue of Shake vs. Shack gets hot. If William’s name was chosen by the Lord Chamberlain’s Men as a much needed cover for the real author because it could be understood (and accepted) by the literati as a conundrum––in modern terms, a pun that equates a shaking spear to a pen––then the name would have to be pronounced Shake-spearenot Shack-speare. But if, as we’ve argued, the name was an anglicization of Jacques-Pierrethen wherever it had taken hold around the nation, it would often, perhaps always, be heard as Shacks-pair, Shacks-pyair, or even Shack-ess-pyair.

To ensure that the all-important name begin with Shake, someone clever, if not the Poet himself then another wordsmith––someone with experience publishing cheap paper pamphlets (which is how the plays first emerged into print) who saw that by placing a hyphen between the and the and thus turning what may have been a three-syllable word into the two-syllable Shake-speare, the actors and their patrons could be fairly certain that the public would come to pronounce the playwright’s name with the pun Shake-spear.

That the first two plays to display the name used hyphenation in this way ensured that it would be Shake-speare that would be spread to the unlettered public audience. Thus the image of a shaking spear would be immediately grasped by the groundlings who themselves were clever at confusing outsiders and authorities with hiding the subject of their conversation by rhyming it with the last word in a short phrase, what today we term “Cockney rhyming slang”––as in “trouble and strife,” or just trouble, for wife––as in “bread and honey,” or just bread for money. Wordplay of this sort was endemic to the English, who spread it abroad along with the language itself.

Here’s where the hyphen comes in. When the name William Shake-speare first appeared in print on the title pages of Richard III and Richard II in 1598, the insertion of a hyphen divided it into two syllables, the first spelled with the ake as in bake (not ack as in back) as the verb, and the final syllable as the object of the verb. As such, the name becomes a sentence with a verb and an object, and as such it conjures up the image of someone shaking a spear. When the name William is added it identifies the man shaking the spear as someone named Will (Will I am). Will is not only a man’s nickname, it’s a powerful term for the determination to act: as in “will vs. won’t”; as in “will I nill I,” (willy-nilly); as in a man’s  “last will and testament.” As Willy it’s also a slang term for the vital male organ that at times can seem to have a will of its own.

Such a word would have held tremendous value for the poet/playwright and the actors who depended on him for their livelihoods, which depended on communicating to that portion of their audience who lived by such undefined rules, the need to leave well enough alone in a political climate that clamored for the destruction of what by then had become so precious to them, their public theaters. That the ploy worked is evident from the fact that the London Stage continued to survive through the reigns of both Elizabeth and James, despite the best efforts of its political enemies and the Protestant evangelicals to “pluck it down.”

“Let the cobbler stick to his last.”

Efforts by orthodox theorist David Kathman to prove William’s authorship by referencing Chambers, is yet another example of the kind of circular reasoning to which we’ve becomed accustomed. One can only wonder how Kathman dares to claim that “Shakespeare was by far the most common spelling of the name in both literary and non-literary contexts” in the face of Chambers’s evidence for the of wild variety of nonliterary spellings. When he states that “there is no evidence that the variant spellings reflected a consistent pronunciation difference, but there is considerable evidence that they were seen as more or less interchangeable,” which pronunciation does he mean, Shake or Shack? When he states that “there is no evidence whatsoever that hyphenation in Elizabethan times was ever thought to indicate a pseudonym,” what about Martin Mar-prelate (as found in the tract from 1589, “The Just Censure and Reproof of Martin Junior” (online at anglicanlibrary.org) or Cuthbert Curry-knave, “author” of the anti-Martin pamphlet “An Almond for a Parrat” (1590). As for the fact that “proper names of real people were also sometimes hyphenated,” how does that eliminate other possible uses?

Kathman’s a financial systems analyst; he’s not a poet. While the two are not totally incompatible, Kathman is no T.S. Eliot (who made his living by working in a bank). How helpful it would be if someone with his talents would tackle questions like whether it was Lord Treasurer Burghley who first turned England’s green and pleasant land into an early bastion of capitalism––or not.

NB: Sigmund Freud, creator of the science of Psychology, who loved Shakespeare above all other writers and based some of his theories on the behavior of Hamlet, came to the same conclusion about the source of the name as an anglicization of the French Jacques-Pierre, an opinion he shared with several of his correspondents (Norman Holland “Freud on Shakespeare” (1960), p 164; who quotes Ernest Jones, The Life and Work of Sigmund Freud.

Is Mark Twain Dead?

Recently the Shakespeare Oxford Fellowship held their annual conference at the Mark Twain Center in Hartford Connecticut, a modern adjunct to what had been the great humorist’s home for many years. Mark Twain is revered among Authorship Questioners for two things, first, the fact that he published under a pen name, if not a pun like ShakeSpear, then the next thing to it, since “Mark Twain” was the call he would make during his early years as a cub-pilot on a steamboat on the Mississippi River, to let the captain know that the water they were heading into was deep enough to proceed. The second thing for which Oxfordians must revere him is his essay on the Authorship Question, “Is Shakespeare Dead?”

Having just survived the days-long agony of watching our national government in crisis, something that might be titled “Is Democracy Dead?”––it seems fitting to share some high points from Twain’s long essay, both as a reference to the centuries it’s taking to get the truth out about who actually wrote the Shakespeare canon, and the even longer time that its taken humanity in its often backsliding efforts to rise from the purely animal level to something a little less brutal.

When we find ourselves at a painful juncture of some sort, it can help to consider how far we’ve actually come. Here’s some of what Twain had to say about the infamous Bust on the wall of the church in Stratford:

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“Am I trying to convince anybody that Shakespeare did not write Shakespeare’s Works? Ah, now, what do you take me for? Would I be so soft as that, after having known the human race familiarly for nearly seventy-four years? It would grieve me to know that any one could think so injuriously of me, so uncomplimentarily, so unadmiringly of me. No, no, I am aware that when even the brightest mind in our world has been trained up from childhood in a superstition of any kind, it will never be possible for that mind, in its maturity, to examine sincerely, dispassionately, and conscientiously any evidence or any circumstance which shall seem to cast a doubt upon the validity of that superstition. . . . whenever we have been furnished a fetish, and have been taught to believe in it, and love it and worship it, and refrain from examining it, there is no evidence, howsoever clear and strong, that can persuade us to withdraw from it our loyalty and our devotion. . . .

“I haven’t any idea that Shakespeare will have to vacate his pedestal this side of the year 2209. . . ; it is a very slow process. It took several thousand years to convince our fine race––including every splendid intellect in it––that there is no such thing as a witch; it has taken several thousand years to convince the same fine race––including every splendid intellect in it––that there is no such person as Satan; it has taken several centuries to remove perdition from the Protestant Church’s program of post-mortem entertainments; it has taken a weary long time to persuade American Presbyterians to give up infant damnation and try to bear it the best they can; and it looks as if their Scotch brethren will still be burning babies in the everlasting fires when Shakespeare comes down from his perch.

