Part 3
But the patronage of the court failed in the days of King Charles, though Jonson was not without royal favours; and the old poet returned to the stage, producing, between 1625 and 1633, "The Staple of News," "The New Inn," "The Magnetic Lady," and "The Tale of a Tub," the last doubtless revised from a much earlier comedy. None of these plays met with any marked success, although the scathing generalisation of Dryden that designated them "Jonson's dotages" is unfair to their genuine merits. Thus the idea of an office for the gathering, proper dressing, and promulgation of news (wild flight of the fancy in its time) was an excellent subject for satire on the existing absurdities among the newsmongers; although as much can hardly be said for "The Magnetic Lady," who, in her bounty, draws to her personages of differing humours to reconcile them in the end according to the alternative title, or "Humours Reconciled." These last plays of the old dramatist revert to caricature and the hard lines of allegory; the moralist is more than ever present, the satire degenerates into personal lampoon, especially of his sometime friend, Inigo Jones, who appears unworthily to have used his influence at court against the broken-down old poet. And now disease claimed Jonson, and he was bedridden for months. He had succeeded Middleton in 1628 as Chronologer to the City of London, but lost the post for not fulfilling its duties. King Charles befriended him, and even commissioned him to write still for the entertainment of the court; and he was not without the sustaining hand of noble patrons and devoted friends among the younger poets who were proud to be "sealed of the tribe of Ben."
Jonson died, August 6, 1637, and a second folio of his works, which he had been some time gathering, was printed in 1640, bearing in its various parts dates ranging from 1630 to 1642. It included all the plays mentioned in the foregoing paragraphs, excepting "The Case is Altered;" the masques, some fifteen, that date between 1617 and 1630; another collection of lyrics and occasional poetry called "Underwoods, including some further entertainments"; a translation of "Horace's Art of Poetry" (also published in a vicesimo quarto in 1640), and certain fragments and ingatherings which the poet would hardly have included himself. These last comprise the fragment (less than seventy lines) of a tragedy called "Mortimer his Fall," and three acts of a pastoral drama of much beauty and poetic spirit, "The Sad Shepherd." There is also the exceedingly interesting 'English Grammar' "made by Ben Jonson for the benefit of all strangers out of his observation of the English language now spoken and in use," in Latin and English; and 'Timber, or discoveries' "made upon men and matter as they have flowed out of his daily reading, or had their reflux to his peculiar notion of the times." The 'Discoveries', as it is usually called, is a commonplace book such as many literary men have kept, in which their reading was chronicled, passages that took their fancy translated or transcribed, and their passing opinions noted. Many passage of Jonson's 'Discoveries' are literal translations from the authors he chanced to be reading, with the reference, noted or not, as the accident of the moment prescribed. At times he follows the line of Macchiavelli's argument as to the nature and conduct of princes; at others he clarifies his own conception of poetry and poets by recourse to Aristotle. He finds a choice paragraph on eloquence in Seneca the elder and applies it to his own recollection of Bacon's power as an orator; and another on facile and ready genius, and translates it, adapting it to his recollection of his fellow-playwright, Shakespeare. To call such passages--which Jonson never intended for publication--plagiarism, is to obscure the significance of words. To disparage his memory by citing them is a preposterous use of scholarship. Jonson's prose, both in his dramas, in the descriptive comments of his masques, and in the 'Discoveries', is characterised by clarity and vigorous directness, nor is it wanting in a fine sense of form or in the subtler graces of diction.
When Jonson died there was a project for a handsome monument to his memory. But the Civil War was at hand, and the project failed. A memorial, not insufficient, was carved on the stone covering his grave in one of the aisles of Westminster Abbey:
"O rare Ben Jonson."
FELIX E. SCHELLING.
THE COLLEGE, PHILADELPHIA, U.S.A.
