The Prologue
It was a custom of old to introduce a play with a prologue, in which was struck the keynote of the theme, to attune the sympathies of the auditors to the scheme of the drama about to be unfolded to view; so I venture to follow the ancient fashion, since All the world’s a stage And all the men and women merely players.
The action of our drama lies within the meager compass of a half-century, between the meridian splendour of the last Tudor reign and the waning of that of the first Stuart, a period crowded with events of more real import to the English race than any other in its annals. It was an era of feudal splendour emblazoned banners plumes purple and cloth of gold the glint and clangour of steel ruthless emblems of autocratic rule. It was, too, one of cruelty and corruption; of an illiteracy hampered by a rude jargon of popular speech, the survival of a less civilized age.
As the pageant in imagination sweeps on before our eyes amid the moil and murk of the
streets, riding high on the tumultuous waves of applause from the mob, in whose shadowy minds it seemed a realization of the visions of old romance, of which they had glimpses in filthy inn-yards, and the low theatres in the purlieus of Shoreditch and Moor fields, we wonder if this tinsel can be transmuted into gold, this rude speech transformed into the expression of a divine ideal.
Outside of these hopeless conditions, rumours of wars, of Jesuit plots, of Scotch intrigues, filled the public mind with apprehension of evil; for there was no time when the black shadow of Spain’s mailed hand did not dim the glow of English firesides; no time in which the suspicion of French dissimulation did not give edge to the fears of an entente with the ogre of the Escorial.
Yet this epoch had its heroes Drake, who through fire and blood encompassed the world; Gilbert, who sang his swan song amid tempest and gloom, triumphant in the thought that heaven was as near him as in his beloved Devonshire; Frobisher, who drove his frail keel through the ice-locked portals of Boreal seas; and scores of others, who, on sea and land, proved the invincible courage of the English heart. Those in power, however, paid them scant heed, and they played their great roles, and made their exits, leaving no deep impress upon the minds of their contemporaries, except, perhaps, Drake, who struck Spain such a staggering blow that it stirred the enthusiasm of his phlegmatic countrymen, though his stingy sovereign haggled over its cost.
However imperfect and inadequate this outline of a remark able epoch, it seems beyond credence that it held a capability of reformation; yet it is true that during its existence a remarkable transformation took place in the thought and expression of the English mind. The language of Tudor England, defiled by the barbarisms of a rude age, began to purge itself of its crudities, and to enrich its vocabulary with new vehicles of thought, giving it flexibility, and enlarging its scope of expression. To realize what was accomplished within the brief period we have named, it will be suggestive to compare the King James version of one of the psalms, or Bacon’s New Atlantis,” with this excerpt from the dedication of a poem to Lord Wilton in 1576, by George Gascoigne, one of the foremost literary men of his day: “I have loitered (my lord) I confess, I have lien streaking me (like a lubber) when the sun did shine, and now strive all in vain to load the carte when it raineth. I regarded not my comeliness in the May-moon of my yvthe, and yet now I stand prinking me in the glass when the crow’s feet is grown under mine eye.” Or this from a letter of Queen Elizabeth in 1594: “What danger it breeds a king to glorify to hide and to suddenly a boy of years and conduit, whose untimely age for discretion breeds rash consent to indecent actions. Such speak or the way, and attempt or the consider. The weight of a kingly state is of more poix than the shallowness of a rash young man’s head can weigh, therefore I trust that the causeless zeal that you have borne the head of this presumption shall rather carry you to extirpate so ungracious a root, in finding so sour fruit to spring of your many favours evil-acquitted, rather than to suffer your goodness to be abused with his many excuses for colours of his good meanings.” 1
We may well inquire how this change was inaugurated and carried to a successful issue. It could not have sprung up and come to fruition by dissociated individual effort. A presiding genius was required to foster and direct its growth. Across the Channel it was Ronsard, who, designing to regenerate the language of France, and perpetuate it in his own literary productions, associated with himself others whom he encouraged to like effort. Who in England could have undertaken this great work? What was its beginning? If we attune our ear to distinguish amid the prevailing dissonance its primal note, we shall unmistakably trace it to the oaten pipe of the gentle Colin, whose haunting melody holds our attention, and, following these strains with awakening sense, we shall hear them re-echoed until they culminate in that symphony of the greatest master of poetic numbers, the author of Lucrece, of Hamlet, and of the Sonnets.