“We are The Reasoning Race. . . . when we find a vague file of chipmunk-tracks stringing through the dust of Stratford village, we know by our reasoning powers that Hercules has been along there. I feel that our fetish is safe for three centuries yet. The bust, too––there in the Stratford Church. The precious bust, the priceless bust, the calm bust, the serene bust, the emotionless bust, with the dandy mustache, and the putty face, unseamed of care––that face which has looked passionlessly down upon the awed pilgrim for a hundred and fifty years and will still look down upon the awed pilgrim three hundred more, with the deep, deep, deep, subtle, subtle, subtle expression of a bladder.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Said the great ShakeSpear, “I will find where truth is hid, though it were hid indeed within the center,” a bit of wisdom which, in the great one’s ironic way he gave the very character who most personifies the enemies that, as he was painfully aware, would continue to hide his own truth until some Horatio “things standing thus unknown” would “draw his breath in pain” to clear his “wounded name.”

These things take time. It may be that the length of time they take is a rather accurate measure of how important they are.

The deadly little comma

The story of Shakespeare’s Coat of Arms is one of those things that demonstrates the power of small things, easily overlooked, that can trigger long lasting effects. As the old verse has it, “For want of a nail the shoe was lost, for want of the shoe the horse was lost, for want of the horse the rider was lost, for want of the rider the battle was lost, for want of the battle the kingdom was lost, and all for the want of a horseshoe nail.”

The “horseshoe nail” in this case is a comma, small but deadly, that lies at the heart of one of the few incidents history allows us to see into the life of William of Stratford, and equally important, into the nature of the times he lived in. Misinterpreted on purpose by the mythmakers bent on selling him as the magical playwright who conjured  up the language we speak out of nothing, that comma is a valuable little key to the truth.

In late October of 1596, just months after the Shakespeare name first appeared in a record touching the London Stage (March 15, 1595), William, it seems, took the arduous three-day journey by horseback from Stratford to London to see about getting the Coat of Arms that his father had applied for twenty years earlier, but never got.

The Coat of Arms

At stake was an image that provided visual evidence of the socio-political status of its bearer. Through a language of patterns and images that had developed over the centuries since the Crusades, it was a much coveted proof of virtue. As the shields once held by knights in armor gave way to modern battlefield tactics, their designs remained. In Queen Elizabeth’s time the physical shield continued as an element in the dangerous sport known as the tilts, or the tourney, where jousters needed it to protect themselves from the impact of their opponent’s lance. But while the shield itself diminished in importance, their designs migrated to doors, flags, entrances to courtyards, stationery, etc..

The images displayed on a genuine Coat of Arms were generally divided into sections known as “quarterings.” These consisted of recognizable elements from the badges of the great families whose symbols the bearer had the right to show because he was related to them either by direct descent or marriage. The Coat of Arms of a prince consisted of many such quarterings, as was true of that created for Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey. A poet, Howard was the author of sonnets in a style later adopted by his younger cousin, the 17th Earl of Oxford.  Shortly before King Henry’s death, Surrey was accused of treason by the crazy old king and executed for having “quartered” on his badge an image that his enemies had convinced the paranoid old autocrat that Surrey was intending to make himself King once Henry was gone. While history blames the King for overreaching, Surrey may well have been guilty of doing just that. After four decades of Henry’s reckless cruelty, the nation was weary of the greedy, sick old king and his sycophants, and so may well have been hoping for just such a leader.

Non, sanz Droict

With the King’s death, power shifted to the men Henry deemed worthy of running the nation for the nine years that his little son would be too young to rule, an exceedingly corrupt crew that had hung on during Henry’s last years in hopes of reaping a bounty of offices, lands and titles. The corruption that saw them creating dukedoms and earldoms for themselves as soon as the King was dead spread to the College of Arms, where the chief Herald, an intemperate Henry appointee named Gilbert Dethick, offered no resistence to their claims. Followed in 1586 by his rascally son William Dethick, it seems clear from the record that by 1596, when William of Stratford was seeking the Coat of Arms that his father had been denied by the older Dethick, Dethick Jr. was selling Coats of Arms at exorbitant rates to a whole slew of  ambitious commoners.

Dethick was supposed to share his authority with heralds from other areas of England. In 1602, the York Herald, outraged by Dethick’s malfeasance, demanded that a number of the designs he’d passed be thrown out as “without right,” among them the one William had obtained for his father. While William’s biographers acknowledge this, they fail to account for the obvious fact that no authority at the time put any stock in his father’s Coat of Arms. It’s far too important for the Stratford defenders as the sole piece of evidence for the genteel middle class hero of biographical fantasies like Greenblat’s Will in the World (2004) or Shapiro’s A Year in the Life (2005).

The two ink sketches on paper that remain in the possession of the College of Arms as evidence of the Shakespeare transactions both contain, in the upper left corner, the words “Non sanz Droict,” Law French for “Not without right,” or so we’re told. On the earlier sketch, the phrase appears three times, first as “Non, sanz Droict,” then, just under it, without the comma,“Non sanz Droict.” This line was erased either soon after or later, by having a single line marked through it. Finally, written at some distance from these in big capital letters, is written “NON SANZ DROICT.” On the later of the two draft papers, the only phrase in the upper left corner is simply “Non sanz Droict.” Someone, it could only be Dethick, had reversed the earlier decision, which, WITH the comma, quite obviously meant “No,” the Shakespeare application was “without right.”

What should we make of this?

If nothing else we should take seriously the only thing that changed from one version of what’s been taken as a title to another, the presence then disappearance of the comma. Why? Because its disappearance changes the meaning of the phrase! As an application for legal acceptance by the Herald, the upper left corner of the draft, just above the sketch of the proposed shield, was clearly meant for the Herald’s decision as to whether or not the credentials as described in the rest of the draft gave the applicant the right to a Coat of Arms.

The original sketch, as drawn on both the surviving drafts, is not inspiring of confidence, consisting as it does of a single element, the spear, clearly a pun on the applicant’s name. The spear appears twice, once on the shield and once grasped by a “falcon” who stands on one leg on the shield. No other elements are present on the original sketch, although over time the advocates of William as a literary genius would add, first a helmet, a favorite item, originally referring to military service by an ancestor but by then simply a flourish, then a variety of other flourishes, increasinover time, but only seen on the monument. As William’s biographers are forced to admit, the Shakspere family seems to have had little use for it. The barren design, plus John’s weak credentials, a distant connection to the Arden family through his marriage and an ancestor’s brief military service under Henry VII, are strong evidence for what to an unprejudiced observer were clearly grounds for the earlier rejection.

