102 Reasons

There's better evidence for fairies at the bottom of your garden than for De Vere's authorship of Will's plays.

Their manifesto

Weever's tangled web


The Oxfordian pick has struck gold again, an occurrence that seems to happen with astounding regularity, yet for some reason the nuggets found never seem to get past the assay office.

This time the treasure lode is an article by the new leading light of Oxfordian research, Alexander Waugh, grandson of Evelyn Waugh and an established author in his own right. The last few years he seems to have directed his not inconsiderable intellect to the Oxford Authorship Question, the almost century-long effort to find evidence that Edward de Vere, the 17th Earl of Oxford, was the True Author of the works universally attributed to the usurer, grain dealer, and play broker, William Shakespeare (if that was indeed his real name; Shicklespurt is the more likely moniker) of Stratford-upon-Avon, gentleman.

Mr. Waugh's latest effort, ‘John Weever - Another Anti-Stratfordian,’ is published in The De Vere Society Newsletter, 21: 2 (May 2014), pp. 12-15.

Wracke and Redemption

A comparative textual study

In their article published in the September 2007, Review of English Studies, Roger Stritmatter and Lynne Kositsky claim that a letter written by William Strachey drew on several sources published after its putative composition date of 15 July 1610, and was completed at least 2 years later, too late to be used by Shakespeare as a source for The Tempest. But a close textual comparison between the letter, the published sources and other contemporary documents, including a relatively newly discovered draft of the Strachey letter, demonstrates the primacy of Strachey’s letter and confirms its use as a source in the Virginia Company tract published in November 1610, therefore preserving its accessibility as a source for Shakespeare.

For their kind suggestions during the writing of this article, I thank Jacqueline Foertsch, David Kathman, Lynne Kositsky, Irvin Matus, Tom Veal and especially Alden T. Vaughan.

The Review of English Studies, New Series © The Author 2009. Published by Oxford University Press 2009; all rights reserved doi:10.1093/res/hgp107

In the summer of 1609, the Virginia Company of London sent nine ships to re-supply its fledging hard-luck Jamestown colony in Virginia. The fleet ran into a hurricane while crossing the Atlantic and the flagship Sea Venture, carrying the colony's new governor, Sir Thomas Gates, became separated from the fleet and was presumed lost by those who weathered the storm and made it to Virginia. But Gates and all 150 passengers and crew members had actually been shipwrecked on the uninhabited island of Bermuda.

During the next ten months they managed not only to survive, but also to build two new vessels and complete the journey to Virginia. When they finally arrived at Jamestown in May 1610, they found the colony in total collapse, suffering from famine and Indian attacks that had reduced the 600 colonists to fewer than 70. Gates ordered the surviving colonists into the ships to sail home. However, they met with a new supply fleet before clearing the Chesapeake Bay, and so they turned back to renew the ultimately successful colony. The survival and escape to safety of Gates' colonists and the deliverance of the Jamestown colony galvanised London when the news reached England in September 1610.

Bussy Galore

A famous modern poet used to sacrifice every year a Statius to Virgil’s manes; and I have indignation enough to burn a D’Ambois annually to the memory of Jonson.

John Dryden's poor opinion of Chapman's most famous plays is not widely shared, these days.

Connecting Oxford to Jacobean drama is a Labour of Hercules for Oxfordians, given that he died in 1604 before Jacobean drama had much to distinguish it from Elizabethan drama. Yet in a unique passage in Chapman's Jacobean drama The Revenge of Bussy d'Ambois, the Earl himself is criticised and even rebuked on stage.

This is a rather extraordinary occurrence if you believe Oxfordian tales of censorship and the stigma of print.  Their entire authorship case requires Oxford to hide behind an allonym for the offence of a few dim resemblances between Polonius and Cecil, so what can they mean, ignoring Chapman so disrespectfully taking the mickey out of the Earl, without even disguising his name, in a long and critical passage? Off with his head, surely?

The play is a sequel to Bussy d'Ambois, entered in the Register in June 1607 by the Children of St Paul's but which later found its way into the repertoire of The King's Men who acted it at court in the 1630's. It forms part of four plays written by Chapman about 16c events at the French court. Two of these were banned and then censored to remove the offending treatment of the French Queen. So how did the critical representation of the Earl survive?

Rhapsody in Red

Does converting to Oxfordianism increase your appreciation of the work, as many Oxfordians claim? Nat Whilk likens it to ketchup on gourmet cooking, creating such an accurate picture of how faint praise can damn creative effort, we decided to indulge in a few riffs on the theme. 

First the Oxfordian post which triggered our imagination, from Barabara Hobens Feldt. Posting on a thread attached to Annie Martirosyan's Amazon review of Shakespeare Beyond Doubt, Barbara is indulging in the time-dishonoured 'elite knowledge' argument as she builds to her rhapsodic climax.

