Oxfordians have always claimed Sonnet 125 as one of the most important
single pieces of evidence in the whole structure of their case. Its
significance was first pointed out by J. Thomas Looney himself, who
said, with characteristic caution, in Shakespeare Identified:
'As Lord Great Chamberlain he [Oxford] officiated near the person
of James I at his coronation, just as, doubtless, when a boy, he had
witnessed his father officiating at the coronation of Queen Elizabeth.
Although his officiating at Elizabeth's funeral is not mentioned so
explicitly as the part he took at the coronation of James, it is natural
to assume that he would be there. It is just possible that this ceremony
is directly referred to in sonnet 125:
"Were't aught to me I bore the canopy,
With my extern the outward honouring,
Or laid great bases for eternity,
"Which prove more short than waste or ruining?
* *
* *
*
No, le me be obsequious in thy heart,
And take thou my oblation poor but free."
If this can be shown to have any direct connection with the functions
of Lord Great Chamberlain, it will be a very valuable direct proof
of our thesis. The particular sonnet from which we have quoted comes
at the extreme end of the series to which it belongs; and as we are
assured that the whole series was brought to a close shortly after
the death of Queen Elizabeth, sonnet 125 must have been written about
the time of that event. It is difficult to imagine in what impressive
ceremony William Shakespere of Stratford could have participated about
the same time, necessitating his bearing the canopy and laying great
bases for eternity.'
Oxfordian opinion as to the precise occasion of the sonnet has since
been divided between the funeral of Elizabeth, the coronation of James
I and the thanksgiving procession to St. Paul's after the defeat of
the Armada. In Shakespeare's Sonnets and Edward de Vere, Canon
G. H. Rendall gives a masterly analysis of the whole sonnet with reference
to the coronation, and says:
'"Obsequious" (from association with obsequies) is used
often of the mourner, but here of the worshipper approaching the object
of his devotion with the "poor but free oblation" that lies
at his command, that of sincere and worshipful affection, The unexpected
"'not mixed with seconds", applied to the sacrificial cake
of pure wheaten flour, suggests some literary or ritual reference
more direct than commentators have yet unearthed.'
Since the publication of Canon Rendall's book in 1930, we have witnessed
two coronations, the second of which was not only heard but seen
all over the world. Never in history has so much been said and written
about the coronation ceremony, but still the 'ritual reference' has
not been unearthed. Could it have anything to do with the duties of
the Lord Great Chamberlain at the service itself?
As all researchers know, the most exciting discoveries often seem to
come by chance, and this question was certainly not in the forefront
of my mind when, in re-reading E. K. Chambers' Elizabethan Stage,
Vol. I, Chapter 2 (The Royal House hold), I came across the following
passage:
'Presumably the magister camerarius became the hereditary
Lord Great Chamberlain, whose coronation services, which are connected
with the charge of the King's bedchamber, the handing of a basin and
towel at the banquet, and the preparation of the royal oblations,
afford a sufficient indication of the duties of the court office.'
The preparation of the royal oblations! The rest was familiar enough,
but this vital piece of information had somehow been passed over in
all the Oxfordian books I had read. Attention had been focussed upon
the functions of the Lord Great Chamberlain before and after the service,
but the important part he had to play within the Abbey had not received
due consideration. Vague memories of the coronation of Elizabeth II
floated to the surface of my mind and fused with Shakespeare's sonnet.
I began a feverish hunt through all the coronation literature I could
lay hands on, and I found that the royal oblations consisted of bread
and wine, an ingot of gold of a pound's weight and—latterly, but
not at the time of James I—a pall or altar cloth, and it was the
duty of the Lord Great Chamberlain to pass these things to his sovereign
as required. An ingot of gold of a pound weight, even if it 'knew no
art', could hardly be called a poor offering, but the bread—the
sacrificial cake 'not mixed with seconds'—here, indeed, was a ritual
reference directly concerned with the coronation duties of the Lord
Great Chamberlain. The question arises: Was the allusion merely a topical
metaphor introduced into a sonnet addressed to the Fair Youth, or was
this particular sonnet which, as Looney says, comes at the end of the
series, addressed to the King himself? I have come to believe that it
was, and that it constituted a refusal to bear the canopy. And
here, I must reluctantly take sides with the Stratfordians on a point
of grammar. Miss Amphlett (Who Was Shakespeare? p. 166) and other
Oxfordians maintain that 'I bore the canopy' is a statement of fact
in the past tense but, in doing so, they overlook the significant words
were (not was) at the beginning of this first line of
the sonnet and or (not and) at the beginning of the third
line.