Turning the sow’s ear into a silk purse

William’s biographers explain the fact that John Shakspere did not get the Coat of Arms twenty years earlier because it cost too much. While it’s certain that John’s request must have been made before whatever caused him to begin selling off the land he had acquired up to then, there’s no evidence for exactly when it was made; all the paper from 1596 says is “xx years earlier,” roughly twenty years, and since the fact that as the paper asserts, twenty years earlier he had been the leading official in Stratford, its Bailiff, a sort of super Mayor, by 1596, when his son felt the urge to reapply, John Shakspere had been out of office for many years.  Perhaps there was some pressure from on high, patrons of the royal company, the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, who needed William’s name to protect the true author and his friends at Court.

The truth lies in that deadly little comma, the one that separates the “Non” from the “sanz Droict” on the earlier paper. To anyone but a dedicated Stratford defender, the phrase, written twenty years or so earlier was the determination of the current Rouge Croix Pursuivant as to whether or not the humble application should be accepted. By “Non, sanz Droict,” obviously he meant “No,” the applicant did not have the necessary credentials for a Coat of Arms, and thus he was “sanz Droict,” i.e., “without Right.” This, of course, was the reason why John came away from the College of Arms empty handed, not because, as the academics would have it,  he couldn’t afford the fee.  (The word sans, French for without, had long been adopted by the English as we see in Jacques’s  “Seven Ages of Man” speech in As You Like It, the description of a man in the final stage of life as a dotard “sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.”)

The line written right after “Non, sanz Droict,” apparently in the same hand, the one that he or another clerk erased with a strikethrough, must have something to do with the need to change the meaning of the comment by eliminating the comma, for that is the only difference between the two lines. The fact that it was then written large in capitals in the center of the page suggests that whoever had decided that John Shakspere was no longer “without right” wanted to make it very clear to anyone who saw it that the final verdict was acceptance.

The unbelievably ridiculous and totally idiotic motto

Exactly how the world was meant to take the strange phrase thus created is not clear.  Pitched a curve ball, William’s early biographers came up with was the notion that “Not without right” was “a family motto.” The absurdity of this ranks high amongst the many absurdities a complacent world has been asked to swallow with regard to the authorship question. No one, however ignorant or muddle-headed, would ever adopt as a motto a meaningless double negative like “Not without Right.” No academic has ever attempted to deconstruct it, doubtless because it is so meaningless that no deconstruction is possible.  Both modern literary historians, E.K. Chambers and Sam Schoenbaum, have been compelled to admit that the family appears never to have used it either then or later. Academics cling to it as a motto since they can think of nothing else to do with it.

Conjured up during a period when there were no newspapers and few people could read, who but antiquarians, courtiers, and later historians would have been aware of  this kafuffle within the College of Arms, and even had they known, who would have cared? Shakespeare’s connection to the ten or twelve anonymous plays that had turned London into the entertainment capital of the nation would not be made public for another two years, when his name suddenly appeared for the first time on two of London’s currently popular plays, Richard III and Richard II.

There’s more to be learned about this deadly little comma and its place in our story. Hopefully at some point someone who lives in or near London, maybe one of you, my dear readers, will be inspired to dig deeper than Malone, Halliwell-Phillipps, Chambers or Schoenbaum into the history of the College of Arms. What documents remain if any, how Shakespeare’s Coat of Arms compares with others from his and earlier times. The Authorship Question is compounded of dozens of such questions, many yet to be thoroughly explored in the English archives with a fair amount of ordinary common sense.

Here I am . . .

Oh, the wonders of modern technology! My lecture at the SOF Conference in October was one of those filmed by the conference team and put online on youtube.  If you’re interested in hearing me speak what I posted in text a few days ago, check it out when you get a free half hour. Those given by other authorship scholars are also available. Maybe this is how we’ll find our way past the barriers created by the Academy to reach an open-minded community of Shakespeare lovers.

Why is it taking so long for the Academy to deal with the Authorship Question?

The following is the substance of the lecture I gave recently at the Shakespeare Oxford Fellowship Conference in Hartford CT.

It’s so obvious that a man from William of Stratford’s background, that of an uneducated 16th-century wool dealer’s son from a town three days ride by horseback from England’s only theatrical city, simply COULD NOT have written the works of Shakespeare.  So why does the Academy lie about that?  Why have they continued to lie for centuries?

One thing is certain, to attack the English Department for its stupidity has been a waste of time.  It arrived too late in the Shakespeare game to do anything but keep on turning in tight little circles around the kind of issues that are all their peculiar brand of philology will allow. No, our problem is with the History Department. Until we understand that, and the unseen immensity of the question of his identity, we will never get anywhere.

Because while the English Departments care nothing about Oxford, or William, or any possible author, the History Department does care about him, because it hates him. It has hated the Earl of Oxford for centuries.  It sees him as a pampered brat who did nothing but waste his family inheritance and insult that kindly old gentleman, Lord Burghley. Alan Nelson is only the most recent in a long stream of historians who’ve been egregiously slamming Oxford for centuries.  Forty years before Nelson, sociologist Laurence Stone labelled Burghley’s wards “an antipathetic group of superfluous parasites” with Oxford “the greatest wastrel of them all.”

Part of this is the Earl’s own fault.  Following his return from Italy in 1576, he effectively disappears from history.  Focussed on building theaters and giving actors work, he did what he could to stay out of sight of the Reformation puritans and evangelicals whose passionate belief that making and watching plays was a slippery slope leading to eternal damnation.  Though his name pops up now and then in the Revels records and Court Calendar, these seem almost accidental, as if by a new clerk who didn’t yet know that the actors preferred to keep his involvement a secret.

None of this, however, goes anywhere near explaining why every biographer, journalist or novelist who has ever had cause to mention Oxford’s name in passing has paired it with some nasty pejorative, such as: “the obnoxious Earl of Oxford”; the “violent” Earl of Oxford; the “dissolute,” “feckless,” “atheistic,” “profligate,” “arrogant,” “supercilious,” “spoiled,” “pathologically selfish,” “ill-tempered,” “disagreeable” Earl of Oxford. To the early Stage historian C.W. Wallace he was a “swaggerer, roisterer, brawler.”  To Burghley’s biographer Conyers Read, he was “a cad,” “a renegade,” “an unwhipped cub.” To literary historian A.L. Rowse he was “the insufferable, light-headed Earl of Oxford.”  To Alan Nelson he was, and doubtless still is: “notorious . . . insolent . . . sinister . . . a mongrel,”––this last because his mother wasn’t a thoroughbred aristocrat! And they call us snobs!

Some of this mistreatment began in his own lifetime. We know this from the Sonnets,where he speaks of himself as ‘ïn disgrace with ‘fortune and men’s eyes,” and because in the version of Hamletpublished while he was still alive, the dying protagonist begs his friend, “O good Horatio, what a wounded name, things standing thus unknown, shall live behind me . . . .”  What things unknown?