The following is a complete list of his published works:--
DRAMAS. --
Every Man in his Humour, 4to, 1601; The Case is Altered, 4to, 1609; Every Man out of his Humour, 4to, 1600; Cynthia's Revels, 4to, 1601; Poetaster, 4to, 1602; Sejanus, 4to, 1605; Eastward Ho (with Chapman and Marston), 4to, 1605; Volpone, 4to, 1607; Epicoene, or the Silent Woman, 4to, 1609 (?), fol., 1616; The Alchemist, 4to, 1612; Catiline, his Conspiracy, 4to, 1611; Bartholomew Fayre, 4to, 1614 (?), fol., 1631; The Divell is an Asse, fol., 1631; The Staple of Newes, fol., 1631; The New Sun, 8vo, 1631, fol., 1692; The Magnetic Lady, or Humours Reconcild, fol., 1640; A Tale of a Tub, fol., 1640; The Sad Shepherd, or a Tale of Robin Hood, fol., 1641; Mortimer his Fall (fragment), fol., 1640.
To Jonson have also been attributed additions to Kyd's Jeronymo, and collaboration in The Widow with Fletcher and Middleton, and in the Bloody Brother with Fletcher.
POEMS. --
Epigrams, The Forrest, Underwoods, published in fols., 1616, 1640; Selections: Execration against Vulcan, and Epigrams, 1640; G. Hor. Flaccus his art of Poetry, Englished by Ben Jonson, 1640; Leges Convivialis, fol., 1692. Other minor poems first appeared in Gifford's edition of Works.
PROSE. --
Timber, or Discoveries made upon Men and Matter, fol., 1641; The English Grammar, made by Ben Jonson for the benefit of Strangers, fol., 1640.
Masques and Entertainments were published in the early folios.
WORKS. --
Fol., 1616, vol. 2, 1640 (1631-41); fol., 1692, 1716-19, 1729; edited by P. Whalley, 7 vols., 1756; by Gifford (with Memoir), 9 vols., 1816, 1846; re-edited by F. Cunningham, 3 vols., 1871; in 9 vols., 1875; by Barry Cornwall (with Memoir), 1838; by B. Nicholson (Mermaid Series), with Introduction by C. H. Herford, 1893, etc.; Nine Plays, 1904; ed. H. C. Hart (Standard Library), 1906, etc; Plays and Poems, with Introduction by H. Morley (Universal Library), 1885; Plays (7) and Poems (Newnes), 1905; Poems, with Memoir by H. Bennett (Carlton Classics), 1907; Masques and Entertainments, ed. by H. Morley, 1890.
SELECTIONS. --
J. A. Symonds, with Biographical and Critical Essay, (Canterbury Poets), 1886; Grosart, Brave Translunary Things, 1895; Arber, Jonson Anthology, 1901; Underwoods, Cambridge University Press, 1905; Lyrics (Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher), the Chap Books, No. 4, 1906; Songs (from Plays, Masques, etc.), with earliest known setting, Eragny Press, 1906.
LIFE. --
See Memoirs affixed to Works; J. A. Symonds (English Worthies), 1886; Notes of Ben Jonson Conversations with Drummond of Hawthornden; Shakespeare Society, 1842; ed. with Introduction and Notes by P. Sidney, 1906; Swinburne, A Study of Ben Jonson, 1889.
EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOUR
TO THE MOST LEARNED, AND MY HONOURED FRIEND
MASTER CAMDEN
CLARENCIEUX
SIR,--There are, no doubt, a supercilious race in the world, who will esteem all office, done you in this kind, an injury; so solemn a vice it is with them to use the authority of their ignorance, to the crying down of Poetry, or the professors: but my gratitude must not leave to correct their error; since I am none of those that can suffer the benefits conferred upon my youth to perish with my age. It is a frail memory that remember s but present things: and, had the favour of the times so conspired with my disposition, as it could have brought forth other, or better, you had had the same proportion, and number of the fruits, the first. Now I pray you to accept this; such wherein neither the confession of my manners shall make you blush; nor of my studies, repent you to have been the instructor: and for the profession of my thankfulness, I am sure it will, with good men, find either praise or excuse. Your true lover,
BEN JONSON.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE KNOWELL, an old Gentleman: OLIVER COB, a Water-bearer. EDWARD KNOWELL, his Son. JUSTICE CLEMENT, an old merry BRAINWORM, the Father's Man Magistrate. GEORGE DOWNRIGHT, a plain Squire. ROGER FORMAL, his Clerk. WELLBRED, his Half-Brother. Wellbred's Servant KITELY, a merchant. DAME KITELY, KITELY'S Wife. CAPTAIN BOBADILL, a Paul's Man. MRS. BRIDGET his Sister. MASTER STEPHEN, a Country Gull. TIB Cob's Wife MASTER MATHEW, the Town Gull. THOMAS CASH, KITELY'S Cashier. Servants, etc.
