Shakespeare, Family And Friends

It is Agincourt Day, so perhaps the right time to comment on William Shakespeare. The debate on his authorship has been restarted by the film “Anonymous”. This is one of many attempts to deny his claim. The prime difficulty of nearly all of these is that they concentrate on a limited circle of poets and aristocrats who are reckoned to be superior in many ways.

There are few attempts to place Shakespeare in the real world of Warwickshire and London at the time and even fewer to search around the sources on the many and various families who had some sort of connection to him. These are largely omitted from or footnotes to the general and even literary histories.

For the most part they are minor gentry, merchants and similar who are there to be found. This post is almost entirely factual. There is very little theory or debate and less speculation other than one or two common sense observations in this item.

Yet this is a bare outline concentrating on the main strands only. If one took account of all the others known, connected by marriage or contact and their lives, which relate to the main strands we would be looking at a major piece of work.

It is very complicated but there is a simple proposition. At the time of Shakespeare there were just too many people who knew him or of him for the authorship to be much of a secret. It is possible to give a sketch of those people to put it all in place.

Down the later generations taking the known and direct links, some of which do reach into the higher aristocracy and monarchy there is a growing number of people in each generation who connect and into the 18th Century they lead directly into the literary and theatrical life of London and The Midlands in that period.

If they accepted Shakespeare it is difficult to see how, with their background, it could be any other person. We begin with the Somerville family who are known to be close to Shakespeare, notably in his later life on retirement to New Place at Stratford.

In the 15th Century in the Guild of St. Anne at Balsall, near Coventry there were displayed the Arms of the Aylesbury family. Also in membership were some named Shakespeare. Where John Shakespeare, father of William or his family came from is not known. What is known is that his mother was Mary Arden understood to be related to a collateral branch of the major Arden family of Warwickshire.

They were based at Park Hall, now enclosed in Birmingham. The Aylesbury’s were based in Eastcote in the 16th Century between Birmingham and Coventry and not far from Balsall with holdings elsewhere. Late in the 15th Century the senior member of the Aylesbury died leaving only an heiress, Joan, who took with her on marriage the estate of Edstone, in Wootton Wawen just north of Stratford upon Avon.

She married a Somerville, so their estate in the immediate later generations was owed to the Aylesbury inheritance. Meanwhile the next male Aylesbury heir remained at Eastcote. At some time the Aylesbury’s acquired a property in London, Holborn in the Parish of St. Andrews, now overlooked by Mirror newspapers.

So in the time of Shakespeare William Aylesbury and his first wife, Anne Poole of Sapperton in the Gloucestershire Cotswolds were in and around Holborn, London and Warwickshire. At the same time the Somerville family had made a Corbett marriage.

The Poole’s were a major family at that time in Gloucestershire with as neighbours the Whittington’s who had moved down from their original estate at Pauntley. There had been a marriage. Also amongst the marriages are another major family, the Bridges, later Dukes of Chandos and rather further back a Rawley of Devon.

A short distance from Sapperton were the Marsh’s of Edgeworth, probably originally rich wool merchants from Cirencester who became minor landed gentry. Their story is a little later on. As well as those mentioned there were a whole clutch of families intermarried and in activities that inevitably must have transacted with those of the burghers of the major trading town of Stratford on Avon.

To return to Stratford, who was close in location and connections? At Alcester, there was the Willoughby family with a lineage in the maternal line derived from the great magnates of the 14th and 15th Centuries through a marriage to a Welles.

At Coughton there were the Throckmorton’s a family at the very centre of Elizabethan politics and The Court of Queen Elizabeth I. Across the river at Charlecote were the Lucy family, notable, if not at the highest levels.

Look at Edward Arden*, c1542-1583, who married Mary Throckmorton* and whose son-in-law was John Somerville*...Amongst the many Throckmorton marriages was a Bridges. One major branch of this family were located in Northant’s of which Sir Nicholas Throckmorton*, a major figure was the head.

Sir Nicholas married Ann Carew*, the daughter of Sir Nicholas Carew* and their daughter, Elizabeth (Bess) Throckmorton* was Maid of Honour to Queen Elizabeth I* before Sir Walter Raleigh* closed in married in haste and they both finished in The Tower of London where their first child was born.