As all are aware who have delved into what E.K. Chambers calls “the Shakespeare Problem,”  there are entire periods, whole sequences of events, that are missing from history.  One of these is the truth about Shakespeare’s identity.  Another is a satisfying account of the creation of the London Stage. With both of these it’s is as if a film about the moon landing were to go from the planning stage to the return from space with nothing to show what took place in between.  In the great 4-volume compendium E.K. Chambers published in 1923, The Elizabethan Stage, his only acknowledgement of these chunks of missing data is the arcane Latin term, lacunae.

On a subject that calls for a book length treatment, all we have time for today is a close look at one important moment, and even for that, just the briefest of outlines.

We’ll begin in the spring of 1590 with the death of the then Secretary of State, Sir Francis Walsingham. History’s claim––that Walsingham had no interest in the Stage––is another flat out lie, one of the many that we encounter when seeking the truth about the creation of the London Stage. As you find when you look further than statements in things like the DNB, Walsingham had actively fostered the Stage throughout the 1580s. Why then, as soon as he was gone, did it begin to suffer the setbacks that came close to destroying it?  The only possible answer is the return by Lord Burghley to running Walsingham’s office, the office that Burghley himself had created during the Queen’s first decade, and that he brought in with him his son Robert to help with those aspects of the job that his increasing age made difficult.  Among these it seems was Robert’s all-out attempt to control, even to destroy, the London Stage, Oxford’s great accomplishment.

According to the Revels Account for the winters of 1590 through 1593, the three companies that had entertained the Court every winter for the decade that Walsingham was in charge, Paul’s Boys, the Lord Admiral’s Men, and the Queen’s Men, were dropped, one by one, from the roster. With their loss of the government’s support, some of  these companies were forced to break, and their actors to take off to the Continent in hopes of finding work there.

When Burghley’s attempt to get the popular playwright Christopher Marlowe incarcerated on a trumped up charge of counterfeiting failed in 1592, his brutal murder by government agents the following year was blamed on Marlowe himself. To make certain that no one would bother to investigate his murder, a team of disinformation operatives were put to work creating documents that defamed his character, a defamation that has lasted to this day.

The following year came the murder of Marlowe’s patron, Ferdinando Lord Strange, recently raised to 5th Earl of Derby. In 1595 came the marriage of Ferdinando’s younger brother William, now the 6th Earl of Derby, to, of all women, Oxford’s daughter. With Ferdinando out of the way, the marriage, arrranged by Burghley, gave the Cecils the entry into the upper peerage that was denied them when Oxford failed to provide them with an heir.

This brings us to 1596, the year the Queen finally gave in and appointed Robert Secretary of State. Two weeks after Cecil’s appointment, Lord Chamberlain Hunsdon, creator of the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, the company that was meant to replace the companies disbanded by the Cecils, died unexpectedly following a healthy dinner.

Two weeks after Hunsdon’ death, his office as Lord Chamberlain was given to Cecil’s father-in-law, Burghley’s main supporter William Brooke Lord Cobham, which put Brooke on the Privy Council, thus giving control of the Council to the Cecils. By October, the Council had been persuaded by Elizabeth Russell––Robert’s Aunt, Burghley’s sister-in-law––to prevent the Burbages from opening their elegant new theater in what she regarded as her personal bailiwick, the Liberty of Blackfriars. The following February, James Burbage, builder of the first public stage in London and father of the team that led the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, was also dead.

When Cecil , now the most powerful man in England, was informed the following May that he was the butt of a play being performed at a new theater by a company made up of actors from those he had forced to disband, he ordered all the theaters in London closed for the rest of the summer.  He would have to allow them to reopen in October because that’s when upwards of 500 parliamentarians from all over England would pour into Westminster for the Queen’s Ninth Parliament, hungry for the kind of entertainment that they could find only in the nation’s capitol.  Cecil could not afford to displease these important constituents by keeping the theaters shuttered, so they reopened in October.  That is, all but two, one of them the Burbages 20-year-old public stage.  It remained closed––permanently.

With no theater in which to perform, no Court patron to protect them, their manager dead, their livelihoods at stake, the Lord Chamberlain’s Men turned to the one thing they had left, their playwright. Faced with the destruction of the industry he had created and with the loss of contact with what by then must have become an immense public audience, Oxford called once more on his “Muse of  Fire.” Revising his old True Tragedy of  Richard the Third into the brutal and humorless play we know today as Richard the Third,  the Company, with the help of someone close to the press community, launched their attackWith no theater available, they must have arranged to perform it nearby in the hall of  one of London’s great manors.

The Court was used to Robert Cecil’s tiny body and his deformity, his spindly little legs, hunched back and crooked neck. Born with a serious form of the scoliosis that touched so many members of his mother’s family, Robert had borne the slings and arrows of his cruel misfortune, the dismissive attitude of the tall men and beautiful women who winked at each other over his head in a Court ruled by a Queen who surrounded herself with tall, handsome, long-legged men. But the parliamentarians from the north and west of England may never have seen him in person until he stood before them in Parliament as the Queen’s new representative.

And so, as the footlights were lit, and the young Richard Burbage, hunched over and garbed all in black, entered the darkened room, the audience of  MPs and Court regulars gasped to see the image of  their new Secretary of State. With Burbage mimicking Cecil’s lurching gait, speaking in accents modelled on the voice they had been hearing every day in Parliament, they listened with astonished horror as he mouthed the opening lines:

“I that am rudely stamp’d, . . . Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, deformed, unfinish’d, sent before my time into this breathing world, scarce half made up,”––a description written by one who had been present during his mother’s pregnancy,  who had seen the anxiety with which his family anticipated his birth (his mother had a history of miscarriages), who had seen his struggles to breathe and walk. Thus did Oxford lash out at his adversary and Richard Burbage launch his career as one of the most famous actors of his time, in the role for which he would forever be best known.

As the parliamentarians watched in stunned silence while the evil king proceded to destroy one after another of his rivals, the question must have struck many: Who could have written this devastating slander?  Who was daring enough to risk Cecil’s wrath?  Later, as Parliament finished its business and the MPs returned to their home territories, the scandal would have spread like wildfire throughout the nation––but only whispered, behind closed doors, for no one who had seen the play would have dared to speak openly.  No one would have dared to put anything on paper. Despite the lack of incontrovertible evidence, that this is what happened is the only possible explanation for what followed.

Before the arrival of the MPs in October, someone had seen to it that this revision of The True Tragedy was made available to them in inexpensive quarto.  However prepared by this, what the audience would not have been prepared for was the comparison of their new Secretary of State with the evil King. There is nothing in the published version to suggest it. Only those who had seen the play would make the connection.  And with no record of the performance but hearsay, how could anyone prove that the comparison with Cecil was intentional, or anything but the viewer’s naughty imagination? Best to keep silent, at least until they got home.

