The Shakespeare Whodunit

A scholar tackles doubters on who wrote the plays; Hollywood weighs in.

Doubts about who really wrote the works of William Shakespeare only emerged 200 years after his death in 1616, many scholars say. But today the controversy seems more alive than ever. A Hollywood feature about how the Earl of Oxford secretly wrote Shakespeare’s plays went into production last month, and scholar James Shapiro tackles the authorship question in his new book “Contested Will: Who Wrote Shakespeare?”

Mr. Shapiro, a Columbia University English professor and author of “A Year in the Life of William Shakespeare: 1599,” says the authorship doubts stem partly from the modern notion that all art is autobiographical. The limited details about Shakespeare’s life, and his modest origins, have led thinkers from Sigmund Freud to Mark Twain to question whether Shakespeare had the education and experience to write his plays. Candidates for the “real” playwright include philosopher Francis Bacon, dramatist Christopher Marlowe and Edward de Vere, the Earl of Oxford.

Conspiracy theories about who wrote Shakespeare have flourished on the Internet. The anti-Shakespeare camp will likely get a boost from an upcoming film by Roland Emmerich, producer of “The Day After Tomorrow” and “2012.” The film, “Anonymous,” will star Vanessa Redgrave as Queen Elizabeth and Rhys Ifans (“Greenberg”) as Edward de Vere. Mr. Shapiro—who like the majority of scholars believes evidence points to Shakespeare—doesn’t just knock down the doubters. He also blames Shakespeareans who search for shreds of autobiography in the plays.

The Wall Street Journal: Very few serious Shakespeare scholars have taken on this controversy. Why did you decide to address it?

Mr. Shapiro: There are certain things you can’t say or do [in academia], and one of them is to talk about who wrote Shakespeare. But there are only so many times you can be asked that question. The straw that broke the back for me was when a fourth-grader asked me that question, and I realized, it has come to this. … After I finished the book, I learned that Roland Emmerich, the great Hollywood disaster movie guy, is coming out with a movie called “Anonymous.” And I’m thinking in the great game of rock-paper-scissors, movie beats book. At least I’m coming to the battle armed, and more than that, I’ll be able to say, this is the thinking that led to Emmerich’s film.

Why did you decide to explore the roots of the controversy rather than writing a straight rebuttal?

For two reasons. I didn’t write this book to be read by the people who don’t believe that Shakespeare wrote Shakespeare, and nothing, nothing I could say will change what is for them a matter of faith. And I know that because they’ve been reading and responding to the book in their online reviews and in the occasional hate letter to me, and they just feel that I haven’t come over to their side. The book’s really written not as a rejoinder to them, but to mainstream Shakespeare scholars who teach and write and believe that they know Shakespeare well enough to find his life in the works. The book really is about when the writing of Shakespeare’s life went off the rails.

Why do you think projecting the author’s life onto the plays is so problematic?

People say: What difference does it make who wrote the plays? It’s because either you believe he’s recycling bits and pieces of his life, or you believe that he imagined them, and I like to think that he had the greatest imagination of any writer in the language. And I don’t want that belittled.

What kind of reactions have you gotten from other Shakespeareans?

It’s early. The book isn’t out yet….I hope they’ll feel grateful that I did this so that they didn’t have to waste their time. That’s the way I would feel if somebody else had done it, so that I could be doing something more interesting…You gain and you lose writing a book like this. I lost a lot of respect for a couple of writers I really loved. I love Freud…and to discover that the Oedipal theory rests so precariously on the conviction that Shakespeare wrote “Hamlet” right after the death of his father, and then as soon as Freud learned that “Hamlet” was written before Shakespeare’s father’s death he thought, “Who’s out there whose father died before he wrote ‘Hamlet,’ I’ll go with him.” It’s hard to have the same degree of respect for as great a thinker even as Freud after that. And you know Mark Twain really plummeted for me.

Why is this debate still alive?

It may have something to do with what it means to live in a culture saturated by memoir and shaped by an Internet in which conspiracy theory really thrives.

