were his next most important works: Volpone, or the Fox, appearing in 1605, Epicéne, or the Silent Woman, in 1609, and The Alchemist in 1610. Between 1605 and 1609 Jonson produced, sometimes for the court, sometimes for the civic bodies, a number of the representations known as pageants or masques, so popular in his time. In 1611 appeared his second classical tragedy Catiline; and in 1612 he went abroad, but how long he remained is not known. He was in London again in 1614, in which year appeared his Bartholomew Fair, and in 1616 his comedy of The Devil is an Ass. Either in this year or in 1619, Jonson was created poet-laureate, with a salary of 100 merks. In 1618 he made a journey to Scotland on foot, and appears to have been well received by the Scottish gentry. The last visit he paid was to the poet Drummond of Hawthornden, who took copious notes of the conversations he had with Jonson, which were afterwards given to the world. How far these notes can be depended on for faithfulness it is difficult to say: one would fain hope that Drummond was guilty of considerable exaggeration, as he presents Jonson in no very agreeable light, as full of bitterness and spite towards his brother authors. The following is Drummond's character of Ben :

:

'Ben Jonson was a great lover and praiser of himself, a contemner and scorner of others, given rather to lose a friend than a jest, jealous of every word and action of those about him, especially after drink, which is one of the elements in which he lived: a dissembler of the parts which reign in him; a bragger of some good that he wanted; thinketh nothing well done but what either he himself or some of his friends have said or done. He is passionately kind and angry, careless either to gain or keep; vindictive, but if he be well answered at himself; interprets best sayings and deeds often to the worst. He was for any religion, as being versed in both; oppressed with fancy which hath overmastered his reason, a general disease in many poets: his inventions are smooth and easy, but above all he excelleth in a translation.'

'This character,' says one of Jonson's biographers, it must be confessed, is far from being a flattering one; and probably it was, unconsciously, overcharged, owing to the recluse habits and staid demeanour of Drummond. We believe it, however, to be substantially correct. Inured to hardships and to a free boisterous life in his early days, Jonson seems to have contracted a roughness of manner and habits of intemperance which never wholly left him. Priding himself immoderately on his classical acquirements, he was apt to slight and condemn his less learned associates; while the conflict between his limited means and his love of social pleasures rendered him too often severe and saturnine in his temper. Whatever he did was done with labour, and hence was highly prized. His contemporaries seemed fond of mortifying his pride, and he was often at war with actors and authors. When his better nature prevailed, and exorcised the demon of envy or spleen, Jonson was capable of a generous warmth of friendship, and of just discrimination of genius and character. His literary reputation, his love of conviviality, and his high colloquial powers, rendered his society much courted, and he became the centre of a band of wits and revellers. Sir Walter Raleigh founded a club, known to all posterity as the Mermaid Club, at which Jonson, Shakespeare, Beaumont, Fletcher, and other poets exercised themselves with “wit combats," more bright and genial than their wine. One of the favourite haunts of these bright-minded men was the Falcon Tavern, near the theatre in Bankside.' After his return to London in 1619, Jonson continued writing, producing a few inferior dramas, a great many masques, and one or two prose works, including an English Grammar and a translation of Aristotle's Poetics. His best days were however past, his pen had lost much of its vigour and cunning; but as his extravagant living kept him very poor, he was compelled to write hurriedly what would pay best. In 1625 he was attacked by palsy, which enfeebled both his body and mind. In 1630, nevertheless, he produced the comedy of The New Inn, which shows a lamentable falling off from his earlier productions, and which proved unsuccessful on the stage. King Charles, however, sent him a present of £100, and raised his salary as laureate to the same sum, adding a yearly tierce of canary wine. Even this, however, did not suffice to supply his necessities, as we find him shortly after begging assistance from the Lord Chancellor. In 1632 he produced The Magnetic Lady, and, the year after, The Tale of a Tub. His last work, which he left unfinished, was the Sad Shepherd, which is much superior to anything he wrote for years before. He died in 1637, and was buried in West

minster Abbey, a plain stone being placed over his remains, with the short inscription, 'O Rare Ben Jonson.'