Sir Nicholas Carew was related to Queen Elizabeth I by virtue of their shared ancestry from Sir Thomas of Hoo*. Lord of Hoo and Hastings. His father, also Sir Thomas of Hoo was at Agincourt as Knight of the Pennant to Thomas, Lord Camoys who commanded the Left Wing of the army. The younger Sir Thomas married twice, firstly to Elizabeth Witchingham and secondly to Eleanor of Welles.

Queen Elizabeth I descended from Geoffrey Boleyn and Ann of Hoo, daughter of the first marriage, whilst the Carew’s descended from the second marriage to Eleanor.

In 1578 the Queen visited Norwich and worshipped in the Cathedral. Her throne was directly opposite the tomb of Geoffrey and Ann and with the arms of Boleyn, Hoo, Witchingham, St. Leger and St. Omer emblazoned above it.

Lionel Lord Welles* died in 1461 at the Battle of Towton*. . His second marriage had been to the widow of John Beaufort, Duke of Exeter, Margaret Beaufort born a Beauchamp and mother of the Margaret Beaufort* who became Countess of Richmond and mother of King Henry VII.

Sir Nicholas Carew was one of the Companions and also Master of the Horse to King Henry VIII and Knight of the Garter until his beheading in 1539. He was of Plantagenet descent which if the Beaufort descent were disallowed on the basis of the births outside marriage of their ancestor meant he had a better claim to the throne than King Henry VIII.

One of the plays that Shakespeare is said to have had difficulty with is “King Richard II” dealing as it did with the overthrow of a rightful King. In this play there is the merest of hint of wider knowledge in the passing mention of Sir Robert Waterton.

Waterton was one of close followers of Bolingbroke, later King Henry IV* who may well have ridden with him in the Lithuanian Crusades. He was Constable of Pontefract Castle when King Richard II died there. Also, Waterton was the grandfather of Cecilia Waterton, the first wife of Lionel, Lord Welles and they are all buried together at Methley Church in the same tomb.

I did say it was complicated.

Back to Holborn in the time of William Shakespeare and to look at someone who was around, Sir Thomas Aylesbury 1st Baronet* (picture above), son of William and Anne Aylesbury of Eastcote and Holborn above and also brother to Anne (later).

His daughter, Frances married an up and coming lawyer, Edward Hyde* later Earl of Clarendon. Their daughter Anne Hyde* married James, Duke of York, later King James II* and was mother of Queen Mary II* and Queen Anne*.

Sir Thomas, in his poetic youth, apparently knew Richard Corbet or Corbett*, later Bishop of Oxford who frequented the Mermaid Tavern. Corbet was another poet whose works are largely forgotten.

Meanwhile, his sister Anne Aylesbury had married Francis Marsh of Edgeworth. His parents were Henry Marsh and Mary Leigh, daughter of Sir Nicholas Leigh of Addington*, in Surrey.

Sir Nicholas Leigh had married Anne Carew, sister of the Sir Nicholas Carew above and therefore Aunt to the Ann Carew who had married Sir Nicholas Throckmorton.

Another member of this Leigh family was Charles Leigh (died 1605)* a voyager of the later Elizabethan age who experiences seem to be close to those of the travellers in “The Tempest”.

The grandson of Francis Marsh and Mary was another Francis Marsh, Archbishop of Dublin* appointed by King Charles II* who was godfather to one of his sons, Charles Francis Marsh, in that he was close cousin to the Kings nieces, Mary and Anne by James and Ann Hyde. Charles Francis Marsh had a daughter Barbara Marsh. Queen Mary II was patroness to Henry Purcell, the composer who made use of Shakespeare.

The Archbishop’s wife was Mary Taylor, daughter of Bishop Jeremy Taylor* one of the leading Anglican clergy of his time and formerly Chaplain in Ordinary to King Charles I* having joined him at Nottingham in 1642 when he raised his standard against Parliament. Her mother was Phoebe Langsdale or Landisdale which brings us back to Holborn.

Phoebe’s father was Gervase (or Jarvis) Langsdale or Landisdale a leading Merchant who resided in Holborn and was buried at St. Andrews. In his will of the late 1620’s as well as money and property was £100 worth of tobacco. To be holding that amount of tobacco at that time suggests a range of business contacts that are interesting. Also, he was in Holborn and busy at the same time as the Aylesbury family.
In 1715 Barbara Marsh went on to marry the Very Reverend Wettenhall Sneyd and have 21 surviving children. This Sneyd family was wealthy gentry in Staffordshire; the University of Keele is based on the Keele Hall which was their major estate. In the 18th Century there were other branches in Staffordshire by Lichfield and in Ireland. Their lives were interwoven.