SCENE,---LONDON PROLOGUE.
Though need make many poets, and some such As art and nature have not better'd much; Yet ours for want hath not so loved the stage, As he dare serve the ill customs of the age, Or purchase your delight at such a rate, As, for it, he himself must justly hate: To make a child now swaddled, to proceed Man, and then shoot up, in one beard and weed, Past threescore years; or, with three rusty swords, And help of some few foot and half-foot words, Fight over York and Lancaster's king jars, And in the tyring-house bring wounds to scars. He rather prays you will be pleas'd to see One such to-day, as other plays should be; Where neither chorus wafts you o'er the seas, Nor creaking throne comes down the boys to please; Nor nimble squib is seen to make afeard The gentlewomen; nor roll'd bullet heard To say, it thunders; nor tempestuous drum Rumbles, to tell you when the storm doth come; But deeds, and language, such as men do use, And persons, such as comedy would choose, When she would shew an image of the times, And sport with human follies, not with crimes. Except we make them such, by loving still Our popular errors, when we know they're ill. I mean such errors as you'll all confess, By laughing at them, they deserve no less: Which when you heartily do, there's hope left then, You, that have so grac'd monsters, may like men.
## ACT I
## SCENE I.---A Street.
Enter KNOWELL, at the door of his house.
Know. A goodly day toward, and a fresh morning.--Brainworm! Enter Brainworm. Call up your young master: bid him rise, sir. Tell him, I have some business to employ him.
Brai. I will, sir, presently.
Know. But hear you, sirrah, If he be at his book, disturb him not.
Brai. Very good, sir.
Know. How happy yet should I esteem myself, Could I, by any practice, wean the boy From one vain course of study he affects. He is a scholar, if a man may trust The liberal voice of fame in her report, Of good account in both our Universities, Either of which hath favoured him with graces: But their indulgence must not spring in me A fond opinion that he cannot err. Myself was once a student, and indeed, Fed with the self-same humour he is now, Dreaming on nought but idle poetry, That fruitless and unprofitable art, Good unto none, but least to the professors; Which then I thought the mistress of all knowledge: But since, time and the truth have waked my judgment. And reason taught me better to distinguish T he vain from the useful learnings. Enter Master STEPHEN. Cousin Stephen, What news with you, that you are here so early?
Step. Nothing, but e'en come to see how you do, unclo.
Know. That's kindly done; you are welcome, coz.
Step. Ay, I know that, sir; I would not have come else. How does my cousin Edward, uncle?
Know. O, well, coz; go in and see; I doubt he be scarce stirring yet.
Step. Uncle, afore I go in, can you tell me, an he have e'er a book of the science of hawking and hunting; I would fain borrow it.
Know. Why, I hope you will not a hawking now, will you?
Step. No, wusse; but I'll practise against next year, uncle. I have bought me a hawk, and a hood, and bells and all; I lack nothing but a book to keep it by.
Know. Oh, most ridiculous!
Step. Nay, look you now, you are angry, uncle:--Why, you know an a man have not skill in the hawking and hunting languages now-a-days, I'll not give a rush for him: they are more studied than the Greek, or the Latin. He is for no gallant's company without them; and by gadslid I scorn it, I, so I do, to be a consort for every humdrum: hang them, scroyles! there's nothing in them i' the world. What do you talk on it? Because I dwell at Hogsden, I shall keep company with none but the archers of Finsbury, or the citizens that come a ducking to Islington ponds! A fine jest, i' faith! 'Slid, a gentleman mun shew himself like a gentleman. Uncle, I pray you be not angry; I know what I have to do, I trow. I am no novice.
Know. You are a prodigal, absurd coxcomb, go to! Nay, never look at me, 'tis I that speak; Take't as you will, sir, I'll not flatter you. Have you not yet found means enow to waste That which your friends have left you, but you must Go cast away your money on a buzzard, And know not how to keep it, when you have done? O, it is comely! this will make you a gentleman! Well, cousin, well, I see you are e'en past hope Of all reclaim:---ay, so; now you are told on't, You look another way.