To quote again the biographer above referred to: Jonson founded a style of regular English comedy, massive, well compacted, and fitted to endure, yet not very attractive in its materials. His Roman tragedies may be considered literal impersonations of classical antiquity, "robust and richly graced," yet stiff and unnatural in style and construction. They seem to bear about the same relation to Shakespeare's classic dramas that sculpture does to actual life. The strong delineation of character is the most striking feature in Jonson's comedies. Generally his portraits of eccentric characters-men in whom some peculiarity has grown to an egregious excess-are ludicrous and impressive. His scenes and character show the labour of the artist, but still an artist possessing rich resources; an acute and vigorous intellect; great knowledge of life, down to its lowest descents; wit, lofty declamation, and a power of dramatising his knowledge and observation with singular skill and effect. His pedantry is often misplaced and ridiculous. . . . His comic theatre is a gallery of strange, clever, original portraits, powerfully drawn, and skilfully disposed, but many of them repulsive in expression, or so exaggerated as to look like caricatures or libels on humanity. We have little deep passion, or winning tenderness, to link the beings of his drama with those we love or admire, or to make us sympathize with them as with existing mortals. The charm of reality is generally wanting, or, when found, it is not a pleasing reality. When the great artist escapes entirely from his elaborate wit and personified humours into the region of fancy, we are struck with the contrast it exhibits to his ordinary manner. He thus presents two natures- -one hard, rugged, gross, and sarcastic, "a mountain belly and a rocky face," as he describes his own person; the other airy, fanciful, and graceful, as if its possessor had never combated with the world and its bad passions, but nursed his understanding and his fancy to poetical seclusion and observation.'

The selections we have made are two of his three best comedies, The Alchemist, and Epicone, or The Silent Woman, with neither of which have we deemed it necessary to take much liberty in the way of emasculation; also Every Man in his Humour, not only on account of its intrinsic excellence as a comedy, but as serving to illustrate the use of the word humour so common in Jonson's time, and as containing one of his most celebrated creations, Captain Bobadill.]

THE ALCHEMIST:1

A COMEDY.

ACTED IN THE YEAR 1610 BY THE KING'S MAJESTY'S SERVANTS.

THE AUTHOR B. J.

London: Printed by William Stansby, 1616.

TO THE LADY MOST DESERVING HER NAME AND BLOOD,
LADY MARY WROTH.

MADAM,-In the age of sacrifices, the truth of
religion was not in the greatness and fat of the
offerings, but in the devotion and zeal of the
sacrificers: else what could a handful of gums
have done in the sight of a hecatomb? or how
might I appear at this altar, except with those
affections that no less love the light and witness,
than they have the conscience of your virtue?
If what I offer bear an acceptable odour, and
hold the first strength, it is your value of it,
which remembers where, when, and to whom it

1 By this expression, says Whalley, is meant one who pretends to the knowledge of what is called the philosopher's stone, which was supposed to have the faculty of transmuting baser metals into gold. Alchemy bears the same relation to chemistry that astrology does to astronomy. Our poet in the choice of his subject was happy;

was kindled. Otherwise, as the times are, there comes rarely forth that thing so full of authority or example, but by assiduity and custom grows less, and loses. This, yet, safe in your judgment (which is a SIDNEY'S) is forbidden to speak more, lest it talk or look like one of the ambitious faces of the time, who, the more they paint, are the less themselves.

Your ladyship's true honourer,

BEN JONSON.

for the age was then extremely addicted to the pursuit of alchemy, and favourable to the professors of it. The following comedy was therefore no unseasonable satire upon the reigning foible, since, among the few real artists, there was undoubtedly a far greater number of impostors.

TO THE READER.

Ir thou beest more, thou art an understander, | times their own rudeness is the cause of their and then I trust thee. If thou art one that takest up, and but a pretender, beware of what hands thou receivest thy commodity; for thou wert never more fair in the way to be cozened, than in this age, in poetry, especially in plays: wherein, now the concupiscence of dances and of antics so reigneth, as to run away from nature, and be afraid of her, is the only point of art that tickles the spectators. But how out of purpose, and place, do I name art? When the professors are grown so obstinate contemners of it, and presumers on their own naturals, 1 as they are deriders of all diligence that way, and, by simple mocking at the terms, when they understand not the things, think to get off wittily with their ignorance. Nay, they are esteemed the more learned and sufficient for this, by the many, through their excellent vice of judgment. For they commend writers, as they do fencers or wrestlers; who, if they come in robustuously, and put for it with a great deal of violence, are received for the braver fellows: when many

disgrace, and a little touch of their adversary gives all that boisterous force the foil. I deny not, but that these men, who always seek to do more than enough, may some time happen on some thing that is good, and great; but very seldom; and when it comes it doth not recompense the rest of their ill. It sticks out, perhaps, and is more eminent, because all is sordid and vile about it: as lights are more discerned in a thick darkness, than a faint shadow. I speak not this, out of a hope to do good to any man against his will; for I know, if it were put to the question of theirs and mine, the worse would find more suffrages: because the most favour common errors. But I give thee this warning, that there is a great difference between those that, to gain the opinion of copy,2 utter all they can, however unfitly; and those that use election3 and a mean. For it is only the disease of the unskilful, to think rude things greater than polished; or scattered more numerous than composed.