When, however, we seek the inspired mortals, whom we are told caught the sweet strains of the artless Shepherd, and came singing down the shining steeps of Olympus with a divine message to ennoble their fellowmen, we find them in dens of infamy, the tippling-shop, the gambling-hell, the brothel, and are moved to exclaim, Such a paradox is monstrous; God does not ordain the vilest among men to be his messengers of peace and enlightenment to mankind: and, certainly, the men to whom our pretentious guides have introduced us were among the vilest of their kind. No wonder the world is awakening to the necessity of a higher criticism than that with which it has hitherto been cloyed, and turning to one incomparable genius, who, voicing the primal strains of the Renaissance in Tudor England, bore them on with ever swelling majesty to the close of the grand symphony which ended with his life. This great genius I hope to show was Francis Bacon, Baron Verulam, Viscount St. Albans. Time was when I should have dismissed this thesis with impatience, but I am hoping that my readers will weigh the evidence I adduce before condemning me as a mere theorist.
It will be objected at the outset that Bacon could not have written that great body of philosophy, the Shakespeare Works, and others to which we have alluded, and have had any time left to perform his political duties, to say nothing of the common affairs of life. To answer this I cite his habit of utilizing his time, even its moments. Those intimately associated with him witness to this. Says Rawley: “He would ever interlace a moderate relaxation of his mind with his studies, as walking or taking the air abroad in his coach, or some other befitting recreation.” 2 Boener and Bushell, both his amanuenses, give like testimony. His great philosophical works were written in an incomparably short space of time, while he was in great mental distress. Says Rawley: “The last five years of his life he employed wholly in contemplation and study in which time he composed the greatest part of his books and writings, both in English and Latin.” 3 His public duties, apparently uncongenial, occupied but a small portion of his time, so that the much longer time which this man of ceaseless activity had to devote to more congenial pursuits becomes an argument in favour of his occupation in other than philosophical fields of labour.
Any one who will carefully study his various Lives will be convinced that he had ample time to produce all the works, which have been ascribed to him, not excepting the poems and plays known as the Shakespeare Works. If it were necessary, I could cite many examples of voluminous authorship. For a single instance, Thomas Heywood, a contemporary, claimed to be the author of two hundred plays besides much other literary work. There are thirty-six in the Folio. That it was a common custom for authors to use the names or initials of others on their productions cannot be questioned. Books, too, were often falsely dated. The author of The Arte of English Poesie, published in 1589, says: “I know very many notable Gentlemen in the Court that have written commendably, and suppressed it again, or else suffered it to be published without their own names to it, as if it were a discredit for a Gentleman to seem learned, and to shew himself amorous of any learned Art.”
Henry Cuffe, a scholar of distinction, not wishing to use his own name on a manuscript, sent it to a correspondent to ask Greville to permit him to publish it with his initials, and told his correspondent in case of refusal to print it with the initials R. B., which, he said, “some no doubt will interpret to be Beale.”
The Historic of the Life and Death of Mary Stuart Queene of Scotland was published in 1624, and the dedication bore the name of the supposed author, Wil Stranguage. In 1636, in a second edition, the same dedication bore the name W. Udall.
Among the books, which once masqueraded under assumed names, many still survive, and their ghostly authors grin at us behind their false masks so nicely adjusted to them by the editors of biographical dictionaries.