The Internet is a vehicle for the debate, but there’s the question of why people still want to attribute the plays to someone else.

There are probably a half dozen reasons for that. One is—and I don’t go too much into this because I don’t think it’s really as dominant as some has made it to be—snobbishness, that a glover’s son couldn’t have written the plays. I don’t think that’s it. I think in truth, there were two stories that developed concurrently about Shakespeare in the 19th century. One was, this guy is a money grubber, because the only records that survived are public records of real-estate dealings and legal dealings. The biography is limited to the fragment of Shakespeare’s life that has to do with financial transactions. At the same time, he’s being turned into what David Garrick called “the god of our idolatry.” When the gap gets too big between the divine Shakespeare and the money-grubbing Shakespeare, something has to give. And what happens is, people say well, somebody else wrote the plays.

Some argue that Shakespeare lacked the experience to write about law and politics, so an aristocrat like Edward de Vere must have written the plays.

That’s the lamest argument. Shakespeare performed at court over 100 times probably in the course of his career, and was as close to the action as a White House reporter is today. He had his sources, observed the main figures, he’s in a better position than many, as a court observer, than those who were at court themselves. That argument doesn’t have legs.

Have Shakespeare’s supporters hurt their cause by refusing to debate the doubters?

Sure. They were hoping it would go away obviously, just as scientists were hoping Intelligent Design would go away…The difference between these two subjects is that Shakespeare scholars share fundamental assumptions about the biography, or finding the life in the works, as those who don’t believe that Shakespeare wrote Shakespeare. Once you take away the argument that the life can be found in the works, those who don’t believe Shakespeare wrote Shakespeare don’t have any argument left… There’s no documentary evidence linking their 50 or so candidates to the plays.

You also point out that Shakespeare scholars have been reluctant to admit that he collaborated on many of his plays. Why are some experts so uncomfortable with that idea?

I’m still uncomfortable with it! Everybody is, because we’re creatures that want to think of a single consciousness creating a great work of literature. So when the greatest Shakespeare scholar of the 20th century, E.K. Chambers, was confronted with the evidence of two voices in “Timon of Athens,” he said, well, Shakespeare must have had a mental breakdown writing this, and now we know that he wrote it with [Thomas] Middleton.

You suggest that part of the reason people doubt Shakespeare’s authorship is the modern tendency to expect that all writers are baring their souls and all works of art are confessional.

You know, if you watch Oprah every day, that makes really good sense—and I do! And then I have to stop myself and say, wait a second, that’s not what they did back then. This is a long footnote to the way we read now. That’s what this whole controversy is about.

Do you think that scholars might give up trying to read Shakespeare’s life into his plays at some point?

I’m trying to, I wouldn’t say shame, fellow Shakespeareans into doing that. Every half century of so someone writes a piece like this.

There’s money in Shakespeare biography…I should know, I’ve written one…And people want a good story, and the good story’s going to have to turn on some kind of imagined sexual or psychological or religious crisis in Shakespeare’s life, of which we have no documentary evidence—which is great, so you can spin the story how ever you want. So this is a book that argues against the possibility of a cradle-to-grave biography of Shakespeare. I have no doubt that there are elements of Shakespeare’s life that appear in the plays. But having spent 25 years reading and teaching those plays, I don’t know how anyone has the authority to say when and how these aspects of his life shape his works. It’s lost. We can get a little closer with Philip Roth, or [J.M.] Coetzee, who are always flirting with the autobiographical, but not that close.

Are scholars still looking for more evidence that could settle the authorship controversy, or has everything been turned over repeatedly?

We do find more evidence every few years that points to Shakespeare. I think it would be more valuable if scholars, rather than turning over the evidence again, looked more closely at the assumptions governing the way that they read and teach the works and try to find the life in the works. I think if you turn off that faucet and suggest that others can’t engage in that fantasy either, I think that will starve the controversy of a lot of its oxygen.

Where do you think the debate is headed?