That the play created a firestorm of scandalized commentary at Court and in London may never have reached the record, but it is suggested by the fact that a second edition of the play was published at some point not long after the Christmas break, one with exactly the same text as the first except that the phrase “by William Shake-speare” had been added to the title page. Thus was the name Shakespeare launched to an eternity of fame and misidentification.

That life at Court appears to have continued as though undisturbed, suggests that Elizabeth got involved. Normally she left all matters relating to her Court entertainment to her Lord Chamberlain, doubtless so that her reputation not be tarnished with the evangelicals, but the subsequent smoothing over of what must have been a great if  whispered scandal could only have been done by the Queen herself.  In any case, as the Lord Chamberlain’s Men and Lord Admiral’s Men continued to entertain over the winter holidays, and as Robert Cecil continued beside her as her main advisor, it must have seemed to most that he had survived the blow aimed at him by his brother-in-law.

There was, however, one who would continue to feel it and that most painfully, namely Cecil himself. Having proven himself a Master of the Dark Arts by the success of the sting with which he destroyed Marlowe and his reputation, Cecil’s campaign to destroy the London Stage and its creator was to have been the ultimate demonstration to his enemies that he was proof against all efforts to damage him. That in the final showdown over the Stage Oxford had beaten him, and that the world, or that part of it that mattered, knew it, left Master Secretary Cecil with a great thirst for revenge.

Having learned from his father how He who owns the Record owns History, once Cecil reached the level of power under James that gave him access to every record in the nation, can we doubt that he took advantage of it?  Can we imagine that having the power to eliminate everything about the London Stage, along with everything that connected it to his hated brother-in-law,  can we think for one minute that he failed to use it?  Having no other weapon with which to wound him, with his subsequent history of dirty tricks and political conniving under King James, can we doubt that he did so?

What other explanation can there be for E.K. Chambers’s lacunae, the great gaps that appear in the record where there ought to be something about the Stage? The only persons in a position to do that were the Cecils, who, except for the decade and a half that Walsingham held the office of Secretary, had control of it for half a century. What other explanation can there be for the barrage of pejoratives that has attended any mention of the Earl of Oxford from that day to this? Who else could have seen to it that nothing good about him remained in the record, while things like the Howard-Arundel libels remained?

Hatfield House, home to the Cecils and their descendants ever since Robert acquired the property from King James, has also been the permanent home of the archives from the Tudor period as collected by the Cecils over the half century that they controlled the record. For 400 years, scholars requiring access to original documents from the Tudor and Jacobean period have had to apply for permission to study these in the library at Hatfield House, under the watchful eyes of their librarians.

As other household archives ended up in the British Museum or the Public Record Office, those gathered by Burghley and his son remained under their family’s control at Hatfield House.  Only since 2003 has the creation of the National Archives and the growth of the Internet has made it possible for those of us without the support of a university to research these records without the authorization of the Cecil family.

Long after the original Cecils were gone, generations of Robert’s descendants have served on boards and committees whose goal has been to oversee the creation of a morally acceptible English History. Can we doubt that these have been partly driven as a means of protecting the good name of Salisbury, correcting anything that might threaten to damage it with an ugly truth?

In his 1973 memoire about his family, Lord David Cecil repeats the version of Oxford that the Cecils have been telling each other and the nation ever since.  It’s all there, including the accusations of pedophilia, which means that generations of Cecils, and those following the paper trails they left to History have all had access to the Howard-Arundel libels long before Alan Nelson published them in 2000.  There is a nasty quality to these off-hand slurs that reflects the tone of the terms used to defame gay men by inference during the 19th-century when England writhed in the grip of its epidemic of homophobia, a story that has barely reached beyond what it did to Lord Byron and Oscar Wilde. How it contributed to the damage done Oxford’s reputation is a chapter that needs to be told.

It was also during the 19th century that William Cecil’s lifetime goal, the raising of a humble family to the peak of power, was finally and gloriously achieved when the 3rd Marquess of Salisbury, another Robert Cecil, rose to become Queen Victoria’s longest ruling Prime Minister and the major power behind the phenomenon known as the British Empire. The grand irony here is that while this Cecil’s economic and political might spread the English language and its literature around the world, it took with it the works of Shakespeare, including of course, his Richard the Third, an irony that Oxford would surely have appreciated, had he been around to see it.




Hartford Conference

Those of you who live close enough to Hartford Connecticut may be interested in the fact that the Shakespeare Oxford Fellowship will hold their annual conference there the weekend of October 17-20, where a number of prominent Oxfordians will speak on a variety of subjects related to the subject of our interest. I’ll be speaking Friday the 18th at 11:15 am. If any of you can come, I’d love it if you’d say hello.

2019 SOF Conference

Still working to get the BOOK/S published. Once that’s done I’ll get back to blogging.

Many thanks for your continuing interest.


About this blog

I’m at a turning point with this blog, and am not quite sure where to go with it.  I started it in 2008, so it’s acquired an awful lot of material over the years, but the theme I used is no longer supported by WordPress, and since I’m finding it impossible to get the kind of support they used to provide (it seems that WordPress, like so many other great things offered by the Internet, has become almost totally focussed on money-oriented sites), I’m going to have to do it all over again with another theme, risk transferring it to another theme (I’m no whiz at this stuff), or let it go entirely. Recently I tried to add a widget which screwed up the home page, turning three columns into two, and all efforts to get help on fixing it have failed.

Time keeps on slippin, slippin, slippin into the future as I remain in a quandary.  So I’m letting my readers, my very dear readers, know what’s going on, or rather, what isn’t going on, in case we all wake up one day and politicworm is gone.  If there’s anything here that you’d want to save, perhaps now would be the time. Most concerning to me is that I don’t know who most of you are, so if the site does go down, I don’t know how to reach you when the book is ready, or I’ve managed to create another site (though I’ll do what I can to keep the name politicworm).

Right now I’m putting what time and energy I have into the book, so I haven’t had the kind of time I used to have to create these essays. And if I was ever good at “multi-tasking,” those days are gone forever.  I’m not quite to the point of nodding as I knit by the fire (meaning the TV), but I’m getting there.

I’m so grateful to you all.  I wish there was a quick and easy and cheap way to get the truth about Shakespeare out to the world, but I do think we’re getting there. 400 years is an awfully long time to wait.

Best always,

Oxford’s worst enemy

Robert Cecil, First Earl of Salisbury

To connect too closely great fortune with great genius creates one of
those powerful but unhappy alliances where the one party must
necessarily act contrary to the interests of the other.                                                                                                                               Isaac D’Israeli

In one way or another, the Cecil family has dominated English history ever since William Cecil engineered the accession of Queen Elizabeth I in 1558. Among the least understood of the powers he acquired and then bequeathed to his family, has been their almost total control of the history of the Tudor period as based on records collected and maintained by William and his son Robert during the half century that one or the other held the office of Secretary of State, the most powerful office at that time next to the monarch.