Also, close to Lichfield at this time were the Somerville family, having removed from Wootton Wawen and the senior Arden family removed to Yoxall, an early example of flight from an expanding Birmingham. It was at Lichfield that both Dr. Samuel Johnson* and David Garrick* enjoyed being mentored by Dr. Gilbert Walmisley*. There was quite a literary circle visiting.

Richard Lovell Edgeworth* was there from time to time, he married four times, twice to Sneyd girls. Anna Seward*, The Swan of Lichfield was in the area. A little further afield a Mrs. Ralph Sneyd became the lady on the Wedgwood pottery. For a time Richard Brinsley Sheridan” was MP for Stafford.

Which takes us to the Irish branch of the Sneyd’s and the family of Archdeacon Wettenhall Sneyd and Barbara Marsh based at Kilmore in Co. Cavan. This family were close to the Sheridan’s for several generations at one time being linked by marriage. Also in the area were Oliver Goldsmith before he went to London and the Nesbitt’s, of whom Arnold with others also went to London.

Arnold married Susannah Thrale, sister to the Henry Thrale whose wife, Hester was patroness of Dr. Samuel Johnson. Arnold, having no issue by marriage, and an MP made up for it by his affairs with actresses. To say that they were all intimately connected to the theatre of the time is no exaggeration.

Another complicated strand to all this is the Herveys, Earls of Bristol, the same Hervey’s whose Isabel had married Sir John Leigh of Addington, father of Nicholas. There are a number of other family possibilities and this is just a prime one.

To return to William Shakespeare and where he lived in London or who he spent time with other than the theatricals. There is very little known about this. But he had a wife and family in Stratford and possibly did not want much in the way of being responsible for a household in London.

So who did he lodge with and with whom did he eat and take his time? Moreover, who might have the room to give him space? If it was not one of the great lords it might well have been someone he knew and trusted from the wide circle of contacts from his home and district some of whom were wealthy enough to take in a non-paying guest with useful contacts.

More to the point, there were very many people close enough and knowing enough in both the London at that time and Warwickshire to know what he did write and what he was involved in. It is unlikely to have been much of a secret because so little was kept confidential in those times.

And that is not including the servants, the gossips and all those people unable to keep quiet about anything.

O for a muse of fire…………………

Brush Up Your Shakespeare

My grandma, who I knew quite well, knew her Dad who knew his grandma who knew her grandpa who knew his grandma who knew her father-in-law who knew his grandma, aunty to the lady above, whose family were adjacent to and connected by marriage to a family who knew William Shakespeare quite well. By my count The Bard wrote his own stuff albeit a great deal on a "cut and paste" basis for plots and themes.

There were just too many people around in Warwickshire and London then and later who would have been aware that he did not had that been the case and the later generations were around Lichfield at the time of Garrick and Johnson.

He would have made a great blogger. So there.

Oh For A Muse Of Fire

The man of learning and science had found a quiet place in the orchard of Woolsthorpe Manor, deep in the rolling country, where he could exercise his mind at leisure about matters beyond the ordinary business of his life. The nights were lengthening, and despite the warmth of the day and the dryness of weather, still he had begun to feel the dampness of the evenings, a sign of impending middle age. It was a reminder of what he should do, and he was glad to put aside the calling that had embraced him for so long. The pestilence in Cambridge had given him the opportunity for escape and time for contemplation. A new beginning must be made, for many years now he had earned little profit but a great deal of anxiety. Years of his life spent, never to be reclaimed, poring over ill written books, preparing ink to be spilt in useless words and symbols on dusty paper, trying to comprehend the gibbering of madmen and fools, in the dirt, foul habits, and smell of academia. Whenever he had tried to bring a new proposition forward he had brought down on his head a tirade of abuse and criticism. They were a precious, insufferable, mean minded group of men, the scholars, the scientists and the pretended logical mathematicians, and he wanted no more of them.

As for most of those who pretended to an interest in science, all they ever wanted to know was when lead might be made into gold or some distant light in the sky would bring them a rich widow. If he found the one, within a year all the church roofs would be stripped, and if the other, even more men of property would be found dead in their beds by a pillow dampened by the last breaths. He would be blamed by a howling mob and cast into The Fleet for necromancy and the casting of spells. The Royal Society were the worst asking for alchemists tricks to exclaim at, pretty light shows to gape at, or mountebanks’ surprises for their wonder. Show them the elegance of mathematics and the purity of reason and they could but sneer and sniff at their snuff. Hooke was everywhere, feeding their prejudices with his own puerile proofs, and having always visited the unknown before any other man.