I think the movie is going to give it a lot of attention. Any time Roland Emmerich does something, it’s big. It’s not a traditional disaster movie except insofar as it will be a disaster for those of us who teach Shakespeare. I think that will be an interesting moment. I don’t know how it’s going to play out.

Alexandra Alter, Wall Street Journal

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Full article and photo: http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052702304252704575155921607307034.html

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See also:

Contested Will

Prologue

This is a book about when and why many people began to question whether William Shakespeare wrote the plays long attributed to him, and, if he didn’t write them, who did.

There’s surprising consensus on the part of both skeptics and defenders of Shakespeare’s authorship about when the controversy first took root. Whether you get your facts from the Dictionary of National Biography or Wikipedia, the earliest documented claim dates back to 1785, when James Wilmot, an Oxford-trained scholar who lived a few miles outside of Stratford-upon-Avon, began searching locally for Shakespeare’s books, papers, or any indication that he had been an author—and came up empty-handed. Wilmot gradually came to the conclusion that someone else, most likely Sir Francis Bacon, had written the plays. Wilmot never published what he learned and near the end of his life burned all his papers. But before he died he spoke with a fellow researcher, a Quaker from Ipswich named James Corton Cowell, who later shared these findings with members of the Ipswich Philosophic Society.

Cowell did so in a pair of lectures delivered in 1805 that survive in a manuscript now located in the University of London’s Senate House Library, in which he confesses to being “a renegade” to the Shakespearean “faith.” Cowell was converted by Wilmot’s argument that “there is nothing in the writings of Shakespeare that does not argue the long and early training of the schoolman, the traveler, and the associate of the great and learned. Yet there is nothing in the known life of Shakespeare that shows he had any one of the qualities.” Wilmot is credited with being the first to argue, as far back as the late eighteenth century, for an unbridgeable rift between the facts of Shakespeare’s life and what the plays and poems reveal about their author’s education and experience. But both Wilmot and Cowell were ahead of their time, for close to a half-century passed before the controversy resurfaced in any serious or sustained way.

Since 1850 or so, thousands of books and articles have been published urging that someone other than Shakespeare wrote the plays. At first, bibliographers tried to keep count of all the works inspired by the controversy. By 1884 the list ran to 255 items; by 1949, it had swelled to over 4,500. Nobody bothered trying to keep a running tally after that, and in an age of blogs, websites, and online forums it’s impossible to do justice to how much intellectual energy has been—and continues to be—devoted to the subject. Over time, and for all sorts of reasons, leading artists and intellectuals from all walks of life joined the ranks of the skeptics. I can think of little else that unites Henry James and Malcolm X, Sigmund Freud and Charlie Chaplin, Helen Keller and Orson Welles, or Mark Twain and Sir Derek Jacobi.

It’s not easy keeping track of all the candidates promoted as the true author of Shakespeare’s plays and poems. The leading contenders nowadays are Edward de Vere (the Earl of Oxford) and Sir Francis Bacon. Christopher Marlowe, Mary Sidney, the Earl of Derby, and the Earl of Rutland have attracted fewer though no less ardent supporters. And more than fifty others have been proposed as well—working alone or collaboratively—including Sir Walter Ralegh, John Donne, Anne Whateley, Robert Cecil, John Florio, Sir Philip Sidney, the Earl of Southampton, Queen Elizabeth, and King James. A complete list is pointless, for it would soon be outdated. During the time I’ve been working on this book, four more names have been put forward: the poet and courtier Fulke Greville, the Irish rebel William Nugent, the poet Aemelia Lanier (of Jewish descent and thought by some to be the unnamed Dark Lady of the Sonnets), and the Elizabethan diplomat Henry Neville. New candidates will almost surely be proposed in years to come. While the chapters that follow focus on Francis Bacon and the Earl of Oxford—whose candidacies are the best documented and most consequential—it’s not because I believe that their claims are necessarily stronger than any of these others. An exhaustive account of all the candidates, including those already advanced and those waiting in the wings, would be both tedious and futile, and for reasons that will soon become clear, Bacon and Oxford can be taken as representative.