Said the German critic, Schlegel, in 1808, “Generally speaking I consider all that has been said about him [Shaksper] personally to be a mere fable, a blind extravagant error.” And Samuel Taylor Coleridge, in 1811, “What! are we to have miracles in sport? Does God choose idiots by whom to convey divine truths to man?” Benjamin Disraeli wrote, in 1837: “’And who is Shakespeare?’ said Cadurcis. Did he write half the plays attributed to him? Did he ever write a single whole play? I doubt it.” And Ralph Waldo Emerson declared in 1838, that he could not “marry” him “to his verse,” characterizing his life as “obscure and profane.” 4 Said Joseph Hart, in 1848: “He was not the mate of the literary characters of his day, and none knew it better than himself. It is a fraud upon the world to thrust his surreptitious fame upon us. The inquiry will be, Who were the able literary men who wrote the dramas imputed to him?” And William H. Furness, 5 in 1866: “I am one of the many who have never been able to bring the life of William Shakespeare and the plays of Shakespeare within a planetary space of each other; are there any two things in the world more incongruous? Had the plays come down to us anonymously, had the labour of discovering the author been imposed upon after generations, I think we could have found no one of that day but F. Bacon to whom to assign the crown. In this case it would have been resting now on his head by almost common consent?” Said Edwin P. Whipple, in 1869: “To this individuality we tack on a universal genius, which is about as reasonable as it would be to take the controlling power of gravity from the sun and attach it to one of the asteroids.” And Cardinal Newman, in 1870: “What do we know of Shakespeare? Is he much more than a name, vox et praterea nihil?” The same year James Russell Lowell wrote: “Nobody believes any longer that immediate inspiration is possible in modern times; and yet everybody seems to take it for granted of this one man Shakespeare”; and so on; Gervinus, Hawthorne, Ruggles, Dickens, Holmes, Walt Whitman, Professor Winchell, Whittier, Parkman; it would require a large volume to record all the testimony of this nature, and I adduce the foregoing to show that more than a century ago, students of the Shakespeare Works, seeking an acquaintance with the Stratford actor, realized how impossible it was for him to have been their author.
This feeling extended until the question was pressed, in 1848, “Who were the able literary men who wrote the dramas imputed to him?” It was evident to most critics that in spite of some differences of style they were the product of one mind. Who, then, was this great literary genius? A new interest was awakened in Elizabethan literature. Naturally the search began with dramatists and poets; Marlowe for a time was discussed and dropped; so were others. Deeper students, realizing that the poetic gems in the works which charmed so many were strung on a precious thread of philosophy, sought a poet among the philosophers, having taken a hint from Sydney who said: “The philosophers of Greece durst not a long time appear to the world but under the mask of poets. So Thales, Empedocles, and Parmenides sang their national philosophy in verse. So did Pythagoras and Phocylides their moral counsels.” At this juncture Spedding’s work on Bacon was published, in which it was seen that the great philosopher applied to himself the now famous phrase, “A concealed poet”; and from this time attention was focused upon him, and the sentiment of thousands outside the influence of the Stratford cult, that there was but one man in England to whom the authorship of the Shakespeare Works could be assigned, became conviction.
Spedding’s work was published in 1857, and it was in this year that Delia Bacon in America, and William Henry Smith in England, simultaneously published the two pioneer works which opened the case of Bacon vs. Shakspere. 6 Doubtless many had long entertained the opinions then made public, but withheld them, unwilling to face the storm of ridicule and abuse which threatened their announcement. Smith says that he formed his opinions twenty years before publishing them, and no doubt Miss Bacon had matured her views long before giving them to the world. She was a woman of remarkable intellect, a profound scholar, and merits a high place among the literary women of America; yet she and Smith, as well as Holmes, Mrs. Pott, Reed, and other faithful and conscientious students who have followed them, have been viciously assailed by those interested in Shakespearian books as authors, owners of copyright, their friends, and would-be friends; in fact, they have suffered the usual martyrdom of advocates of new truth by our modern Ephesians.
Said Lee, “Why should Baconian theorists have any following outside lunatic asylums?” Dana, “The Mattoid flourishes in America because we have so large a proportion of half-educated minds.” Churton Collins, “And so this epidemic spreads till it has now assumed the proportions, and many of the characteristics of the Middle Ages.” A writer in the Literary World calls Mr. Reed’s scholarly books, “A positive disgrace to literature.” Brandes says, “A troop of less than half-educated people have put forth the doctrine that Shakespeare did not write the plays and poems attributed to him. Here it has fallen into the hands of raw Americans and fanatical women.” Elze, “The so-called Bacon Theory is a disease of the same species as table-turning.” Townsend, “Dirty work requires its peculiar instruments.” The Athenaeum, “Mr. Smith denies the appropriation of Miss Delia Bacon’s theory. The question may be of slight importance which of two individuals first conceived a crazy notion.” Furnivall wrote to Reed, “Providence is merciful, and the U.S. folk are tolerant; you’d have been strung up on the nearest lamp-post else”; and Stapfer sneeringly alluded to it as “The famous paradox brought forward from time to time by some lunatic.” Engel stigmatized Baconians as “Orthodox minded lunatics, distinguished from such as tenant asylums in that they are still at large. People of this brain-sick habit, maniacs, are as hard to convince of their error as they who imagine themselves God Almighty, or the Emperor of China, or the Pope”; and said White, “When symptoms of the Bacon-Shakspere craze manifest themselves, the patient should be immediately carried off to an asylum, etc.”; and Robertson, in this year of grace, is nearly as vitriolic, yet his book, The Baconian Heresy, is but an apology for a defense of his thesis. I could quote a number as vulgar as the following from a writer in the New York Herald, who signs his name, BJ.A.: “The idea of robbing the world of Shakespeare for such a stiff, legal-headed old jackass as Bacon, is a modern invention of fools.”