Isaac knew he had many talents, and with the premium that poetry could command, never mind the Royal favours, the ladies with low décolletage, and all the personal adulation, he had arrived at the conclusion by a priori reasoning that it was time to make a little money. The difficulty was gauging and attracting the notice of the great persons of the Court. Rochester had risen in this way, and had died full of fame and respect. An end from well earned pox and drink in the fullness of life was inestimably better than one with a sermon and but a disputed calculation to leave as a memory. A shadow crossed his line of sight and he held his breath, waiting for the insult or the idiocy. “You be sitting on damp grass, good sir. You know the old saying, wet on the buttocks means rot in your futtocks.” Phoebe Langsdale waved a finger at her master and moved on, easing the basket of apples on the top of her well-fleshed thigh. Her family had come with the manor and the warning that a curse would fall on the owner who sent them packing. It must have been a most dreadful malediction to exceed the horrors of having Phoebe for a servant. She called over her shoulder, “And a hot day for the head means a chill night for your ears, shall I warm your night-cap?”

Isaac Newton banged the back of his head on the tree trunk to ease the anguish in his mind, and heard the rustle of leaves. Hell would be a room full of Phoebe’s chattering for eternity. He began to scribble, “I call upon thee! And compel! Thyself to be thy proper Hell!” He reflected, perhaps it was too pessimistic for the modern mind, and Phoebe would take some explaining, he would not want her to be mistaken for a lady close to his heart and body. Her voice floated from the kitchen, “When the nights be getting long, then old bones be not so strong.” Yes, it was autumn; Newton wrote again, “Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,” and then considered; after a few seconds he scratched it out. It was obvious and trite, and not worthy poetry. His mind began to form an idea about something for publication in the next spring, when the times would be better. He thoughts of daffodils and began to tease out the possibilities. “Cloud? Vales, hills? When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Lake, trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.” He looked at the paper, dear lord, this was dreadful stuff, and a reader would roll on the floor with mirth. The raucous cracked voice of the maid of all work again came to his ears. Oh mercy, she was singing “Greensleeves” again. It was a song of long ago; perhaps an ancient tale in verse would be a success. “The way was long, the wind was cold. The minstrel was infirm and old.” But where was the man, what was he doing, what was it all going to be about, could a poem of past times really begin in such a mundane way. Would any one of sense ever read on?

It was thanks to Phoebe that his latest attempt at publication had attracted such widespread criticism and anger. Had her voice and clumsy way of working had not so distracted him, the mathematics would not have contained such a simple and vital error. It was not that which had caused the trouble; it might soon have been rectified, along with other changes in the proof of the book. It was the loon Thomas Beverley who had read the script without his consent, perceived in his algebra that the world would expire in the coming January, and had rushed out a tract on the streets using Newton’s name to make his sales.

Every time Newton had entered hall at Trinity College thereafter, some drunken divine would call, “Still here, eh, Newton?” A great many of the pamphlets had been sold in taverns and amongst the dissenting sects, so almost the entire population of London had migrated to Hampstead, been frozen stiff and covered with a light dusting of snow. They were still burning effigies of Newton at crossroads in the revenge of those who cannot forget.

He picked up the pen again, “This the way the world ends Not with a bang but a whimper.” No, his mind must be tiring. Phoebe’s voice trilled again, amusing her small niece, “Ladies go nym. nym, nym; doctors go trot, trot, trot; butchers go galloper, galloper, galloper.” Newton shook his head. The pen moved again, another attempt, “Cast a cold eye On Life, on death. Horseman, pass by!” No, it implied a disrespect of faith, and the English was poor. Again came Phoebe’s counterpoint, “Ollie Cromwell, with an axe, hit Whining Wentworth forty whacks. When he saw what he had done, he hit King Charlie forty-one!” He felt a pang of pity for the niece, more of that and she would have a troubled life. But he shouted to Phoebe to have a care, these were difficult times. Silly sayings and malicious evidence could have a man sent to Hell or Connaught, or even worse Trinity at Dublin, where the drunkenness and excrescences defied even those of his own college.