Much of what has been written about the authorship of Shakespeare’s plays follows the contours of a detective story, which is not all that surprising, since the authorship question and the “whodunit” emerged at the same historical moment. Like all good detective fiction, the Shakespeare mystery can be solved only by determining what evidence is credible, retracing steps, and avoiding false leads. My own account in the pages that follow is no different. I’ve spent the past twenty-five years researching and teaching Shakespeare’s works at Columbia University. For some, that automatically disqualifies me from writing fairly about the controversy on the grounds that my professional investments are so great that I cannot be objective. There are a few who have gone so far as to hint at a conspiracy at work among Shakespeare professors and institutions, with scholars paid off to suppress information that would undermine Shakespeare’s claim. If so, somebody forgot to put my name on the list.

My graduate school experience taught me to be skeptical of unexamined historical claims, even ones that other Shakespeareans took on faith. I had wanted to write my doctoral dissertation on “Shakespeare and the Jews” but was told that since there were no Jews in Shakespeare’s England there were no Jewish questions, and I should turn my attention elsewhere. I reluctantly did so, but years later, after a good deal of research, I learned that both claims were false: there was in fact a small community of Jews living in Elizabethan London, and many leading English writers at that time wrestled in their work with questions of Jewish difference (in an effort to better grasp what constituted English identity). That experience, and the book that grew out of it, taught me the value of revisiting truths universally acknowledged.

There yet remains one subject walled off from serious study by Shakespeare scholars: the authorship question. More than one fellow Shakespearean was disheartened to learn that I was committing my energies to it, as if somehow I was wasting my time and talent, or worse, at risk of going over to the dark side. I became increasingly interested in why this subject remains virtually taboo in academic circles, as well as in the consequences of this collective silence. One thing is certain: the decision by professors to all but ignore the authorship question hasn’t made it disappear. If anything, more people are drawn to it than ever. And because prominent Shakespeareans—with the notable exceptions of Samuel Schoenbaum, Jonathan Bate, Marjorie Garber, Gary Taylor, Stanley Wells, and Alan Nelson—have all but surrendered the field, general readers curious about the subject typically learn about it through the books and websites of those convinced that Shakespeare could never have written the plays.

This was forcefully brought home not long ago when I met with a group of nine-year-olds at a local elementary school to talk about Shakespeare’s poetry. When toward the end of the class I invited questions, a quiet boy on my left raised his hand and said: “My brother told me that Shakespeare really didn’t write Romeo and Juliet. Is that true?” It was the kind of question I was used to hearing from undergraduates on the first day of a Shakespeare course or from audience members at popular lectures, but I hadn’t expected that doubts about Shakespeare’s authorship had filtered down to the fourth grade.

Not long after, at the Bank Street Bookstore, the best children’s bookstore in New York City, I ran into a colleague from the history department buying a stack of books for her twelve-year-old daughter. On the top of her pile was a young adult paperback by Elise Broach, Shakespeare’s Secret, which I learned from those who worked at the store was a popular title. I bought a copy. It’s a fascinating and fast-paced detective story about a diamond necklace that once belonged to Queen Elizabeth. The mystery of the necklace is worked out only when another mystery, concerning who wrote Shakespeare’s plays, is solved.

The father of the story’s young heroine is a Shakespeare scholar at the “Maxwell Elizabethan Documents Collection in Washington, D.C.” (whose “vaulted ceilings” and “long, shining wood tables” bear a striking resemblance to those of the Folger Shakespeare Library). He tells his curious daughter that there’s “no proof, of course, but there are some intriguing clues” that “Edward de Vere, the seventeenth Earl of Oxford” was “the man who might be Shakespeare.” When she asks him why people think Oxford might have written the plays, he explains that Oxford had “the perfect background, really. He was clever, well educated, well traveled,” and “events of his life bear a fascinating resemblance to events in Shakespeare’s plays.” He adds that “most academics still favor Shakespeare,” though “over the years, Oxford has emerged as a real possibility.” But it doesn’t take her long to suspect that Shakespeare wasn’t the author after all; by page 45, after learning that Shakespeare “couldn’t even spell his own name,” she decides: “Okay, so maybe he didn’t write the plays.”