There is no hope for men who treat fellow students in any field of literary labour in this manner. The charge they make against them is lunacy, and, especially, lack of scholarship; both words are favourites with them; yet Disraeli, Gervinus, Hawthorne, Judge Nathaniel Holmes, Lowell, Dickens, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Massey, Gladstone, Winchell, Whittier, Professor Cantor, Judge Wilde, and many others who have expressed opinions adverse to these monopolists of scholarship, occupy quite as high rank in the world of letters as they; indeed, when we examine the work of the Stratfordian revilers, we are astounded at its character and lack of accuracy. Probably in all literature there is no more faulty work to be found than in their treatment of the Shakespeare Works, from Rowe to Lee.
1 Letters of Queen Elizabeth and King James VI, p. 109, Bruce, London 1849
4 Representative Men, p. 215. Boston, 1866
5 The father of the literary ébéniste
6 The spelling of the actor’s name is so variable that we give, in all quotations, the forms found in them. When referring to him we use the form adopted by Knight, “Shakspere,” or the term “actor.” When speaking of the Works, we use the form “Shakespeare,” as it appeared on the title-page of the First Folio
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Elizabethan Age
The reign of Elizabeth is one of the strikingly picturesque pages of history. The last of the Tudors, that family of royal despots who had ruled England with a heavy hand for eighty-three years, she came to the throne, we might well say by chance, if we regarded only the letter of history, and overlooked its providential aspects, when the English people were yet striving to emerge from barbarity. This is instanced by the deplorable condition of society as disclosed by the annals of the time. The reigns of Henry VIII., and of his elder daughter, who by her harsh rule earned the title of “Bloody Mary,” have been pictured grimly in English annals, while the reign of his younger daughter, Elizabeth, who had inherited the few better traits of her father, as well as most of his numerous bad ones, has been coloured too brightly by writers who have been dazzled by its brilliancy. Her family had come to reign in England as conquerors, and their ideal of government was the mailed hand and the supple knee. All the conditions existing at their advent favoured despotic rule. With an ignorant and turbulent populace, no other seemed possible, and it soon became more oppressive than autocratic rule in Russia has been within the past century. The nobility monopolized the wealth and power of the realm, though the more numerous middle class, in spite of the obstacles of caste and custom which opposed it, was slowly attaining vantage-ground. The common people had no rights which they dared assert, and for the most part quietly submitted to their superiors, while those in official life held their positions by tenures too weak to permit them much repose, for they were ever conscious that they might at any time be cast out in disgrace by a caprice of their royal master, or through the machinations of those who had gained his ear.
To question the absolute power of the monarch was treason. Sir Thomas More, statesman, jurist, and Lord Chancellor, went to the block because his conscience would not permit him to acknowledge the King’s supremacy where it involved illegal divorce from his Queen, and an arbitrary change in the succession, as well as the Chancellor’s own renunciation of one of his deepest rooted religious tenets. Said James I., “The absolute prerogative of the Crown is no subject for the tongue of a lawyer. It is presumption and high contempt in a subject to dispute what a King can do, or say that a King cannot do this or that.” All men are the creatures of heredity and environment, and the fruit of their endeavours, if it escapes final blight, is coloured and flavoured by them; hence, it was but natural that Elizabeth, sired as she was, and reared to maturity in an atmosphere of tyranny, should have had an invincible faith in the dogma of the divine right of monarchs to rule as they willed, and should have regarded official life as wholly dependent upon servile subservience to political necessity, that illusive but convenient phrase which has been thought to excuse the violation of human rights.
