Anthony Munday, London's offspring

Anthony Munday is a minor Elizabethan writer — in our time, not his. In his time, he was more or less everywhere in London, writing anything that paid.

Munday was baptised in October of 1560 and died in August of 1633 — a goodly age in any century. munday_coverNote that his life nearly spanned the reigns of both Elizabeth I and James I, a period of tremendous literary achievement. Munday is remembered chiefly for his non-writing activities, pursuing religious non-conformists on both extremes — Catholics and Puritans. He wrote some viciously anti-Catholic tracts and informed on Catholic recusants to curry favor with powerful potential patrons. He bragged about helping to get some Catholic priests hanged. Not a pleasant man, by most contemporary accounts, though if he had been a better writer, that might have been forgiven.

Tracey Hill shows us a more well-rounded view in Anthony Munday and Civic Culture, which is mostly about his works and their situation in the literature of that era. My purposes are other: I look for snapshots of the man and his milieu to use in building a minor character in my books. He appears in Publish and Perish and will undoubtedly come back, because he seems to have been ubiquitous in the London writing world.

Printer, draper, player, writer

Munday’s father Christopher was a member of the Worshipful Society of Drapers, but worked as a stationer. That makes sense to me, since both drapers and stationers kept shops in which they sold a variety of goods. He apprenticed Anthony to a printer named John Allde in 1576, but the lad didn’t finish his term. He left after only two years to go to the Continent and enroll in the English College at Rome. He must have been working as an intelligencer for someone like Sir Francis Museum_of_London_entranceWalshingham, the queen’s Secretary of State. People of Munday’s class didn’t get permission to travel abroad without good reason, especially not to soul-endangering Catholic Italy. We don’t know how young Anthony got himself chosen for such work.

Munday was made free of the Drapers in 1585 by patrimony. Sometime before that, he married a woman whose name has not been preserved. They lived and raised their children in Cripplegate, a London ward just outside the city walls which was largely demolished in the Blitz and is now mostly the Barbican Centre — a twisting concrete wilderness outside, with wonderful plays, movies, and the incomparable Museum of London within.

In the 1580s, he worked as a pursuivant of Catholic recusants. This mainly meant traveling around the country digging up names of people who failed to attend their parish church on Sunday, as required by law — a law created for the purpose of exposing hidden (recusant) Catholics. Then in 1589, Munday was hired by the Archbishop of Canterbury to track down Puritan Martin Marprelate‘s secret press, which was cranking out rebellious pamphlets with unstoppable glee.

He worked for the Earl of Oxford in some secretarial capacity for a while. That doesn’t imply a close association with the erratic nobleman. Persons of great wealth and stature in those days maintained large households, with lots of retainers of the sort we would call an entourage. They hung out, ready to run errands, answer mundane mail, or deal with lesser visitors. 

Hall’s book isn’t a biography, so I don’t have details of any period of Munday’s life. From the 90’s on, he seems to have made his living writing.

The Mirrour of Mutabilitie

mirrorThat’s the title of Munday’s first published work, or rather, the short version. Here’s the full, from the University of Michigan’s indispensable database of early modern booksThe mirrour of mutabilitie, or Principall part of the Mirrour for magistrates Describing the fall of diuers famous princes, and other memorable personages. Selected out of the sacred Scriptures by Antony Munday, and dedicated to the Right Honorable the Earle of Oxenford.

Munday’s works span the literary genres of his day, excepting ballads, as far as I can see from Hall’s bibliography of his works. He wrote pious tracts, like Two godly and learned sermons. He wrote history, like The famous, pleasant, and variable historie of Palladine of England, about knightly deeds. 

A banquet of daintie conceits, furnished with verie delicate and choyse inuentions, to delight their mindes, who take pleasure in musique, and there-withall to sing sweete ditties, either to the lute, bandora, virginalles, or anie other instrument. Published at the desire of bothe honorable and worshipfull personages, who haue had copies of diuers of the ditties heerein contained. Written by A.M. seruaunt to the Queenes most excellent Maiestie. This is a book of poetry. Here’s a taste:

“A Diew my former pleasure,
for I of force must leaue thée:
I see my state is most vnsure,
and thou hast long deceiude me,
Time bids me minde my latter end,
and that I am but clay:
And euerie howre I doo offend,
in manie a wicked waie.
Then farewell sinne,
I will beginne.
To sorrowe for my wicked life at the last,
and feare to sinne any more:
For when I remember all that is past,
my hart dooth bleede therefore.”