An unusual twist to the story is the suggestion that Queen Elizabeth and the Earl of Oxford had a clandestine relationship, which explains why Oxford couldn’t claim credit for writing the plays falsely attributed to Shakespeare: “If there were some connection between Oxford and Elizabeth that meant the royal name would be besmirched by his ambitions as a playwright.” In the end, the secret of the necklace reveals “that Edward de Vere was Elizabeth’s son.” More surprising still is the hint that the relationship between son and mother didn’t end there, for when he came of age, Oxford “might have been her lover” as well.

Elise Broach provides an author’s note in which she explains that the “case for Edward de Vere as Shakespeare is compelling,” and that while “there is no proof that Edward de Vere was the son of Elizabeth I, there is clear evidence of a connection between them, and the notion that he might have been either her lover or her son continues to be discussed.” As for her own views: “As a historian” (who did graduate work in history at Yale) “I don’t find the evidence to be complete enough—yet—to topple the man from Stratford from his literary pedestal. But as a novelist, I am more convinced.”

I put the book down, relieved that the nine-year-old boy had stuck to Shakespeare’s authorship and not asked me about Queen Elizabeth’s incestuous love life. The question of how schoolchildren could learn to doubt whether Shakespeare wrote the plays may have been answered, but only to be replaced by more vexing ones: What led a writer as thoughtful and well informed as Elise Broach to arrive at this solution? What underlying assumptions—about concealed identity, Elizabethan literary culture, and especially the autobiographical nature of the plays—enabled such a conception of Shakespeare’s authorship to take hold? And when and why had such changes in understanding occurred?

In taking this set of questions as my subject, this book departs from previous ones about the authorship controversy. Earlier books have focused almost exclusively on what people have claimed, that is, whether it was Shakespeare or someone else who wrote the plays. The best of these books—and there are a number of excellent ones written both by advocates and by those skeptical of Shakespeare’s authorship—set out well-rehearsed arguments for and against Shakespeare and his many rivals. Consulting them, or a handful of online discussion groups such as “The Shakespeare Fellowship” (for a pro-Oxford bias), “The Forest of Arden” (for a pro-Shakespeare one), and “Humanities.Literature.Authors.Shakespeare” (for a glimpse of how nasty things can get), will offer a sense of where the battle lines are currently drawn, but will fail to make clear how we got to where we are now and how it may be possible to move beyond what seems like endless trench warfare.

Shakespeare scholars insist that Christopher Marlowe could not have written plays dated as late as 1614 because he was killed in 1593, and that the Earl of Oxford couldn’t have either, because he died in 1604, before Lear, Macbeth, and eight or so other plays were written. Marlowe’s defenders counter that Marlowe wasn’t in fact killed; his assassination was staged and he was secretly hustled off to the Continent, where he wrote the plays now known as Shakespeare’s. Oxfordians respond that despite what orthodox scholars say, nobody knows the dates of many of Shakespeare’s late plays, and in any case Oxford could easily have written them before his death. Shakespeareans reply that there is not a shred of documentary evidence linking anyone else to the authorship of the plays; advocates of rival candidates respond that there is plenty of circumstantial evidence—and, moreover, many reasons to doubt Shakespeare’s claim. Positions are fixed and debate has proven to be futile or self-serving. The only thing that has changed over time is how best to get one’s message across. Until twenty years ago, it was mainly through books and articles; since then the Web has played an increasingly crucial role. Those who would deny Shakespeare’s authorship, long excluded from publishing their work in academic journals or through university presses, are now taking advantage of the level playing field provided by the Web, especially such widely consulted and democratic sites as Wikipedia.