In the Tudor family she was simply a dependent young woman without future prospects beyond those of other noble families, and she could have cherished no reasonable expectation of ever reaching the throne. Her brother Edward succeeded her father, and after a reign of six years gave place to her sister Mary, who, married to the Spanish Philip, seemed certain to have heirs, even if she did not outlive her, for with a sister jealous of her every movement, and ready to suspect her of treason upon the slightest pretext, Elizabeth’s chance of life was none too promising. She had given her family ample cause for distrusting her by a scandalous affair with Lord Seymour when in her sixteenth year. Says Lingard: “Seymour’s attentions to the princess were remarked, and their familiarity was so undisguised that it awakened the jealousy of his wife by whom he was one day surprised with Elizabeth in his arms.” Shortly after the wife conveniently died, her death being “attributed to poison,” and we are told that he “redoubled his court to the princess; her governess was bribed, her own affections were won.” From the testimony of Elizabeth’s governess, “the reluctant Mrs. Ashley,” as Lingard calls her, “it appears that the courtship was not conducted in the most delicate manner. The moment he was up, he would hasten to Elizabeth’s chamber, ‘in his night gown and barelegged’: if she were still in bed, ‘he would put open the curtains and make as though he would come at her, and she would go farther in the bed, so that he could not come at her’: 1 The wife of the Spanish minister, Feria, an English lady, was one of Queen Mary’s household, and on Elizabeth’s accession went to Spain, where she resided until her death in 1612.
In her Life is the following relating to the Princess Elizabeth: “A great lady who knew her very well, being a girl of twelve or thirteen, told me that she was proud and disdainful. In King Edward’s time what passed between the Lord Admiral, Sir Thomas Seymour, and her, Dr. Latimer preached in a sermon, and was chief cause that the Parliament condemned the Admiral. There was a bruit of a child born and miserably destroyed, but could not be discovered whose it was, only the report of the midwife who was brought from her house blindfold thither, and so returned, saw nothing in the house while she was there but a candle light, only she said it was the child of a very fair young lady. 2 It seems that a clandestine marriage was planned, “her governess was bribed, her own affections were won,” when it was realized that Elizabeth by such a marriage would forfeit her right to the succession. Parliament was therefore applied to. Elizabeth in a letter to the protector informed him of Seymour’s proposal of marriage, and to a report that she was pregnant declared it to be “a shameful schandler.”
There is much more on this unsavoury subject, but we have already quoted too much. In the summer of 1554, for supposed sympathy with the claims of Lady Jane Grey to the throne, she was thrown into the Tower, that gateway to the block, with Robert Dudley, whom she had known from childhood, and to whom she had shown marked favour at her brother’s court. He was noted for his fascinating personality, and she would have been only too glad to marry him had he not been encumbered with a wife whom history affirms he subsequently disposed of in the hope of such a consummation; indeed, immediately following his wife’s death, Elizabeth announced her intention of so doing, which prompted the Queen of Scots to declare that “The Queen of England was about to marry her horse-keeper [he was master of horse], who had killed his wife to make a place for her.” 3
After a life so disheartening as Elizabeth’s had been, to be suddenly and unexpectedly elevated to almost unlimited power was an event which must have seemed to her miraculous, as it did to her friends. The Spanish ambassador, Le Feria, wrote his sovereign, April 18, 1559: “They tell me that she is enamoured of Lord Robert Dudley and never leaves his side. He is in such favour that people say she visits him in his chamber day and night.” 4 It was rumoured seemingly on Lord Robert’s own authority that some private but formal betrothal had passed between the Queen and himself. 5 And Throgmorton wrote to Cecil from Paris: “The bruits be so brim, touching the marriage of the Lord Robert and the death of his wife, that I know not where to turn me, nor what countenance to bear. 6 And Sir Henry Sydney told the Bishop of Aquila that “The Queen and Lord Robert were lovers: but they intended honest marriage.” 7 On January 22, 1561, the Bishop wrote: “Some say she is a mother already but this I do not believe.” 8 Was she really married to Dudley? When certain letters of the Bishop of Aquila fell into the hands of Cecil, and he was charged with having written Philip, “That the Queen had previously married Lord Robert in the Earl of Pembroke’s house,” he replied: “I wrote what I said to the Queen herself, that it was reported all over London that the marriage had then taken place. She betrayed neither surprise nor displeasure at my words. Had I so pleased I might have written all this to his Majesty; nor do I think I should have done wrong had I told him the World’s belief that she was married already.” 9
If this were true it would account for her persistent fencing with matrimonial adventurers, and her deep attachment to Dudley which dominated her during her life, and drove Burghley to the verge of distraction. In spite of her sordid parsimony, which on several occasions imperilled the safety of the nation, she was as lavish to him as she was in gratifying her personal extravagance which was carried to extremes. It is stated that she left at her death “more than 2.000 gowns with all things answerable.”