PROLOGUE.

Fortune, that favours fools, these two short hours, | Howe'er the age he loves in doth endure

We wish away both for your sakes and ours, Judging spectators; and desire, in place,

To the author justice, to ourselves but grace. Our scene is London, 'cause we would make known,

No country's mirth is better than our own:
No clime breeds better matter for your whore,
Bawd, squire, impostor, many persons more,
Whose manners, now call'd humours, feed the
stage;

And which have still been subject for the rage
Or spleen of comic writers. Though this pen
Did never aim to grieve but better men;

The vices that she breeds, above their cure.
But when the wholesome remedies are sweet,
And in their working gain and profit meet,
He hopes to find no spirit so much diseased,
But will with such fair correctives be pleased:
For here he doth not fear who can apply.
If there be any that will sit so nigh
Unto the stream, to look what it doth run,

They shall find things, they'd think or wish
were done;

They are so natural follies, but so shown,
As even the doers may see, and yet not own.

ACT I.-SCENE I.

A Room in LOVEWIT'S House.

Enter FACE, in a captain's uniform, with his sword drawn, and SUBTLE with a vial, quarrelling, and followed by DOL COMMON.

Face. Believe't, I will.

Sub. Thy worst. I fart at thee.

Dol. Have you your wits? Why, gentlemen! for love

Face. Sirrah, I'll strip you

Sub. What to do? Lick figs Out at my

Face. Rogue, rogue!-out of all your sleights. Dol. Nay, look ye, sovereign, general, are you madmen?

Sub. Oh, let the wild sheep loose. your silks

With good strong water, an you come.

Dol. Will you have

I'll gum

The neighbours hear you? Will you betray all?
Hark! I hear somebody.

Face. Sirrah

Sub. I shall mar

All that the tailor has made, if you approach.
Face. You most notorious whelp, you insolent
Dare you do this?

Sub. Yes, faith; yes, faith.

Face. Why, who

Am I, my mongrel?

Sub. I'll tell you,

Who am I?

Since you know not yourself.

Face. Speak lower, rogue.

[slave,

Sub. Yes, you were once (time's not long past) the good,

Honest, plain, livery-three-pound-thrum, that

kept

Your master's worship's house here in the Friars,
For the vacations-

Face. Will you be so loud?

Face. Why, I pray you, have I
Been countenanced by you, or you by me?
Do but collect,' sir, where I met you first.
Sub. I do not hear well.

Face. Not of this, I think it.

But I shall put you in mind, sir;-at Pie-corner,
Taking your meal of steam in, from cooks' stalls,
Where, like the father of hunger, you did walk
Piteously costive,2 with your pinch'd-horn-nose,
And your complexion of the Roman wash,
Stuck full of black and melancholic worms,
Like powder corns shot at the artillery-yard.
Sub. I wish you could advance your voice a
little.

Face. When you went pinn'd up in the several

rags

You had raked and pick'd from dunghills, before
day;

Your feet in mouldy slippers, for your kibes;*
A felt of rug, and a thin threaden cloke,
That scarce would cover your no buttocks-
Sub. So, sir!

Face. When all your alchemy, and your algebra,
Your minerals, vegetals, and animals,
Your conjuring, cozening, and your dozen of
trades,

Could not relieve your corps with so much linen
Would make you tinder, but to see a fire;

I gave you countenance, credit for your coals,
Your stills, your glasses, your materials;
Built you a furnace, drew you customers,
Advanced all your black arts; lent you, beside,
A house to practise in-

Sub. Your master's house!

Face. Where you have studied the more thriv ing skill

Of bawdry since.

Sub. Yes, in your master's house.

You and the rats here kept possession.

Make it not strange. I know you were one could

keep

Sub. Since, by my means, translated suburb- The buttery-hatch still lock'd, and save the chipcaptain.

Face. By your means, doctor dog!

Sub. Within man's memory,

All this I speak of.

1 three-pound-thrum-one whose livery was made of the ends of a weaver's warp (thrums) or course yarn, of which three pounds were sufficient to make him a suit. -WHALLEY. Gifford thinks it may mean that his livery cost him but three pounds.