'Were't aught to me I bore the canopy'
means in modem English prose:
Would it be anything to me if I bore the canopy? The
word if is omitted, perhaps for metrical reasons, perhaps in
accordance with the usage of the time, but it is doubly implied. (See
Fowler: Modern English Usage-Subjunctives). Let us concede
to the orthodox that the phrase is a hypothetical question: we can
well afford to do so. It would, at all events, have been an absurd
question for William of Stratford to ask.
And now let us examine the four lines omitted from Looney's quotation:
'Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour
Lose all, and more, by paying too much rent,
For compound sweet foregoing simple savour,
Pitiful thrivers in their gazing spent?'
Here, Canon Rendall's commentary is most helpful. 'Thrivers', he explains,
are investors, and 'Dwellers on form and favour' plays
on the double sense of 'those who make much of' and 'those who build
on' as firm tenure and habitation, speculating upon the advancements,
profits and promotion of which Court life disposed." But the allusion
is perhaps more literal than Canon Rendall guessed, for, to quote Mr.
Lawrence E. Tanner, Keeper of the Muniments and Library of Westminster
Abbey (History of the Coronation, p. 44):
'In medieval times the tenure of a Manor by virtue of rendering some
personal service to the King was not uncommon. Such tenures, by Grand
Serjeanty as it was called, were abolished in the 17th centuny, but
the actual service continues to be rendered in two notable instances
at a Coronation. It is by virtue of holding the Manor of Scrivelsby
that the head of the Dymoke family claims to bethe King's Champion,
and is now allowed to carry one of the two Standards in the procession
within the Abbey. In the sane way it is the privilege of the ford
of the Manor of Worksop to provide a glove for the Sovereign's right
hand and to support the Sovereign's right arm "as occasion may
require." . . . Even more ancient is the claim of the Barons
of the Cinque Ports to carry the Canopy over the Sovereign at a
Coronation.'
To bear the Canopy was, then, no part of the coronation duties of the
Lord Great Chamberlain. Moreover, that office, as Mr. J. Shera Atkinson
observed in an article published in the News-Letter of September
1952, 'though treated as descending 'like landed property . . . was
not attached to the ownership of Castle Hedingham or any other property.'
The Lord Great Chamberlain was no dweller on form (ceremony)
and favour—an expression which exactly describes the reciprocal
arrangement of Grand Serjeanty.
The Earl of Oxford did, however, claim the right to play his unique
hereditary role on the day of the Coronation, and was awarded the customary
fees (B. M. Ward: The Seventeenth Earl of Oxford, p. 346). But
there is no mention of fees for the services performed in the Abbey
itself—
'No. Let me be obsequious in thy, heart.
And take thou my oblation, poor but free.
Which is not mixed with seconds, knows no art,
But mutual render only me for thee.'