Newton wrote, “As our life is very short, so it is very miserable, and therefore it is as well it is short.” Again it was wrong, he could not see, for example, the good people of Uppingham liking such a sentiment. But they did not matter in his schemes. They had only scraps of silver to offer. Newton wanted newly minted money, warm from the die, bags of it, spices, fat meats, the delights of the tropics, silks, and cushions for his seats, all the flattery and deference he could command with the full fruits of arrogance and power. All that would matter would be the celebration of his name.

Phoebe had fallen over the cat, and was beating it with a broom, another of its nine lives gone. Another beginning, “For he who lives more lives than one, More deaths than one must die.” This was ridiculous, a complete absence of wit or style. He was now at a loss. Along the lane Tom the Tranter was passing, a man capable of distracting even those who lay in the Churchyard and Newton heard the shouted proposition he made to Phoebe. He judged that if that was his appetite, then the tranter had been spending too much time with his horse. “You put your money where your mouth is!” was Phoebe’s rejoinder, confident that Tom was not a paying man.

Newton thought for a moment, money, he had to think of those who had it, there was the path to the garnering of wealth, something to appeal to the aristocracy; those beings who dictated success in all the arts; and in literature by their patronage. “”The Stately Homes of England, How beautiful they stand, To prove the Upper Classes, Have still the upper hand.” At last, the words of truth and understanding had come, he could see his way forward.

Phoebe stood over him again, “Well?” “We need a long talk about the housekeeping, master, I was three farthings short this week and…?” She talked for some time. He struggled with his jacket to pull out the purse while she rattled on, unceasingly. He stood, found the purse and thrust several pence into her hand. “Oh, not that much, master.” she said, giving him back some of the coin, and counting it three times. He sat down, picked up the pencil and paper again, shivered as he tried to concentrate, and realised that the trickle of consciousness had been lost. What was it to be; a great ducal palace he would call Xanadu, pleasure domes, walls and towers, a mighty fountain? All gone; flown from memory. The immortal verse that was to bring him fortune had been lost in the thickets of Phoebe’s tangled arithmetic. He banged the back of his head against the tree, and as he sat stiff, felt the blow of a large apple that had detached itself on his encouragement. It hit the crown of his head and added a sharp physical pain to the mental torment.

Newton stifled the scream of rage that was rising from his gorge. As her plump body lumbered its way towards the house he rose, picked up the apple, and threw it as hard as he could. He was never a sporting man, and he was well wide of the mark. The apple curved over her head and went out of sight beyond the hedge and into the rutted road. A moment later there was shouting and a red burned dirty face appeared through the branches of hornbeam. It was Tom the Tranter, returning from his errand, who waved his fist and swore at Phoebe. She shook hers back and pointed towards Newton. “One sin shall destroy a sinner!” she shouted, which only served to make Tom angrier and more obscene. Newton attempted to quiet him with humour, “What goes up must come down!” he cried with a forced laugh that was as ugly as his mood.

It was another error of judgment to add to the many he made in his dealings with the lower orders. This triggered a richer volley of abuse, for Tom was very angry. “Why should an honest work man be a thing for a rich man’s jest? Is not my life solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short enough for you? For a man of quality you be a damned fool and may you rot in hell.” Newton tried to make his peace, but did not altogether succeed. Tom though, did remember that he had trade from Newton in the past and might need more in the future, there were few enough men with any coin in this part of the country, and withdrew muttering and cursing his way down the road to Stainby.

Phoebe turned to Newton, “What goes up must come down, indeed!” She rubbed her hands fiercely on her apron. “My old dad, he says that for each action there is an equal and opposite reaction.” Phoebe sniffed with righteousness, and returned to her kitchen. Newton made his way back to the tree. He slumped back hard, causing the branches to sway and crackle. He picked up his pencil and paper again; now it was becoming late for poetry, mystery, and the beauty of language. The second apple hit him on the same part of the head as the first, and to mock him a shower of others bounced off his limbs.

Newton spent some minutes rehearsing Tom’s range of invective and embroidering it into his hatred for Phoebe. The vision of her became a pasty wobbling moon that obliterated the sun and the heavens from his mind. Her last mouthing was far, far, beyond the realms of madness and nonsense, and triggered the most powerful anger his temper could command. The whirl of his mind made him tremble that the universe would collapse in a blinding flash. Isaac relapsed into stilled silence for a full five minutes. Then, he began to doodle calculations below the scribbled and defaced words.