“I clearly see that my work for the Earl of Oxford cannot be much longer required.”
De Vere’s formal education ended at thirteen, when his last known tutor, Lawrence Nowell, washed his hands of him: “I clearly see that my work for the Earl of Oxford cannot be much longer required.” Tactfully put. Oxfordians interpret that to mean that the pupil had outstripped his master. But the tutor lavishes no praise, and offers no regrets at leaving what would—in Oxfordian fantasy—have been the student of a scholar’s dreams. If you had the boy Shakespeare as a pupil, would you shrug him off? But Nowell had other, more congenial work in hand. And Oxford had received all the tutelage that a boy of his rank— who would always have secretaries—would need. Dancing, drawing, French, cosmography (that is to say, maps), and a bit of Latin—a small fraction of what a grammar-school boy would learn—made way for lordlier accomplishments, fencing and horsemanship. Some lessons took. Oxford had a nice italic hand; he was a pretty dancer and a champion at tilting.