The sonnet ends on a totally unexpected note:
'Hence, thou suborn'd Informer, a true soul
When most impeach'd stands least in thy control'
This is clearly a rhetorical aside aimed at a third party, not
the recipient of the sonnet, but its precise meaning has eluded the
commentators. It is, on the face of it, a confident, almost triumphant
repudiation of a charge of treason, appropriate enough if the
sonnet is addressed to the King, but still requiring some explanation,
for the reference is obviously private and personal. Who was the suborned
informer? No answer is to be found in the life of William Shakespere,
but it seems that 'information' was given against the Earl of Oxford
by the Earl of Lincoln in 1603. (See William Kittle: Edward de Vere
17th Earl of Oxford and Shakespeare p. 160 and H. Amphlett: Who
Was Shakespeare? p. 150). The story has come down to us in a letter,
dated October 10th, 1603, from Sir John Peyton, Lieutenant of the Tower,
to 'Lord Cycell' and the Privy Council. The gist of the matter was that,
shortly before the death of Queen Elizabeth, a great nobleman of Hackney
(identifiable as the Earl of Oxford) had invited the Earl of Lincoln
to dinner and, in private conversation afterwards, had broached the
subject of the succession, naming Lord Hastings, a great-nephew of the
Earl of Lincoln, and suggesting that 'there should be meanes used to
convaye him over into France, where he should fynde friends that wolde
make him a partye, of the which there was a precedent in former times.'
Both Miss Amphlett and Mr. Kittle seem to accept, almost without question,
what Sir John Peyton said the Earl of Lincoln said about
the Earl of Oxford, but does the story ring true? Who, in the first
place, had more interest in Lord Hastings' succession to the throne—the
Earl of Oxford, who at the age of twelve had been nearly betrothed to
one of his aunts, or the Earl of Lincoln, who was, in fact, his great-uncle
by marriage? In any case, we have only to look into the record of the
Earl of Lincoln to see that his word was not to be trusted.
Kittle cites as his prior historical source, a book called Godes
Peace and the Queenes, Vicissitudes of a House 1539-1615, by Norreys
Jephson O'Conor (1934,) in which Lincoln is described as almost insane,
O'Conor holds no brief for Oxford but, after recounting some of Lincoln's
previous escapades, he writes:
'For the remainder of the Queen's reign the Earl was quiet, but,
with the accession of King James, Lord Lincoln again brought himself
into notice. His claim to bear the ball and cross, and to be carver,
at the King's coronation, in July 1603, was rejected for lack of evidence,
which seems typical. Since the Earl had grown increasingly suspicious
of plots against him, to increase his self-importance there remained
only an excuse to warn the sovereign of a plot against himself. For
this the Earl soon found opportunity, and, on September 21st, 1603,
he sent information (apparently to the Privy Council) that, "Whylst
her majestie lyved the French ambassador made meanes by dyvers to
hyre my house at Chelsey'".
Lincoln then proceeded to give evidence against a certain Mr. Trudgion,
adding:
'And those speeches of the Erles of Ox[ford] that yf any were sent
into France (how small soever his tytle were) . . . made me feare,
and thynk that thes men myght doo the kyng good servyce in bewraying
their knowledg, which I thought my dyeuty to ympart, yf I had any
possible meanes to enforme hys maiestie. But so it pleasyd god that,
withyn few days after, afore any advertysement culd be sent, I saw
hys quyet entry and yet nevertheles went to the toure [Tower] afore
her maiesties death, told Sir J. peyton thereof . . . I told Sir hew
harrys thereof, and Ser gent harrys and others, besyde my letters
to hys maiestie'.
But neither Sir John Peyton, nor anyone else, seems to have taken much
notice of the Earl of Lincoln and, in spite of all this talebearing,
the Earl of Oxford stood high in the new King's favour. He was in a
position to say with contempt
'Hence, thou suborn'd Informer, a true soul
When most impeachd stands least in thy control'
Letter to the Editor [The
Shakespeare Fellowship News-Letter (English), Spring 1957.]
Coronation Sonnet
Sir,
Since my whole interpretation of Sonnet 125, in my article published
in the News-Letter last Spring, depends upon a point of grammar,
I must do my best, even at the risk of tediousness and pedantry, to
reply to Mr. Atkinson's arguments in his letter, published in the Autumn
number.