The reign of Elizabeth had passed its meridian when two events happened which marked a new epoch in literature. The Euphues, forerunner of the English novel, appeared, and a few months later, in 1579, The Shepherd’s Calendar, harbinger of an illustrious era of English poetry, dropped anonymously into being, as it were from the clouds. These two events ushered in the glorious day of England’s Renaissance. From this date, despite social strife, war and rumours of war, the new day advanced in splendour; the gentle Colin retuned his oaten pipe, and sang the joy of home-coming; The Faerie Queene, Venus and Adonis, and Lucrece thrilled English hearts in hall and palace; above all, dramatic art felt the quickening impulse, and works of a new order, many anonymous, and many under the names of hitherto unknown men, Marlowe, dead at twenty-nine in a brawl; Greene, at thirty two from a debauch; Peele, before forty, from an unspeakable disease; and when these had finished their course, similar works, bearing the name Shakespeare, imparted new life to the theatre. We say similar works, because these men today lead the van in the history of the great literary revival of the sixteenth century, and the works accredited to them, some certainly without warrant, are marked by the same expressions, display a knowledge of the same literary sources, and publish to the world the same lofty sentiments; in fact, this has been so fully recognized that critics, almost without exception, have declared that they collaborated or duplicated the work of one another. That they should have done so unconsciously exceeds the limits of reason.
We are confining our view to these men because they appear so early in the movement. There were others who fell into line during the forty or more years of its especial activity, and got their names on the Roll of Remembrance Drayton, Nash, Lodge, Dekker, Heywood, Sidney, Massinger, Fletcher, Kyd, Webster, Ben Jonson, and others; some with slight reason.
This, however, is not a history of English literature; that has been written more or less acceptably by Hallam, Symonds, Saintsbury, Lee; and we mention these writers only in recognition of their place in the literary movement of which we have spoken. All must agree that it would be interesting to know who was really the moving spirit in this great movement. Across the Channel it was Ronsard who initiated and directed the French Renaissance. In England it has been accredited to Spenser, who was a poor exile in Ireland; it is quite evident that the men we have named were incapable of doing it. Who was the English Ronsard? Does he reveal himself in the Shepherd’s Calendar or the Shakespeare Works? These are questions which demand consideration, and they find suggestions to their solution in the criticisms, blind as many of them are, with which we have been surfeited.
In studying the Shakespeare Works we cannot fail to be impressed with the persistent purpose which they reveal of enlarging the scope of human thought, and leading the mind to loftier heights of knowledge. Their author reasoned wisely in selecting the drama for this purpose, for by it he could appeal through ear and eye to the common understanding, and open the readiest path to the popular mind, leaving upon it impressions less easily effaced than those of the novel. The dramas and poems which comprise these works were unlike anything which had been known heretofore to the English people, being saturated with the loftiest sentiments and the acutest philosophy, as well as the profoundest learning. We may well ask, Were these works, which were so far above the intellectual capacity of the patrons of the theatre, written for mere gain? Halliwell-Phillipps, attributing their authorship to the Stratford actor, and having an intimate knowledge of his character, asserts that his “sole aim was to please an audience, most of whom were not only illiterate but unable either to read or write”; and Pope crystallizes the same opinion in a verse which everybody has read, that he “For gain, not glory, winged his roving flight, And grew immortal in his own dispite.”
But such an opinion of the author of the Shakespeare Works involves a paradox. We can conceive of him only as one who, conscious of being entrusted with an important message to man, makes its delivery his chief object. It is especially with these works that we have to do.
1 John Lingard: The History of England, vol. v, pp. 273, 274- Boston, 1883
2 The Life of Jane Dormer, Duchess of Feria, p. 83. London, 1887
3 James Anthony Froude, M.A.: History of England, vol. v, p. 303. New York, 1867
4 MSS. Simancas; Froude, vol. v, p. 87
6 Hardwicke Papers, vol. i, p. 121
9 MSS. Simancas; Froude, vol. v, p. 414
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