No More Learning

There was nobody in the house but a woman milking a goat.
In one
corner of the room stood a bed, in the middle was a
table, and on one of the walls hung a burning coal-oil lamp.
As I opened the door, the woman looked up and said in a
dull piteous moaning:-
“It is none of Jörge's fault. Jörge had shown the red light
in good season, and yesterday he specially warned the gentlemen
and told them that a ridge of the Gnippe was crumbling, and
would soon break down; but they did not listen to him, and now
that the accident has come they will surely visit their own care-
lessness upon him. It is always the poor dependent that is made
to suffer for the fault of his superiors. But I will not stand it;
and if Jörge is discharged and loses his bread, then — »
"All right, madam! ” I said: "I saw the red light in time, and
I shall testify for Jörge in case of need. Only keep quiet now
and come here. You must try to restore this child. He has
fainted. Give him water or something,- you will know best
what to do. ”
In recalling these words to my memory and writing them
down, I am not quite certain that I really spoke them; I am not
certain of a single word or action of mine on that fearful night.
But I think I said the words I am relating, although I was so
confused that it is possible I did not utter a word. I had come
out of the house again, and saw a man running up and down on
the narrow rocky plateau like one crazy. It was Jörge the watch-
man; he was looking for the signal-post and could not find it.
Here it is, look! ” I said, turning his face toward the high
pole right in front of him.
He gazed up wistfully, and then all
at once he blubbered out:
«See! See the red light! I gave the warning, they cannot
blame me, they dare not punish me for it; it is not my fault! ”
Of course he thought of nothing but himself, and the misfor-
tune of the others touched him only so far as he was concerned.


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MAURICE JÓKAI
8337
« Don't blubber now! ” I said. “There will be time enough
to think of ourselves. Now let us learn what has happened to
the others. The whole train has been swept down into the abyss
below, what has become of the people in it? ”
«God Almighty have mercy on their souls! ”
“Yet perhaps we could save some of them. Come along! ”
«I can't go.
I dare not leave my post, else they will turn
against me.
« Well then, I shall go alone,” said I, and hastened down the
steps.
What had meanwhile become of those who had stayed in the
falling carriages ?
There came a terrible answer to that question, and out of the
old horror arose a new and still more terrible spectre. A demon
with a cloudy head, rising from the darkness below, and with a
swift and fearful growth mounting up to the sky. A demon with
a thousand glistening, sparkling eyes and tongues,-a smoke-fiend!
,
The great boiler of the locomotive had gone down first.
There it fell, not on the ground, but on a large fragment of
rock which pierced it completely, so that the air had free access
to the fire. Upon the top of both boiler and tender the coal
.
van had been turned upside down; and these had pulled all the
carriages one on top of the other, in the same way, so that the
whole train stood upright like some huge steeple. This dreadful
structure had become a great funeral pile, the altar of a black
pagan idol, whose fiery tongues were greedily thrusting upward
to devour their prey.
Then, as the smoke became blacker and blacker, a heart-rend-
ing, almost maddening sound of shrieking and crying rang out
from that devilish wreck, so loud and piercing that it drowned
the clatter of stones, the crackling of the fast-kindling coals, and
the crushing noise of the metals. At the cry for aid of the
doomed victims, all who had escaped and hidden behind the bul-
wark came forth, creeping or running, shrieking and gesticulating,
forgetful of their own danger and pitiful condition, thinking only
of those dear lost ones there in that abode of hell, and maddened
at the impossibility of rescuing them. It was a wild hurly-burly
of voices and of tongues; of despairing yells, hysterical sobs,
heart-rending prayers; and as I stumbled over the twisted and
broken rails that stood upright like bent wires, and stooped over
the bulwark, I beheld a spectacle so terrible that every nerve of
XIV-522


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8338
MAURICE JÓKAI
my body, every heart-string, revolted at it. Even now they quiver
at the ghastly recollection.
As the fire lighted up the horrible pile, I could see that the
first carriage atop of the coals was a shattered mass, the second
crushed flat, while the third stood with wheels uppermost, and so
forth to the top; and out of all of them human heads, limbs,
faces, bodies, were thrust forward. Two small gloved female
hands, locked as in prayer, were stretched out of a window;
and above them two strong muscular masculine arms tried with
superhuman force to lift the iron weight above, to break a way
at the top, until the blood flowed from the nails, and even
these strong arms dropped down exhausted. Half-seen forms,
mutilated, bleeding, were tearing with teeth and nails at their
dreadful prison.
Then for a while the smoky cloud involved everything in
darkness. A moment after, the red fiery tongues came lapping
upward, and a red glowing halo encircled the fatal wreck. The
first and second carriages were already burned. How long would
it take the flames to reach the top? How many of the sufferers
were yet alive? What power in heaven or earth could save
them, and how?
The hollow into which the train had fallen was so deep that
in spite of the erect position of the ill-fated pile, the topmost car
- that containing the poor, foolish American governess who had
lost her life in running back for her bonnet - was ten metres
below us, and we had not even a single rope or cord with which
to hazard the experiment of descending. A young man, one of
those few who had come forth unharmed, ran up and down the
embankment shouting madly for a rope, offering a fortune for
belts, shawls, and cords. His newly married bride was in one of
these carriages, and hers were the tiny gloved hands that were
stretched out of the window. "A rope,” cried he, "give me any-
thing to make a rope! ” But who heeded him ?
A young mother sat on the tracks, fondly hugging a plaid
shawl in her arms.
Her babe was there in that burning pyre,
but horror had overpowered her reason. There she sat, caressing
the woolen bundle, and in a low voice singing her Eia Popeia”
to the child of her fantasy.
An aged Polish Jew lay across the barricade wall. His two
hands were stretched downward, and there he muttered the
prayers and invocations of his liturgy, which no one understood
(c