That Cecil was a “commoner,” a man who began without wealth or rank, is not in itself surprising, for in the long history of the English Crown, such men, through luck and their own talents, have frequently risen to a similar level of power, though few have had the forty years that Cecil had with Elizabeth. But Cecil had other advantages from the beginning. The first of his family to acquire a university education, the six years he spent at Cambridge (plus his time at Gray’s Inn) brought him the kind of connections that he relied on during his rise to the top. Even more useful may have been the fact that his father, Richard Cecil, whose long life as personal body servant to both Henry VII and Henry VIII, gave William access to many things about Court life that few others knew.

June 1547

The story of the Cecils’ control of the record begins in 1547 when William, then in his late twenties, first came to Court during the brief but turbulent reign of Edward VI, when Henry’s successors, together with his Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Cranmer, first established the Protestant Church of England. For the first half of the “boy king’s” six-year reign the nation was ruled by his uncle Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset; for the last half by Somerset’s rival, John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland (father of Queen Elizabeth’s “favorite”).

Cecil first came to Court in June of 1547, six months after the death of Henry VIII. Brought either by Somerset, under whom he may have participated in Henry’s campaign against the Scots (1544), or by Sir Thomas Smith, whose student he had been at Cambridge, and whose assistant he became under Edward VI. Smith (whose role under Somerset has been erased by 20th-century Tudor historians), had himself been brought to Court by Somerset within a few days of the old King’s death (according to Smith’s diary, as quoted in 1964 by Mary Dewar).

Smith’s duties under Somerset were varied; formally introduced as Secretary to Somerset himself, then as Secretary to the King, it seems his unrecorded mandate was to assist Somerset and Archbishop Cranmer in establishing Protestantism as the law of the land. While Cecil was doubtless born with  gifts of organization and administration, he could not help but have learned a great deal during his time as assistant to Smith, whose administrative talents show by his roles as Vice President of Queen’s College, Vice-chancellor of Cambridge University, and Provost of Eton.

Cecil replaces Smith

On October 10, 1549, Somerset was ousted by the council he was supposed to be advising in a coup led by Northumberland.  Both Smith and Cecil ended up in the Tower along with Somerset, and while both were released the following March, six months later, Cecil was installed by Northumberland in what under Somerset had been Smith’s office as Secretary to the King. Smith, who throughout Somerset’s moment of power had been too obviously the instrument of his unrecorded actions, was exiled to Windsor where he cooled his heels as Provost of Eton College. Five years later, (according to Dewar) he would be given, probably by Cecil, who, with the accession of Mary, had taken on himself the silent role of organizer and protector of vulnerable Protestants, the task of tutoring and protecting the four-year-old heir to the Oxford earldom.

In 1553, when the Boy King died and his sister Mary and her husband, Philip of Spain, launched their campaign to eradicate Protestantism by hanging and burning as many of the Protestant leadership as they could get their hands on, Cecil managed to escape harm once again. Having wisely refrained from the sort of passionate declarations of faith that caused Mary’s Catholic henchmen to burn to death both Smith’s colleague John Cheke and the great Archbishop Cranmer, Cecil kept up with developments at Court through his father’s contacts as he built a relationship with the Princess Elizabeth, biding his time until Mary’s death opened har way to the throne and his to a power he could not have dreamed of during the dangerous years under Edward and Mary.

Raised by Elizabeth to the all-powerful office of Secretary of State, Cecil would eventually bring Sir Thomas Smith back to Court, but not until 1572 when he himself moved on to the office of Lord Treasurer, when he replaced himself with Smith as Elizabeth’s Principal Secretary. He might have brought him back sooner , were it not for two things: the need to establish his own authority over that of his strong-minded former master, and the Queen’s prejudice against Smith, who had been among those employed by the Protector to interrogate her and her staff during the months when she was in danger of being convicted of treason for possibly encouraging the advances of Somerset’s brother. (Smith was notoriously tactless.)

Cecil as record-keeper

As Lord Burghley, Cecil is famous for his dedication to making and keeping records. Warned perhaps by the repercussions that followed Somerset’s bizarre failure to keep any sort of regular account, the chief complaint that caused his fellow councillors to oust him, Burghley seems to have kept every letter ever sent him, in addition making copies of the letters he himself sent to others. By making and keeping memoranda for his own use, by supporting historians like William Camden whose interpretations he was in a position to see published, and by appropriating the private papers of recently deceased colleagues and rivals like the Earl of Leicester and Sir Francis Walsingham, William Cecil Lord Burghley almost single-handedly created the paper trail that historians of the Tudor period have been following ever since. As his biographer Conyers Read states:

The mere bulk of his correspondence coming in and going out was enormous. And much of it he wrote himself. In the Lansdowne MSS. at the British Library there are over one hundred folio volumes of his papers. At Hatfield House there are over two hundred folio volumes. And it would be difficult to estimate the number of state papers in the Public Record Office which show evidence of his handling. For this volume alone [Master Secretary] they would reach into the scores of thousands.

But did Cecil really keep everything? Of course not! By keeping this and discarding that, he left the world an image of the Court, and of himself and his family, as he wished them to be remembered in History. To think that he had the power to create history in this way and that he was so saintly that he never used it is to be foolishly naive. There is too much evidence that he used it very effectively when he found it necessary. Cecil was not violent by nature, he was cool-headed and calculating, but for men who wish to remain at the upper levels of power, that violence can be necessary on occasion, if done so carefully that their involvement escapes public notice, is something that historians should keep in mind.

Unfortunately for the truth, and for Hamlet’s creator, while Burghley’s son inherited his father’s instinct for politics, it came with a poisonous hatred for certain of his fellow courtiers bred of the disdain he had lived with since birth (from everyone but his mother and his sister), for his twisted back and his awkward little legs. At a Court in love with tell men with long legs and a bonny face, Robert Cecil made up for his lack of physical appeal with the intelligence of the demeaned and abused.

Until Burghley’s death in 1598, Robert was dedicated to winning his father’s and the Queen’s respect, but with Secretary Walsingham’s death in 1590, he moved rapidly to make himself indispensable, so that finally, by 1596, when his father was beginning to fail, the Queen had no choice but to accept the fact that no one but the son of her first and greatest supporter was capable of wielding the powers of Secretary of State. For the final decade of her life, Elizabeth knew the Cecils were out to take total control of the government, but this time there wasn’t anything she could do about it.  Her famous ability to create a balance of powers had come to an end.