Fidele and Fortunio

That’s the title of Munday’s first play, dated 1584. It’s a comedy including an opportunistic character named Captain Crackstone, which is enough to get me to the theater. Alas, it’s not playing this year. Scholars find connections to Shakespeare, who seems to have remembered every word he ever heard, spinning it into later gold. Read an example at the Wikipedia page for this play

He wrote plays and sometimes acted in them, for the Lord Strange’s Men and Oxford’s men, robin_hoodperformed at the Rose in Southwark. Two popular ones were The Seven Deadly Sins and his smash hit, The Downfall of Robert, Earl of Huntington, a play about Robin Hood for which he was paid a walloping five pounds. This was performed in 1597-8, perhaps giving Shakespeare’s Merry Wives of Windsor a little serious competition.

The Downfall was successful enough to merit a sequel, The Death of Robert, Earl of Huntington. Munday wrote or co-authored over a dozen plays, collaborating with writers like Michael Drayton, Henry Chettle, Thomas Middleton, and John Webster. If it weren’t for Shakespeare, these guys would be more famous — or the whole period would have sunk beneath the tidal wave of Victorian literature. Who knows?

The triumphes of ancient draperie

Munday made most of his money writing and staging pageants for the livery companies of London. These groups of solid citizens enjoyed their annual festivities, which included processions through the city streets and pageants in which they attached their history to the glories of the ancient world.

Drapers_COAI like this title: Metropolis coronota, the triumphes of ancient drapery. You can lisp your way through the early modern spelling of this not-quite-forgotten work at the Map of Early Modern London. Here’s a taste, transliterated by your friendly blogger:

“On Monday, being the 30. of October, 1615, according to ancient and most honourable custome, the L. Mayor being to pass by water to Westminster, in company of his worthy Brethren, and attended by all the other Companies in their several Barges made fit for triumph, after such manner as formerly hath been observed: the first device that welcometh him to the water, is an invention proper to that nature, and thought apt to conduct him in his passage. He being both a Draper and Stapler, and these two processions (in former times) appertaining to the Brethren of London’s Drapery, trading only in wools and woolen cloth, the then chief riches of the kingdom: both these mysteries meeting together so conveniently in one man, I did account is as a sinne in me to sunder them, and therefore made use of that Creast [??] or Cognizaunce of the Golden Fleece, give by ancient Heraldry to them both, and remaining still in firm force with the Draper, as their Escutchion of Armes makes manifest.”

London City Mayor’s parade

This sounds like fun, actually. The guildsmen and their wives set out on the Thames in decorated boats and barges, being rowed gently upstream toward Westminster. Perhaps they time it for an inflowing tide, so little rowing is needed beyond steering the group around a central barge, whereon a pageant is performed. This would be a dumb show of youths and/or children wearing costumes designed and supplied (at a decent mark-up) by Anthony Munday.

London’s livery companies still process through the streets to celebrate things. There are 110 livery companies in London at present, in case you thought these things had slid forever into the past.

We get another hint at Munday’s character in his last will and testament. At his death, his moveable property was valued at L135 7s 10d. But he only left 12 pence each to his children (however many there were.) Why so cheap? He explained because their “expectation of me can be nothinge because they live in as good (if not better estate) than I did.”

That seems a little unfriendly for a dear old Dad. suggesting he was no such thing. He outlived his most famous rivals — Robert Greene (d. 1592), Thomas Nashe (d. 1601), and William Shakespeare (d. 1626). I don’t know where Munday’s legacy went. His church or the Worshipful Company of Drapers, one supposes. He may not be favorably remembered, but he’s remembered, and perhaps, in the end, that’s enough.


Hill, Tracey. 2004. Anthony Munday and Civic Culture: Theatre, history and power in early modern London, 1580-1633. Manchester: Manchester University Press.

Nicholl, Charles. 1992. The Reckoning: The Murder of Christopher Marlowe. Picador.

Elizabethan news pamphleteers

The word ‘pamphlet’ defines a form, not a function; a class of object, not the class of intellectual content contained therein. Pamphlets are, and were, “short printed work[s] of several pages fastened together without a hard cover” (OED.) In early modern times, they were typically quartos, in which four text pages were printed on each side of a sheet of paper. Then the paper was folded twice to form four leaves or eight pages counting front and back, 11-13 inches tall, sewn, not stapled. The stapler wasn’t invented until the 18th century — for Louis Quinze, fascinatingly. Love the history of the mundane!

The first newspaper is said to have been printed by Johann Carolus in Strausbourg in 1605. But the greene_quipEnglish loved news reports long before that. Paul Voss makes a good case for an English precursor in his book, Elizabethan News Pamphlets. And of course, what counts as news oft depends upon the reader.