My interest, again, is not in what people think—which has been stated again and again in unambiguous terms—so much as why they think it. No doubt my attitude derives from living in a world in which truth is too often seen as relative and in which mainstream media are committed to showing both sides of every story. Groups are locked in opposition, proponents gravitating to their own kind, reinforced in their beliefs by like-minded (and potentially closed-minded) communities. There are those who believe in intelligent design and those who swear by the theory of evolution; there are those who believe that life begins at conception and those who don’t. Then there are those whose view of the world is shaped for better or worse by conspiracy, so while most are convinced that astronauts walked on the moon, some believe that this event was staged. More disturbingly, there are those who survived the Holocaust and those who maintain it never happened. I don’t believe that truth is relative or that there are always two sides to every story. At the same time, I don’t want to draw a naive comparison between the Shakespeare controversy and any of these other issues. I think it’s a mistake to do so, except insofar as it too turns on underlying assumptions and notions of evidence that cannot be reconciled. Yet unlike some of these other controversies, I think it’s possible to get at why people have come to believe what they believe about Shakespeare’s authorship, and it is partly in the hope of doing so that I have written this book.

I should say at this point that I happen to believe that William Shakespeare wrote the plays and poems attributed to him, a view left unshaken by the years of study I have devoted to this subject (and toward the end of this book I’ll explain in some detail why I think so). But I take very seriously the fact that some brilliant writers and thinkers who matter a great deal to me—including Sigmund Freud, Henry James, and Mark Twain—have doubted that Shakespeare wrote the plays. Through their published and unpublished reflections on Shakespeare I’ve gained a much sharper sense of what is contested and ultimately at stake in the authorship debate. Their work has also helped me unravel a mystery at the heart of the controversy: Why, after two centuries, did so many people start questioning whether Shakespeare wrote the plays?

There’s another mystery, often and easily confused with this one, that I cannot solve, though it continues to haunt both Shakespeareans and skeptics alike: What led to the playwright’s emergence (whomever one imagines he or she was) as such an extraordinary writer? As for the formative years of William Shakespeare—especially the decade or so between his marriage to Anne Hathaway in the early 1580s and his reappearance in London in the early 1590s, by now an aspiring poet and playwright—they are called the “lost years” for a reason. Was he a lawyer, a butcher, a soldier, or teaching in a Catholic household in Lancashire during those years, as some have surmised? We simply don’t know. No less inscrutable is the “contested will” to which the dying Shakespeare affixed his signature in 1616. The surviving three-page document makes no mention of his books or manuscripts. And, notoriously, the only thing that Shakespeare bequeathed in it to his wife, Anne, was a “second best bed.” Not only the nature of their marriage but also the kind of man Shakespeare was seems bound up in this bequest. Was he referring, perhaps, to the guest bed or alternatively to the marital bed they had shared? Was he deliberately treating his wife shabbily in the will or did he simply assume that a third of his estate—the “widow’s dower”—was automatically her share? We don’t know and probably never shall, though such unanswerable questions continue to fuel the mystery surrounding his life and work.

With these challenges in mind, this book first sets out to trace the controversy back to its origins, before considering why many formidable writers came to question Shakespeare’s authorship. I quickly discovered that biographers of Freud, Twain, and James weren’t keen on looking too deeply into these authors’ doubts about Shakespeare. As a result, I encountered something rare in Shakespeare studies: archival material that was unsifted and in some cases unknown. I’ve also revisited the life and works of the two most influential figures in the controversy, the allegedly “mad” American woman, Delia Bacon, who first made the case for Francis Bacon, and the schoolmaster J. T. Looney, the first to propose that Edward de Vere, the seventeenth Earl of Oxford, was the true author of the plays. For a debate that largely turns on how one understands the relationship of Shakespeare’s life and works, there has been disappointingly little attention devoted to considering how Bacon’s and Looney’s experiences and worldviews determined the trajectory of their theories of authorship. Scholars on both sides of the debate have overlooked a great deal by taking these two polemicists at their word.