Cecil’s power under James

For the decade he held supreme power as King James’s Secretary of State, Robert Cecil, dubbed Earl of Salisbury by the King, used it to destroy the things (and the men) he hated, among them the great theater created by the Burbages in 1596 that he had convinced the Queen must remain shuttered. His powers as Secretary of State not only gave him the right to examine the official records, he was such a threatening figure by then that no one would have dared to refuse to give him, or one of his agents, access to their own collections. And while his father had protected Oxford until Anne’s death put an end to the old man’s wavering tolerance, Robert never felt anything but hatred for his witty, handsome, much-loved and admired brother-in-law.

If he couldn’t kill him outright, he could kill his reputation. Oxford, his identity as Shakespeare hidden from the world, had no recourse but to plea through the mouth of an actor, that “things standing thus unknown,” having left him with “a wounded name,”  hoped that his friends and relatives, his cousin Sir Horatio Vere for one, would speak in his favor.  Some did, but the world has not been interested.

To me it seems obvious that this is the reason why so many paper trails from that period disappear just where one would expect to see some mention of the truth, in particular the otherwise inexplicable absence of Privy Council minutes relating to policy discussions around the phenomenal rise of the London Stage as a powerful new industry and the “Fourth Estate” of government. Someone had to have done this, and only Robert Cecil had the power, the opportunity, and the personal reasons.

The Cecils and the enduring record

While the official record remained in the paperhouse for the use of subsequent Secretaries of State, Hatfield House, bequeathed to William Cecil by Queen Elizabeth, has continued to hold almost everything from the period dominated by the first Robert, where, from 1612, when he died, until 2003, when England established their National Archives, these documents were kept in the Hatfield House library, the Cecils’ family home. Thus for 400 years, every historian seeking to research the Tudor period has had no choice but to review these under the watchful eye of their family archivist.

The descendants of Robert Cecil have had no reason to tamper with what records their powerful ancestors left them. Robert Cecil’s immediate successor, his son, the 2nd Earl of Salisbury, did little more than maintain what was bequeathed him of the vast sources of wealth his father had acquired under James. Having fallen into some disrepute toward the end of the seventeenth century, the Cecil family began to rise again in the eighteenth with the 7th Earl, who, as a High Tory (i.e., right wing arch conservative) was rewarded for his loyalty to George III with a Marquessate. His son, the 2nd Marquess, another stalwart defender of the privileged classes, rose to national office as Lord Privy Seal. Finally it was with the 3rd Marquess of Salisbury, Robert Arthur Talbot Gascoyne-Cecil, that Burghley’s dream of a powerful and illustrious family was realized to the fullest possible extent.

Credited as the major figure behind England’s rise to world dominance under Queen Victoria, this Robert oversaw “the largest empire in history and, for over a century, the foremost global power.” According to Wikipedia: “By 1913, the British Empire held sway over 412 million people, 23% of the world population at the time, and by 1920, it covered 35,500,000 sq km (13,700,000 sq miles), 24% of the Earth’s total land area.” He was also Chancellor of Oxford University for over thirty years.

With centuries of intermarriage with other aristocratic and/or wealthy families, many productive of numerous offspring, this meant that there were hundreds, perhaps thousands, of relatives that this Robert Gascoyne-Cecil was able to provide with comfortable offices, thus the common pleasantry when someone’s had a bit of luck: “Bob’s yer uncle.” (It’s also interesting that a “bob” is a slang term for whatever happens to be the lowest bit of pocket money at the time.)

This does not mean that these later Cecils necessarily tampered with the record. There was no need, for their 17th-century ancestor had already taken care to eliminate anything that might cast a shadow on their later history (as they most obviously failed to do for their former in-law, the Earl of Oxford, having left the Howard-Arundel libels where they would be available to damage his reputation with future historians.

What this means is that the Cecil family wielded such authority from then on, and consequently were viewed with such respect, that no historian has ever dared to raise, at least not publicly, the truth about their despicable founder. But the nineteenth century, that brought the Cecil family to the peak of power, also brought (in the wake of Karl Marx) a way of viewing the past known as Sociology. Largely due to the sort of personal interpretations to which historians have been all too inclined, sociologists base their conclusions on factors like trends as revealed by statistics.

In 1973, the sociologist Lawrence Stone published Family and Fortune: Studies in Aristocratic Finance in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries, in which he devotes the first half to the Cecils, and most of that to the original Robert’s greed. The entire first chapter: “Acquisitions, 1590-1612,” is an account of his rapacity under James, his bribes, grafts, gratuities, investments in privateering, sales of pirated cargoes of African slaves, sugar, and cotton (8); Spanish “pensions,” and payoffs through the Court of Wards and customs farming with which he continued to fill his pockets until 1609 when the King further increased his opportunities by naming him Lord High Treasurer. This enabled him to invest heavily in Westminster where he ended by getting into his pockets just about everything there was to own.

However, despite his riches, Lord Salisbury, it seems, died heavily in debt:

It was not until several years after [his] death in 1612 that the sales to clear off the debt were completed and it becomes possible to see the permanent pattern of the estate which remained. By 1617, when most of the sales were over, the second Earl enjoyed a gross income from land of between £7200 and £7500 a year. With prudent management . . . this was enough to carry the Cecils comfortably through to the late twentieth century as one of England’s greatest landed familiies. In fourteen frantic years of manic activity . . . Robert Cecil Earl of Salisbury had created something that was destined to last, and to influence English history, for centuries to come. (Stone 49)

Perhaps feeling compelled to frame this disturbing account as a moral tale, Stone ends his long section on the Cecils’ finances with a painful account of Robert’s death (51-55). He details his decline from 1610 on through records left by his doctors of Salisbury’s illnesses and medications and the elaborate lengths to which his servants went to ease his pains. It was widely believed that he died from syphilis, and although his doctor denied it, it’s hard to read his list of symptoms without accepting it as a possibility (51-52); there are certainly sufficiently plentiful accounts of his “lechery.”

Towards the end, Lord Salisbury, it seems, was overcome with “spiritual fears”:

The long and wasting sickness had given him time to look back over his career, and what he saw was not encouraging. Anxiously he sought reassurance from his chaplain, Dr. Bowles, that however terrible had been his sins in the past, his faith in God and his sincere if tardy repentance could redeem them. [Bowles tried, but failed to comfort him] so full was he of the enormity of his past offences. What particularly preyed on his mind we do not know . . . . (54)

Along with these titles and properties it seems that this first Robert also bequeathed to his descendants the Calvinistic sense of Sin that according to one of their more recent ancestors, has cast a shadow over most of their lives. In 1973, the same year that Stone published his damning account of the first Robert, Lord David Cecil, grandson of the great and powerful 3rd Marquess, published a memoire of his family in which he described his grandfather’s “basic isolation of spirit.” Apparently the great Prime Minister was “liable to fits of inexplicable depression,” a trait that seems to have been passed down through the family. Lord David’s own father, whose “prevailing mood” according to his son, was “melancholy, darkening to occasional fits of black depression, which sometimes lasted for weeks on end and which, one gathered from various hints, were associated with a sense of his own sinfulness.” Lord David also comments on his famous grandfather’s high-church religiosity and the bouts of “black” depression that, early in life, caused his family to send him abroad in hopes that life outside Britain might cheer him up. Alas, it seems that even the inestimable riches he managed to squeeze from India and Africa failed to raise this inherited gloom.