The pamphleteers

The first Englishman who made a living from his writing was probably Robert Greene, who deserves his own post one of these days. He wrote everything that paid: plays, romances, philosophy, and pamphlets. A Quip for an Upstart Courtier is a bit long for a pamphlet, but it kind of qualifies and it’s funny, if you don’t mind the early modern language.

He had plenty of competition. Rising literacy among the middling sort created a booming market for printed works aimed at that new class of reader. A pamphlet cost as little as tuppence and could be passed around the tavern or the workshop. News from the Continent, accounts of sensational murders, reports of strange creatures caught by fishermen jostled on bookseller’s shelves alongside religious works across the spectrum from Puritan to Catholic (even though both ends were illegal.)

Some pamphleteers, like Robert Greene and Thomas Nashe, were university graduates, but most had merely grammar school educations (like Shakespeare.) Most of them descended from tradesmen. Greene’s father was either a saddler or a cordwainer (shoemaker), Nashe’s was a country parson. Thomas Middleton, a prominent writer of the Jacobean period, was the son of a bricklayer. Gentlemen might write pamphlets at the more literary end, especially of the religious variety. Martin Marprelate, a name you’re probably heartily sick of hearing by now, was certainly a gentleman.

The pamphlet writer might be paid two pounds for his piece, if he had a name like Greene or Nashe. Lesser names might be paid in copies only, which they had to go out and sell for themselves. Most writers made their living doing something else (like most writers today.) Literate young men with good manners were always in demand as messengers. They could teach gentlemen’s sons to read or pick up work as scribes, writing letters for the unlettered. Two pounds was enough to scrape by on, though not to live the literary life of London. A country parson kept the wolf from the door on twenty shillings a year — half the price of one cracking good pamphlet. You can see the attraction, even with the uncertainty of publication.

News from afar

“France at this day had been a most flourishing kingdom which now is a theatre of misery.” Francis Bacon.

By François Dubois, a Huguenot painter born circa 1529

He was writing about the French wars of religion, which began with the bloodbath of the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre, the wedding day of Henry of Navarre, when thousands of his fellow Protestants were killed. That event cast a deep shadow on the minds of the Elizabethans. When Henry succeeded to the French throne, the shadow lightened. Was it possible that France could break from the Catholic League as well?

But France was plunged into civil war. The English sent money and soldiers led by the Earl of Essex. Back home, the hunger for news grew unabated. Elizabethans gobbled up pamphlets the way Americans stared at their TVs during the Vietnam War, unable to turn away from the ghastly reports. 

Publishers scrambled for real news, but always with the patriotic moral slant required in those days. News pamphlets emphasized the dangers of civil war and the need for English unity. It’s well to remember that this constant drumbeat of horrific news from France resounded in English ears when we criticize them for religious intolerance. Unity was the only safe course!

Both the press and the stage played vital roles in presenting ideas to the public in those days, as the authorities well knew. Here’s a snippet from Shakespeare’s King John, written during this period: “This England never did, nor ever shall, / Lie at the proud foot a of a conqueror, / But [except] when it did first help to wound itself.”

A wide variety of individuals and circumstances contributed to the reporting of news. Intercepted letters, official reports, and personal correspondence all made their way into print. Sir Henry Unton, ambassador to France in 1591, sent regular reports on military affairs, including troop movements, casualties, cost overruns, and the activities of the Earl of Essex. He dated all his letters and kept 1652_balladpictrack of how long they took to get where they were going. He complained several times about his letters being stolen and printed without his consent.

Other field correspondents seemed eager to be quoted, filling their letters with those convincing details that sold copies. “The thundering shot of the canon calleth me to my place, and therefore am constrained to cut short, leaving your good Ladieship to the consideration of all heerein expressed which is no more but what I myself have seene and know for truth.”

From the very start, publishers struggled to distinguish real news from fake. They advertised the quality of their pamphlets by the frequent use of words like ‘true’, ‘report,’ and ‘credible.’ They loudly condemned false reports, in contrast. “Some in these dayes, who either for that they know not, or care not for truth, or wil not inquire after the truth, wil be sure to publish nothing but untruth, mispending their time, misdemeaning their braine, and misusing their pen, no lesse foes to themselves, then back friends to the welminded.”

News from afield

greene3tpFrance wasn’t the only place where things happened. Englishmen and women were equally eager to read true reports of extraordinary events in their own country. Sandra Clark, in The Elizabethan Pamphleteers, says that, “Pamphlets are the Elizabethan predecessor of the features, editorials, serials, personal columns, human interest stories and news reports of our newspapers and magazines and the pamphleteers’ professional lives as those of the freelance journalists at a disadvantage in a buyer’s market.”