2 Corinth

“I clearly see that my work for the Earl of Oxford cannot be much longer required.”

Lawrence Nowell

De Vere’s formal education ended at thirteen, when his last known tutor, Lawrence Nowell, washed his hands of him: “I clearly see that my work for the Earl of Oxford cannot be much longer required.” Tactfully put. Oxfordians interpret that to mean that the pupil had outstripped his master. But the tutor lavishes no praise, and offers no regrets at leaving what would—in Oxfordian fantasy—have been the student of a scholar’s dreams. If you had the boy Shakespeare as a pupil, would you shrug him off? But Nowell had other, more congenial work in hand. And Oxford had received all the tutelage that a boy of his rank— who would always have secretaries—would need. Dancing, drawing, French, cosmography (that is to say, maps), and a bit of Latin—a small fraction of what a grammar-school boy would learn—made way for lordlier accomplishments, fencing and horsemanship. Some lessons took. Oxford had a nice italic hand; he was a pretty dancer and a champion at tilting.

Dyer consequences

A pontification too far

The Spectator. Alexander Waugh's Diary. November 2, 2013

Alexander Waugh's Diary is a sparse but rather good echo of Auberon Waugh's brilliant diary in Private Eye. With more than one entry a year and a bit more of his father's animating bile, the son's diary might also turn into required reading. Alexander, horriible dictu, is an Oxfordian. His claims to have discovered an Oxfordian angle in Covell's Polimanteia (1595) occasioned two responses here and here on Oxfraud. 

Putting a lid on it

'So does recreating 17th century seating and atmosphere allow any similar revelations about the text? On the basis of The Duchess of Malfi, the main discovery is the influence of the lighting on the writing'

Mark Lawson
The Guardian 14 Jan 2014

“Oh this gloomy world!
In what a shadow or deep pit of darkness,
Doth womanish and fearful mankind live!”

The Duchess of Malfi

Oxfordianism. A Valediction Forbidding Mourning.
Two playhouses, both alike in rare appeal,
Near Borough Market, where we lay our site:
Douse ancient grudge of false-claiming zeal,
Killing daft imposture with candlelight.
Each shame-fac’d guess, each attribution sin
Now the star-cross’d Earl’s pretence decry;
Years dead at Hackney, long ere Will mov’d in, 
To Blackfriars, with its audience dry.
The fail'd illusions of their death-mark’d stance
Though drown’d by Scholarship, yet stay'd aloof, 
Till Sam the Man gave Real Late Romance,
Some light and music and a bloody roof.

Devices and Desires

“We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts.”

The Book of Common Prayer

In the spring of 1579, Gilbert Talbot wrote his father, the Earl of Shrewsbury: “It is but vain to trouble your Lordship with such shows as were showed before Her Majesty this Shrovetide at night. The chiefest was a device presented by the persons of the Earl of Oxford, the Earl of Surrey, the Lords Thomas Howard and Windsor. The device was prettier than it happened to have been performed; but the best of it, and I think the best liked, was two rich jewels which were presented to Her Majesty by the two Earls.”

Not exactly a rave review: Talbot thought it a pretty conceit which the performers failed to carry off. He says nothing of speeches nor speakers, nothing of the storyline, stage effects, music, dance, nor finery. Nothing dazzled the beholders but the jewels: the stars of the show were lumps of corundum.

Giraffe gaffe


Alexander Waugh has trumpeted a great Oxfordian discovery. In The Spectator (2 November 2013), he wrote:

“Researching a new book on Shakespeare’s sonnets, I stumbled upon an astonishing piece of hitherto unnoticed evidence in a 16th-century book by a sex-maniac clergyman from Cambridge. I shall not bore you with the details; suffice it to say that William Covell (the author and S-MC in question) revealed in words not especially ambiguous by Elizabethan standards that ‘Shakespeare’ was a nom de plume used by the courtier poet Edward de Vere.”

This is his revelation:


Pretty, isn’t it?

Waugh is no fool: among other things, he wrote a damned good book on the Wittgenstein family. But his great epiphany is apophenia: the perception of meaning in the meaningless. Yes, I know that cluster of stars looks just like a giraffe, but don't expect to bring down astrophysics with your great discovery™.

Poetry/Prose converter

There's not very much demand for this device, it has to be admitted. In fact I can't see it making its reserve on ebay. The range of poetry on which it operates successfully just isn't big enough to make it useful.

It's perfect for the works of the Earl of Oxford, however.

Let's demonstrate on the first three lines of 'Were I a King".

Take the first three lines of his poem and remove their line breaks,

"Were I a king I might command content. Were I obscure unknown would be my cares and were I dead no thoughts should me torment,"

They are ploddingly prosaic, so just this simple manoeuvre gets us almost all the way there. If we now reverse his one concession to poetic language, and place subject before verb thus: "Were I obscure my cares would be unknown" Voila! The lines now have nothing to distinguish them from prose.