More than any subject I’ve ever studied, the history of the authorship question is rife with forgeries and deception. I now approach all claims about Shakespeare’s identity with caution, taking into account when each discovery was made and how it altered previous biographical assumptions. I’ve also come to understand that the authorship controversy has turned on a handful of ideas having little directly to do with Shakespeare but profoundly altering how his life and works would be read and interpreted. Some of these ideas came from debates about biblical texts, others from debates about classical ones. Still others had to do with emerging notions of the autobiographical self. As much as those on both sides of the controversy like to imagine themselves as independent thinkers, their views are strongly constrained by a few powerful ideas that took hold in the early nineteenth century.

While Shakespeare was a product of an early modern world, the controversy over the authorship of his works is the creation of a modern one. As a result, there’s a danger of reading the past through contemporary eyes—from what Shakespeare’s contested will really meant to how writers back then might have drawn upon personal experiences in their works. A secondary aim of this book, then, is to show how Shakespeare is not our contemporary, nor as universal as we might wish him to be. Anachronistic thinking, especially about how we can gain access to writers’ lives through their plays and poems, turns out to be as characteristic of supporters of Shakespeare’s authorship as it is of skeptics. From this vantage, the long-standing opposition between the two camps is misleading, for they have more in common than either side is willing to concede. These shared if unspoken assumptions may in fact help explain the hostility that defines their relationship today, and I’ll suggest that there may be more useful ways of defining sides in this debate. I’ll also argue that Shakespeare scholars, from the late eighteenth century until today, bear a greater responsibility than they acknowledge for both the emergence and the perpetuation of the authorship controversy.

The evidence I continued to uncover while researching this book made it hard to imagine how anyone before the 1840s could argue that Shakespeare didn’t write the plays. This working assumption couldn’t easily be reconciled with the received history of the controversy, one that, as noted earlier, goes back to James Wilmot in 1785, or at least to James Cowell in 1805. Aware of this uncomfortable fact, I held off until the very end of my research on consulting the Cowell manuscript in the Durning-Lawrence Library at Senate House Library in London. Before I called it up I knew as much as others who had read about this unpublished and rarely examined work. It was one of the jewels of a great collection of materials touching on the life and works of Francis Bacon, assembled at great expense by Sir Edwin Durning-Lawrence and, after his death in 1914, by his widow, Edith Jane Durning Smith, who shared his keen interest in the authorship controversy. Upon her death in 1929, the collection was bequeathed to the University of London, and by 1931 the transfer of materials was complete. A year later the leading British scholar Allardyce Nicoll announced in the pages of the Times Literary Supplement in an essay titled “The First Baconian” the discovery of Cowell’s lectures. It was Nicoll who put the pieces of the puzzle together, relying heavily on a biography written in 1813 by Wilmot’s niece, Olivia Wilmot Serres. Serres’s account, while not mentioning her uncle’s meeting with Cowell or his Shakespeare research, nonetheless confirmed that Wilmot was a serious man of letters, had lived near Stratford, was an admirer of Francis Bacon, and had indeed burned his papers. Nicoll was less successful in tracing James Corton Cowell, concluding that he “seems to have been a Quaker” on the grounds that “he was in all probability closely related to the well-known Orientalist E. B. Cowell, who was born at Ipswich in 1828.”

Armed with this information, I turned to the lectures themselves, which made for gripping reading—how Cowell began as a confirmed Shakespearean, how his fortuitous encounter with Wilmot changed all that, how Wilmot anticipated a widely accepted reading of Love’s Labour’s Lost by a century, and perhaps most fascinating of all, how Wilmot uncovered stories of “odd characters living at or near Stratford on the Avon with whom Shakespeare must have been familiar,” including “a certain man of extreme ugliness and tallness who blackmailed the farmers under threat of bewitching their cattle,” as well as “a legend of showers of cakes at Shrovetide and stories of men who were rendered cripples by the falling of these cakes.” I thought it a shame that Cowell had not taken even better notes.