You could read about the latest sensational murder and, after paranoid, believe-it-all King James followed rational Queen Elizabeth to the throne, the latest witch trial. Robert Greene published several explorations of the London underworld, like The Defense of Coney-catching. (Coneys were rubes, wide-eyed innocents. Coney-catching was slang for stealing from them by trickery.)

Confessions of prisoners were also popular. “Going to prison was a sufficiently common occurrencewitch_trial in Elizabethan times for the pamphleteers to be able to draw on a large fund of cynical and familiar notions about jail and jailors as a source of bitter humour.” You could be sent to prison for debt, among other causes we would consider trivial.

We have tons more pamphlets from the seventeenth century than the sixteenth, but once you get the hang of the language, these things are fascinating and chock-full of characters we novelists can steal without shame. Heck, they did it. Many a pamphleteer made his living repackaging other men’s work. The original writer might sneer at you, but others would think it only good sense.

Before you get carried away with this fabulous new sociological resource, Clark reminds us, “The reader who knows something of Elizabethan habits of mind will have learnt to be wary of making too simple an equation between what is stated and what was true, and so to take with a pinch of salt any claim that this material gives an authentic account of first-hand observation of contemporary life.”

News of the weird

If you thought witch trials were the weird part, you have not yet come around to the early modern world view. Many, many marvels were being discovered around the globe on a daily basis. Things you could never have imagined! Read about them all right here!

elephbigI’m not sure if this counts as local news or weird tales, but thinly veiled accounts of scandalous behavior was guaranteed to entertain at the alehouse of an evening, especially if you had some idea who was being caricatured in the report.

Travel reports were hugely popular. I think they were usually published as books, being too great a tale for eight to sixteen measly pages. But you could break a big journey into many publications, if you wanted to make more hay out of your travails. Or your publisher could.

Here we find titles with the words ‘marvellous,’ ‘wonderful,’ and ‘strange’ occurring in great frequency to signal to the reader that they would find something rare and amazing inside. This vast sub-genre includes reports of unusual weather phenomena, like earthquakes and terrible storms. The point of these reports was never the storm itself, but rather the immorality that caused them and the moral lessons to be learned.

Arthur Golding wrote in 1580, A discourse upon the Earthquake that hapned throughe This Realme of England. True to the form, there’s very little description of what actually happened. Similarly, an account of the exceptionally strong winds that blew in the winter of 1613 had little to say about actual damages. “These tempests, as they have been ill windes to blow many upon the rockes of ruine, and poverty, so have they blowne some to profit”

And then there’s the odd whale caught off the coast of Cornwall and the ever-popular monstrous kent-monsterbirth. We can still read about this sort of thing in tabloids like the Weekly World News, though that stuff has probably mostly shifted to the Internet. Free, with color pictures. Elizabethans would gobble it up.

And then there’s the social commentary, like Robert Green’s self-serving The Repentance of Robert Greene Maister of Arts, 1592. Or veiled gossip (never about the upper classes, that would be too risky.) Oliver Oatmeale, whose name and fame I borrowed for Publish and Perish, wrote titillating tales of tete-a-tetes and other amorous adventures. Like this 1595 piece with the catchy title, A quest of enquirie, by women to know, whether the tripe-wife were trimmed by Doll yea or no.

It’s about Doll Phillips who posed as a fortune-teller to scam a wealthy London widow, the owner of a tripe shop in St. Nicholas Shambles. Admitted to the widow’s home, Doll requests a snippet of the widow’s pubic hair in order to divine which of her suitors she should marry. “Once she has established a homoerotic intimacy with the widow, Doll proceeds to steal her money and jewels.” the widow is thus publicly shamed by her “trimming”, she’s forced to marry the only suitor who will have her, Nick Trickes. There are three verses of doggerel in which she laments her better days, having lots of fun with the imagery of a tripe shop. “Over our heads of tripes a canopie.. I trotted from my trotter stall…”  (from Sexual Types: Embodiment, Agency, and Dramatic Character from Shakespeare to Shirley, by Mario DiGangi. I only read this snippet. Modern literary criticism makes my hair hurt!)


Clark, Sandra. 1985. The Elizabethan Pamphleteers: Popular Moralistic Pamphlets 1580-1640. Madison: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press.

Voss, Paul J. 2001. Elizabethan News Pamphlets: Shakespeare, Spenser, Marlowe & the Birth of Journalism. Pittsburgh, PA: Duquesne University Press.

This website uses cookies for basic features such as contact or blog comments, but not for anything else. For more information, read my Privacy Policy.