Step. What would you ha' me do?
Know. What would I have you do? I'll tell you, kinsman; Learn to be wise, and practise how to thrive; That would I have you do: and not to spend Your coin on every bauble that you fancy, Or every foolish brain that humours you. I would not have you to invade each place, Nor thrust yourself on all societies, Till men's affections, or your own desert, Should worthily invite you to your rank. He that is so respectless in his courses, Oft sells his reputation at cheap market. Nor would I, you should melt away yourself In flashing bravery, lest, while you affect To make a blaze of gentry to the world, A little puff of scorn extinguish it; And you be left like an unsavoury snuff, Whose property is only to offend. I'd have you sober, and contain yourself, Not that your sail be bigger than your boat; But moderate your expenses now, at first, As you may keep the same proportion still: Nor stand so much on your gentility, Which is an airy and mere borrow'd thing, From dead men's dust and bones; and none of yours, Except you make, or hold it. Enter a Servant. Who comes here?
Serv. Save you, gentlemen!
Step. Nay, we do not stand much on our gentility, friend; yet you are welcome: and I assure you mine uncle here is a man of a thousand a year, Middlesex land. He has but one son in all the world, I am his next heir, at the common law, master Stephen, as simple as I stand here, if my cousin die, as there's hope he will: I have a pretty living O' mine own too, beside, hard by here.
Serv. In good time, sir.
Step. In good time, sir! why, and in very good time, sir! You do not flout, friend, do you?
Servo Not I, sir.
Step. Not you, sir! you were best not, sir; an you should; here be them can perceive it, and that quickly too; go to: and they can give it again soundly too, an need be.
Servo Why, sir, let this satisfy you; good faith, I had no such intent.
Step. Sir, an I thought you had, I would talk with you, and that presently.
Serv. Good master Stephen, so you may, sir, at your pleasure.
Step. And so I would, sir, good my saucy companion! an you were out O' mine uncle's ground, I can tell you; though I do not stand upon my gentility neither, in't.
Know. Cousin, cousin, will this ne'er be left?
Step. Whoreson, basefellow! a mechanical serving-man! By this cudgel, an 'twere not for shame, I would--
Know. What would you do, you peremptory gull? If you cannot be quiet, get you hence. You see the honest man demeans himself Modestly tow'rds you, giving no reply To your unseason'd, quarrelling, rude fashion; And still you huff it, with a kind of carriage As void of wit, as of humanity. Go, get you in; 'fore heaven, I am ashamed Thou hast a kinsman's interest in me. [Exit Master Stephen.
Serv. I pray, sir, is this master Knowell's house?
Know. Yes, marry is it, sir.
Serv. I should inquire for a gentleman here, one master Edward Knowell; do you know any such, sir, I pray you?
Know. I should forget myself else, sir.
Serv. Are you the gentleman? cry you mercy, sir: I was required by a gentleman in the city, as I rode out at this end O' the town, to deliver you this letter, sir.
Know. To me, sir! What do you mean? pray you remember your court'sy. [Reads.] To his most selected friend, master Edward Knowell. What might the gentleman's name be, sir, that sent it? Nay, pray you be covered.
Serv. One master Wellbred, sir.
Know. Master Wellbred! a young gentleman, is he not?
Serv. The same, sir; master Kitely married his sister; the rich merchant in the Old Jewry.
Know. You say very true.---Brainworm! [Enter Brainworm.
Brai. Sir.
Know. Make this honest friend drink here: pray you, go in. [Exeunt Brainworm and Servant. This letter is directed to my son; Yet I am Edward Knowell too, and may, With the safe conscience of good manners, use The fellow's error to my satisfaction. Well, I will break it ope (old men are curious), Be it but for the style's sake and the phrase; To see if both do answer my son's praises, Who is almost grown the idolater Of this young Wellbred. What have we here? What's this? [Reads]
Why, Ned, I beseech thee, hast thou forsworn all thy friends in the Old Jewry? or dost thou think us all Jews that inhabit there? yet, if thou dost, come over, and but see our frippery; change an old shirt for a whole smock with us: do not conceive that antipathy between us and Hogsden, as was between Jews and hogs-flesh. Leave thy vigilant father alone, to number over his green apricots, evening and morning, on the north-west wall: an I had been his son, I had saved him the labour long since, if taking in all the young wenches that pass by at the back-door, and codling every kernel of the fruit for them, would have served, But, pr'ythee, come over to me quickly this morning; I have such a present for thee!--our Turkey company never sent the like to the Grand Signior. One is a rhymer, sir, of your own batch, your own leaven; but doth think himself poet-major of the town, willing to be shewn, and worthy to be seen. The other--I will not venture his description with you, till you come, because I would have you make hither with an appetite. If the worst of 'em be not worth your journey draw your bill of charges, as unconscionable as any Guildhall verdict will give it you, and you shall be allowed your viaticum. From the Windmill.