In truth the Cecils have much to answer for, not just the sins of their ancestors, but also the lies with which they have defended their personal ivory tower ever since, lies perpetuated in 1973 by Lord David Cecil. Among these is the lie that the Duke of Somerset had appointed William Cecil to act as his personal Master of Requests when Smith’s diary shows that it was Smith who was given that job months before Cecil came to Court. He fibs again a few sentences later with “Somerset showed his sense of William’s value by making him his personal secretary” (Hatfield 62); technically, both Smith and later Cecil were Secretary to the King, not to Somerset. In any case, as the dates recorded in Smith’s diaries as reported by Dewar, clearly show, it was Smith who came first to Somerset’s Court, not Cecil, and Smith who began under Somerset, not Cecil, who first functioned as Secretary of State under Northumberland. Dates do not lie, nor do men lie to their own diaries.

“A touch of romantic fantasy”

It seems that David Cecil’s understanding of history is what he was told over brandy and cigars after dinner around the family table. No doubt his many uncles and aunts were also unaware that there ever was a Secretary of State named Sir Thomas Smith. Nor does he spare Robert’s other victim, his brother-in-law, the Earl of Oxford:

[Burghley] was especially fond of his “Tannakin, as he tenderly called his daughter Anne. In 1571, when she was only sixteen, Edward, seventeenth Earl of Oxford, applied for her hand.. . . On the face of it it was a splendid match: Oxford was a dazzling figure, high-born, wealthy, beautiful, with a considerable gift for writing poetry and a touch of romantic fantasy. To crown all, he was a special favourite of Queen Elizabeth. All the same Burghley seemed to have had doubts about the marriage, and so even more had Lady Burghley. Oxford was not a type to appeal to a severe puritan. However, advantages in the end outweighed doubts . . . and in December 1571 the wedding was solemnized with glittering pomp in Westminster Abbey. (84)

Lord David fails to mention that, as the Queen’s ward, Oxford’s marriage (and by extension, his assets) were by necessity (if not by law) in the hands of her Secretary of State, William Cecil, or that she gave him his title, Baron Burghley, so that his daughter would be legally qualified to marry a peer. As for the “advantages” that “outweighed” Burghley’s “doubts,” Lord David fails to specify that the marriage would accomplish what he himself had defined as Burghley’s number two goal, a high and permanent place within the English peerage. Alas:

Lord Oxford turned out a more unsatisfactory husband than even Lady Burghley could have feared: unreliable, uncontrolled, ill-tempered and wildly extravagant. He . . . began to spend much of his time away from his wife by travelling in Italy.

So why did the affectionate father allow his beloved Tannakin to marry such a terrible man, one he certainly knew well enough, having raised him from the age of twelve? In fact Oxford had been married to Anne for four years before Burghley and the Queen would allow him out of their sight long enough to spend one year away from Court.

The lies continue:

In 1575 [Burghley] got a letter from Italy stating that Lord Oxford had become a drunkard, a homosexual, and a declared atheist. This report was accompanied by detailed accounts of his unseemly amours with his kitchen boys and of his blasphemous jokes about the Holy Trinity. . .

Since there is no such account, this bit of slander must be based on the Howard/Arundel libels that the Academy would keep to itself until 2002 when Nelson finally got them published. Lord David continues with the family’s after-dinner stories, in which Burghley

summoned Lord Oxford back to England and gave him a scolding. Oxford countered by sending his wife back to her family and accusing her . . . of being unfaithful to him while he was abroad. The couple spent the following Christmas with the Burghleys. (84)

Despite his virulent anti-Oxford bias, Nelson is more respectful of the record than Lord David. He provides the letter in which it is Oxford who “scolds” Burghley for not quashing the ugly rumors about Anne (146). So far as we, or anyone, knows, Oxford did not spend that Christmas with the Cecils, nor any other Christmas until, following his two-year banishment for impregnating Ann Vavasor, Elizabeth insisted he reconcile with the Cecils before he be allowed to return to Court.

The Cecils’ control of history

While Secretary under Elizabeth, William Cecil took control over the publishing industry, apparently never relinquishing it even during the decade that Walsingham was Secretary of State. He brought over Huguenot printers from the Continent to publish works he considered necessary for the establishment of the Protestant Reformation. In his choices he he appears to have been led by the opinions of his father-in-law, Sir Anthony Cooke, whose radical evangelism was spread to the nation through the wide circles of influence that included his daughters and their their husbands. It was as much by publishing such works that Burghley eradicated Catholicism as by getting laws passed that made attending Mass a crime.

For centuries, historians researching the Tudor period have had to apply to the librarian at Hatfield House to view the documents pertaining to their studies. We see this in the gratitude to one Marquess or another fulsomely acknowledged in their prefaces and lists of acknowledgements. That this sense of the Cecils’ entitlements could have influenced their published accounts requires no more than a fair measure of ordinary common sense.

In 1869 the Royal Commission on Historical Manuscripts was established to survey and report on privately owned and privately held archival records of general historical interest. Its brief had been “to make inquiry as to the places in which such Manuscripts and Papers were deposited,” and to report on their contents. The 3rd Marquess of Salisbury was among the first of the authorities to be appointed to the Commission.

Following his father’s death in 1868 this Robert had entered the House of Lords and was almost immediately appointed Chancellor of Oxford University, the same year the Commission was formed. When the Cecils’ grip on the House of Lords was weakened in 1999 after the Labour Party under Tony Blair managed to eliminate automatic lifetime memberships for peers who did nothing for their nation but get born, the present Marquess, another Robert, managed to manipulate Blair into allowing himself and several other of his fellow peers a little more time in the nation’s catbird seat.

It was not until the mid-1990s, when the Internet spread beyond the universities, that scholars were freed from having to travel to Hatfield House or any of the repositories of family archives where so much of the material now in the Public Record Office and the British Library was still located. Google appeared in 1998, and with it paths to historical research were formed for the use of anyone who owned a computer. Wikipedia was born in 2001. In 2003 The National Archives was created when the Public Record Office combined with the Historical Manuscripts Commission, and the process began of making such material available online.

The opportunity now lies before us, to find and tell the truth about Oxford’s “wounded name,” truths that until now have been locked within the archives controlled by the very individuals with the most reason to keep them hidden. Because the truth is always more interesting than the lies that are created to hide it, and because there is drama and adventure to be found in revealing it, hopefully students will become interested again in majoring in English Literature and History, and it may be that the Humanities will return to take their former place as the heart and soul of the university experience.