And then my heart skipped when I came upon the following words: “it is strange that Shakespeare whose best years had been spent in a profitable and literary vocation should return to an obscure village offering no intellectual allurement and take up the very unromantic business of a money lender and dealer in malt.” The sentence seemed innocuous enough; scholars and skeptics alike have long drawn attention to these well-known facts about Shakespeare’s business dealings. But having long focused more on when than on what people thought what they did about Shakespeare, I remembered that these details were unknown in 1785, or even in 1805. Records showing that Shakespeare’s household stockpiled grain in order to produce malt were not discovered until the early 1840s (and first published in 1844 by John Payne Collier). And it wasn’t until 1806 that the Stratford antiquarian R. B. Wheler made public the first of what would turn out to be several documents indicating that Shakespeare had engaged in money lending (in this case, how in 1609 Shakespeare had a Stratford neighbor named John Addenbrooke arrested for failing to repay a small sum). While an unsent letter in which another neighbor asks Shakespeare for a loan had been discovered in the late eighteenth century, the scholar who found it chose not to announce or share his discovery; it remained otherwise unknown until 1821. So Shakespeare’s grain hoarding and money lending didn’t become biographical commonplaces until the Victorian era.

The word “unromantic” in the same sentence should have tipped me off; though there was a recorded instance of its use before 1800, it wasn’t yet in currency at the time Cowell was supposedly writing. Whoever wrote these lectures purporting to be from 1805 had slipped up. I was looking at a forgery, and an unusually clever one at that, which on further examination almost surely dated from the early decades of the twentieth century. That meant the forger was probably still alive—and enjoying a satisfied laugh at the expense of the gulled professor—when Allardyce Nicoll had announced this discovery in the pages of the TLS. The forger had brazenly left other hints, not least of all the wish attributed to Cowell that “my material may be used by others regardless whence it came for it matters little who made the axe so that it cut.” And there were a few other false notes, including one pointed out by a letter writer responding to Nicoll’s article, that Cowell had gotten his Warwickshire geography wrong. It also turns out that Serres, the author of Nicoll’s main corroborative source (the biography of Wilmot) was a forger and fantasist. Much of her biographical account (including the burning of Wilmot’s papers) was invented, and she later changed her story, asserting she was actually Wilmot’s granddaughter and the illegitimate daughter of King George III. Her case was even discussed in Parliament and it took a trial to expose her fraudulent claim to be of royal descent. So Olivia Serres, at the source of the Cowell forgery, would also prove to be the pattern of a Shakespeare claimant: a writer of high lineage mistaken for someone of humbler origins, whose true identity deserved to be acknowledged.

I’ve not been able to discover who forged the Cowell manuscript; that mystery will have to be solved by others. His or her motives (or perhaps theirs) cannot fully be known, though it’s worth hazarding a guess or two. Greed perhaps figured, for there is a record of payment for the manuscript of the not inconsiderable sum of eight pounds, eight shillings—though this document may have been planted, and we simply don’t as yet know when or how the Cowell manuscript became part of the Durning-Lawrence collection. But, given how much time and care went into the forgery, a far likelier motive was the desire on the part of a Baconian to stave off the challenge posed by supporters of the Earl of Oxford, who by the 1920s threatened to surpass Bacon as the more likely author of Shakespeare’s works, if in fact he had not done so already. A final motive was that it reassigned the discovery of Francis Bacon’s authorship from a “mad” American woman to a true-born Englishman, a quiet, retiring man of letters, an Oxford-educated rector from the heart of England. Wilmot also stood as a surrogate for the actual author of Shakespeare’s plays: a well-educated man believed to have written pseudonymously who refused to claim credit for what he wrote and nearly denied posterity knowledge of the truth.

All of the major elements of the authorship controversy come together in the tangled story of Wilmot, Cowell, Serres, and the nameless forger—which serves as both a prologue and a warning. The following pages retrace a path strewn with a great deal more of the same: fabricated documents, embellished lives, concealed identity, pseudonymous authorship, contested evidence, bald-faced deception, and a failure to grasp what could not be imagined.

From “Contested Will” by James Shapiro

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