From the Bordello it might come as well, The Spittle, or Pict-hatch. Is this the man My son hath sung so, for the happiest wit, The choicest brain, the times have sent us forth! I know not what he may be in the arts, Nor what in schools; but, surely, for his manners, I judge him a profane and dissolute wretch; Worse by possession of such great good gifts, Being the master of so loose a spirit. Why, what unhallowed ruffian would have writ In such a scurrilous manner to a friend! Why should he think I tell my apricots, Or play the Hesperian dragon with my fruit, To watch it? Well, my son, I had thought you Had had more judgment to have made election Of your companions, than t' have ta'en on trust Such petulant, jeering gamesters, that can spare No argument or subject from their jest. But I perceive affection makes a fool Of any man too much the father.---Brainworm! Enter BRAINWORM. Brai. Sir.
Know. Is the fellow gone that brought this letter?
Brai. Yea, sir, a pretty while since.
Know. And where is your young master?
Brai. In his chamber, sir.
Know. He spake not with the fellow, did he?
Brai. No, sir, he saw him not.
Know. Take you this letter, and deliver it my son; but with no notice that I have opened it, on your life.
Brai. O Lord, sir! that were a jest indeed. [Exit.
Know. I am resolved I will not stop his journey, Nor practise any violent means to stay The unbridled course of youth in him; for that Restrain'd, grows more impatient; and in kind Like to the eager, but the generous greyhound, Who ne'er so little from his game withheld, Turns head, and leaps up at his holder's throat. There is a way of winning more by love, And urging of tho modesty, than fear: Force works on servile natures, not the free. He that's compell'd to goodness may be good, But 'tis but for that fit; where others, drawn By softness and example, get a habit. Then, if they stray, but warn them, and the same They should for virtue have done, they'll do for shame. [Exit.
## SCENE II.-A Room in KNOWELL.'S House.
Enter E. KNOWELL, with a letter in his hand, followed by BRAINWORM.
E. Know. Did he open it, say'st thou?
Brai. Yes, O' my word, sir, and read the contents.
E. Know. That scarce contents me. What countenance, prithee, made he in the reading of it? was he angry, or pleased?
Brai. Nay, sir, I saw him not read it, nor open it, I assure your worship.
E. Know. No! how know'st thou then that he did either?
Brai. Marry, sir, because he charged me, on my life, to tell nobody that he open'd it; which, unless he had done, he would never fear to have it revealed.
E. Know. That's true: well, I thank thee, Brainworm. Enter STEPHEN.
Step. O, Brainworm, didst thou not see a fellow here in what-sha-call-him doublet? he brought mine uncle a letter e'en now.
Brai. Yes, master Stephen; what of him?
Step. O, I have such a mind to beat him--where is he, canst thou tell?
Brai. Faith, he is not of that mind: he is gone, master Stephen.
Step. Gone! which way? when went he? how long since?
Brai. He is rid hence; he took horse at the street-door.
Step. And I staid in the fields! Whoreson scanderbag rogue! O that I had but a horse to fetch him back again!
Brai. Why, you may have my master's gelding, to save your longing, sir.
Step. But I have no boots, that's the spite on't.
Brai. Why, a fine wisp of hay, roll'd hard, master Stephen.
Step. No, faith, it's no boot to follow him now: let him e'en go and hang. Prithee, help to truss me a little: he does so vex me--
Brai. You'll be worse vexed when you are trussed, master Stephen. Best keep unbraced, and walk yourself till you be cold; your choler may founder you else.
Step. By my faith, and so I will, now thou tell'st me on't: how dost thou like my leg, Brainworm?