Here’s wishing Edward de Vere, the 17th Earl of Oxford, an only slightly belated, and very happy, four-hundred seventy-fifth birthday as of yesterday, April 12.
He was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, succeeding to his position as Earl when he was only eight years old, and he kept the side up by marrying William Cecil’s daughter Anne in 1571. (William Cecil, Lord Burghley, was, for some time, Elizabeth I’s most senior advisor. His son Robert, Lord Salisbury, was the recipient of one of Elizabeth’s most widely quoted pearls of wisdom, just before she died, and after he had told her that she must retire to bed and rest):
Little man. The word “must” is not to be used to princes.
While never a part of the formal Elizabethan government (his position as Earl of Oxford did entitle him to ceremonial recognition as England’s “Master Chamberlain”), Edward de Vere, a poet, a character, an energetic personality, a charmer–one who amused the monarch–and someone who might, these days, be referred to as an “influencer,” was a court favorite and, over the course of the twentieth century, became the frontrunner for consideration as the “real” author of Shakespeare’s plays. That movement began with the publication, in 1920, of J. Thomas-Looney’s (sometimes the jokes just write themselves) Shakespeare Identified, and has remained a popular subject for both professional and amateur historians, and in scholarly and fictional depictions of the era ever since.
Unfortunately, none of the above encomiums (encomia?) is what poor Edward de Vere, 17th Earl of Oxford, gentleman, poet, hothead, courtier, rake, is most remembered for.
That would be the one day in his life that he presented himself before his Queen, bowing low and making the required formal obeisance. And, while doing so, had what we might in the twenty-first century refer to as an “intestinal malfunction,” as he loudly, and fruitily, broke wind.
He was so mortified and embarrassed by this terrible faux pas and show of disrespect to Her Majesty that he ran from the Court, and did not show his face again there for seven years, spending them (enjoyably, I’m sure) traveling on the Continent.
Just imagine this, BTW. And long for the day that a prominent individual in Washington DC or London could feel the same sense of shame for one of his non-stop verbal (or worse) eructations and would, as a result, take himself out of our sight for the better part of a decade.
Dream on.
Meanwhile, back in the sixteenth century and after the better part of a decade in the sticks and the nether regions of Europe (trust me, that’s how the Brits thought of them then, and that’s how they think of them now), our hero finally plucked up the courage to return to Court, and presented himself to his Queen, practically crawling to her feet (without eruptive incident, this time), apologizing yet again, and begging her forgiveness for being absent from her side for so long.
And Elizabeth looked down at him, poor, shamed worm that he was, and, obviously wanting to put him at his ease, smiled, and delivered herself of this devastating remark:
“My Lord, I had quite forgott the Fart.”**
Ah. Noblesse Oblige. A clapped-out old concept in this egalitarian time, this idea that our “betters” should act with generosity and nobility towards those less privileged than themselves. (For a primer on what might be called Ignoblesse Disoblige, look no further than the old “basket of deplorables” remark from Hillary Clinton. Or perhaps–for a more recent example–a comment from just a few months ago in which Joe Biden references the “garbage” Trump supporters.
Oxford’s later years were peppered with allegations of influence-peddling, and personal and political malfeasance, although he largely maintained the Queen’s favor, as can be seen in Edmund Spenser’s dedication of one of his sonnets to Oxford the poet, something he’d likely not have done had Oxford been persona non grata at Court. After Elizabeth died in March 1603, Oxford (who’d suffered poor health for some time), followed her along just fifteen months later at the age of only 54.
Here’s one of his poems:
Were I a king I could command content.
Were I obscure, unknown should be my cares.
And were I dead, no thoughts should me torment,
Nor words, nor wrongs, nor loves, nor hopes, nor fears.
A doubtful choice, of three things one to crave,
A kingdom, or a cottage, or a grave.
Heh. Maybe–for sure–he wrote Thomas Grey’s Elegy as well…
Edward de Vere, Rest in Peace.
**Story as told by John Aubrey in his 1693 edition of Brief Lives, a gossipy account of life among the noble, the entitled, and the famous.