I gave my authority as Fowler's Modern English Usage (Subjunctives),
and the book is available at any reference library. It may be objected
that Shakespeare was not 'modern' and, in any case, was no stickler
for grammar, but then, the subjunctive is a dying form and would
come much more naturally to him than to us. To save space, I will take
Fowler's article on subjunctives as read. From it I infer that, in the
sentence under discussion:
'Were't aught to me I bore the canopy'—Were (sing.) is
'a recognizable subjective, and applicable not to past facts, but present
or future non-facts', and that bore is, therefore, also in the
subjunctive, though indistinguishable in form from the past indicative.
Fowler gives would be as the modem equivalent of were,
though the terms are not always interchangeable. I paraphrased the line
as:
'Would it be anything to me if I bore the canopy' i.e.,
on some future, though probably not far distant, occasion, and unfortunately
added that the if had been omitted. Mr. Atkinson is probably
quite right in saying that the only word which 'can legitimately be
inserted' in the original sentence 'is not "'if", but "'that"':
'Were't aught to me that I bore the canopy.' But the meaning
is the same. As it happens, that is almost a component part of
the Present and Imperfect Subjunctive—best known to us from the
French Verb Books. The phrase 'that I bore' is a variant form of 'that
I might (or should) bear.' Another way of saying the same thing were
(would be) to substitute the infinitive:
'Were't aught to me to bear the canopy'. Were is not
the equivalent of either was or is. Custom has now sanctioned
the use of was in many cases where were would be, strictly
speaking, more correct, but the process cannot (legitimately) be reversed.
However, we must not assume Shakespeare's infallibility as a grammarian,
so let us take a few examples from his own 'usage'—others can be
found in the Shakespeare Concordance:
By heaven, me thinks it were an easy leap
To pluck bright honour from the pale-faced moon.
1
Henry IV, I. iii. 201.
O gentlemen, the time of life is short!
To spend that shortness basely were too long.
1
Henry IV, V. ii. 82
'Twere to consider too curiously to consider so.
Hamlet,
V. i. 200.
If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twere well
It were done quickly.
Macbeth,
I. vii. 1.
It is my lady; O, it is my love!
O, that she knew she were.
Romeo
and Juliet, II. i. 53.
Oh absence what a torment wouldst thou prove
Were it not [that] thy sour leisure gave sweet leave
To entertain the time with thoughts of love.
Sonnet
39.
In none of these examples does the word were apply to past facts
and neither, in the last two, do the words knew and gave—though
gave embraces past, present and future. The famous passage from
Macbeth reads almost like an exercise in the subjunctive. Shakespeare
was obviously trying to get in as many weres as he could, but
he might have ended, quite correctly (then as now) with: 'twere well
we did it quickly'—yet the murder was still 'fantastical.'
I entirely agree with Mr. Atkinson that if the bearing of the canopy
was hypothetical, the laying of great bases for eternity must have been
so too, but I do not agree that this makes nonsense of the words that
follow: 'that proves more short than waste or ruining.' Whatever Shakespeare
may have meant by 'great bases for eternity,' I feel sure he did not
mean 'that eternity promised' to the recipient of the sonnets, but the
kind of eternity represented by marble and the gilded monuments of princes
in Sonnet 55, which meant naught to him. He was making
a paradoxical generalization and there is no need to assume that the
particular 'great bases.'—whatever they may have been—had
already been laid.
That the opening sentence is in the subjunctive and does not refer
to the past is confirmed by the fact that, after a parenthesis of four
lines, the writer answers his own question with an emphatic 'No.' and
then slips into the Imperative, which invariably refers neither to past
nor present, but to a more or less immediate future:
'No. Let me be obsequious in thy heart
And take thou my oblation poor but free.'
It seems that the outward obsequiousness of bearing the canopy
would somehow contaminate the oblation and put him in the same category
as the 'dwellers on form and favour.'
We know that Lord Oxford did not bear the canopy in the procession
from Westminster Hall, to the Abbey on the day of the coronation, for
it was borne, in accordance with tradition, by the 'barons' of the Cinque
Ports; and, as it turned out, he could not have borne it in the
customary procession from the Tower to Westminster on the preceding
day, for that procession was postponed at the last minute owing to the
plague—but he may have been asked to do so.