The which, together with your Christmas vails'
At post-and-pair, your letting out of counters,
Made you a pretty stock, some twenty marks,
And gave you credit to converse with cobwebs,
Here, since your mistress' death hath broken up
house.

Face. You might talk softlier, rascal.
Sub. No, you scarab,2

I'll thunder you in pieces: I will teach you
How to beware to tempt a Fury again,
That carries tempest in his hand and voice.
Face. The place has made you valiant.
Sub. No, your clothes.-

Thou vermin, have I ta'en thee out of dung,
So poor, so wretched, when no living thing
Would keep thee company, but a spider, or worse?
Rais'd thee from brooms, and dust, and watering-
pots,

Sublimed thee, and exalted thee, and fix'd thee
In the third region, call'd our state of grace?
Wrought thee to spirit, to quintessence, with pains
Would twice have won me the philosopher's work?
Put thee in words and fashion, made thee fit
For more than ordinary fellowships?
Giv'n thee thy oaths, thy quarrelling dimensions,
Thy rules to cheat at horse-race, cock-pit, cards,
Dice, or whatever gallant tincture else?
Made thee a second in mine own great art?
And have I this for thanks! Do you rebel?
Do you fly out in the projection?
Would you be gone now?

Dol. Gentlemen, what mean you?
Will you mar all?

Sub. Slave, thou hadst had no name

Dol. Will you undo yourselves with civil war?
Sub. Never been known, past equi clibanum,3
The heat of horse-dung, under ground, in cellars,
Or an ale-house darker than deaf John's; been
lost

To all mankind, but laundresses and tapsters,
Had not I been.

Dol. Do you know who hears you, sovereign?
Face. Sirrah-

Dol. Nay, general, I thought you were civil.
Face. I shall turn desperate, if you grow thus

loud.

cozening with a hollow cole, &c.-cheating the simple by pretending to conjure with a bit of charcoal having a hole in it, in which was put the dust and scrapings' of gold and silver. Searching for things lost, &c.-this method of divination, says Gifford, of remote antiquity, yet retains its credit among the vulgar.

Erecting figures, &c.-delineating schemes of the different positions of the planets, with respect to the several constellations. House, in astrology, is the twelfth part of the zodiac.-GIFFord.

taking in, &c.-this was a common mode of divination. The glass was a globular crystal, or beryl, into

The statute of sorcery, tricesimo tertio

Of Harry the Eighth: ay, and perhaps, thy neck Within a noose, for laundring gold and barbing it.

Dol. [Snatches FACE's sword.] You'll bring your head within a cockscomb, will you? And you, sir, with your menstrue?_

[Dashes SUBTLE's vial out of his hand.
Gather it up.-

'Sdeath, you abominable pair of stinkards,
Leave off your barking, and grow one again,
Or, by the light that shines, I'll cut your throats.
I'll not be made a prey unto the marshal,
For ne'er a snarling dog-bolt of you both.
Have you together cozen'd all this while,
And all the world, and shall it now be said,
You've made most courteous shift to cozen your-

selves?

You will accuse him! you will bring him in

[To FACE.
Within the statute! Who shall take your word?
A whoreson, upstart, apocryphal captain,
Whom not a Puritan in Blackfriars will trust
So much as for a feather: and you too,

[To SUBTLE. Will give the cause, forsooth! you will insult,

which the angels Gabriel, Uriel, &c., entered and gave responses, as Lilly says, 'in a voice, like the Irish, much in the throat.' This was one of the most artful and impudent modes of imposture, and was usually conducted by confederacy.

1 Told in red letters-i.e. all these tricks were to be printed in red letters, and hung up by Face in St. Paul's.

2 Gamaliel Ratsey was a notorious highwayman, who always robbed in a mask, no doubt, as hideous as possible.

3 For lying, &c.-i.e. for eating more than his share of the broken provisions, collected and sent in for the prisoners.-GIFFORD.

4 brach-any fine-nosed hound; here used as a mannerly name for a bitch.'

5 By this statute all witchcraft and sorcery were declared to be felony without benefit of clergy.

6 laundring-washing; hence laundry, from the same root as lave; barbing-clipping.

7 menstrue, or menstruum-solvent.

8 dog-bolt-see p. 45, note 5, col. 1.

9 Blackfriars was the favourite residence of Puritans

at the time; the principal dealers in feathers and other vanitics of the age.

K