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MAURICE JÓKAI
8339
but himself and Jehovah, his ancient God. The ritual prayer-
bands were upon his thumbs and wrists, and encircling his fore-
head. His forked beard and greasy side-locks dangled as he
chanted his hymns, while his eyes, staring almost out of their
sockets, were fixed upon one of the carriages. What did that car
contain ? His wife? his children? or his worldly goods, the for-
tune hoarded up through a lifetime of cunning and privation ?
Who knows? Forth he chants his prayers, loudly yelling, or mut-
tering low, as the ghastly scene before him vanishes in smoke
and darkness, or glows out again in fearful distinctness.
Every one shrieks, cries, prays, swears, raves
No; not every one! There, on the barricade, his legs doubled
up Turk-fashion, sits a young painter, with Mephisto beard and
gray eyes. His sketch-book is open, and he is making a vivid
sketch of the sensational scene. The illustrated newspapers are
grateful customers, and will rejoice at receiving the sketch.
But this young draughtsman is not the only sensible person
in the place. There is another, a long-legged Englishman, stand-
ing with watch in hand, reckoning up the time lost by the acci-
dent, and eying the scene complacently.
Some noisy dispute attracts my attention; and turning, I be-
hold a man trying with all his might to overcome a woman who
attacks him with teeth and nails, biting his hands and tearing at
his flesh as he drags her close to him. At last he succeeds in
joining both of her hands behind her back — she foaming, writh-
ing, and cursing. I asked indignantly, “What do you want with
the woman ? Let her alone! ”
«Oh, sir! ” he said, showing me a sorrowful and tear-stained
face. “For heaven's sake, help me! I cannot bear with her any
more. She wants to leap down and kill herself. Pray help me
to tie her hands and carry her off from here! ”
By his speech I knew him for a Pole, and the woman's excla-
mations were also uttered in the Polish language. She was his
wife; her children were there in that infernal pile, and she
wanted to die with them.
"Quick! quick! ” gasped the man. « Take
my
necktie and
fasten her hands behind her. ” I obeyed; and as I wound the
silken strip tight around the unhappy woman's wrists, her despair-
ing gaze fixed itself in deadly hate upon my face, and her foam-
ing lips cursed me for keeping her away from her children. As
her husband carried her away, her curses pierced the air; and
(C


## p. 8340 (#548) ###########################################

8340
MAURICE JÓKAI
although I could not understand the words, I understood that she
spoke of the Czrny Bog, or as the Russians say, Cserny Boh, the
Black God of the Slavs — Death.
By this time the horrible tower was burning brightly, and the
night was all aglow with the glaring light, and still those terri-
ble shrieks from human voices resounded to and fro.
The young artist had a picturesque scene for his pencil, and
kept making sketch after sketch. The burning wreck, the flying
cinders, the red mist around the black pine-woods on the rocky
wall of the mountain, and that small span of starlit heaven
above; all those frightened, maddened, running, crouching, creep-
ing men and women around, with the chanting Jew in his long
silken caftan and dangling locks in the midst of them,- made
a picture of terrible sublimity.
But still the terrible god of destruction was unsatisfied, and
his fiery maw opened for more victims. The unhappy young hus-
band had succeeded in tearing up his clothes and knotting the
strips together. A compassionate woman had given him a shawl,
which he also tore up and joined on to the rest, so that he had a
slender and frail but tolerably long line, which he fastened to the
bushes. On this he descended into that mouth of hell.
ilous attempt succeeded so far that with one mad leap he landed
on the top of the uppermost car with its pile of stones; and then
with cat-like dexterity and desperate daring he scrambled down-
ward to the third carriage. Quickly he reached the spot, and the
poor little gloved hands of his darling were thrown in ecstasy
around his neck. Some one had drawn up the cord on which he
had let himself down, fastened a stout iron rod to it, and sus-
pended it carefully. Happily it reached him, and with its aid he
made a good-sized breach, widening the opening of the window.
He worked with desperate strength and we gazed breathlessly
Now we saw him drop the rod again. The tender arms of
his bride were around his neck, a fair head was thrust out, the
whole form was emerging, when - with a tremendous crash and a
hissing, spluttering, crackling noise, the whole fabric shook and
trembled, and husband and wife were united in death.
The great boiler had burst, the explosion had changed the
scene again, and the young painter might draw still another
sketch.
Translation of F. Steinitz.
The per.
on.


## p. 8340 (#549) ###########################################



## p. 8340 (#550) ###########################################


BEN JONSON.
ste


## p. 8340 (#551) ###########################################

it.
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## p. 8340 (#552) ###########################################




## p. 8341 (#553) ###########################################

8341
BEN JONSON
(1573–1637)
BY BARRETT WENDELL
В.
un-
EN JONSON was born about 1573, and died in 1637. A typical
Londoner all his life, it was his fortune to find an
intentional biographer in a contemporary man of letters who
was not even a resident of England. In the year 1618, Jonson, then
in the full ripeness of his fame and character, walked to Scotland,
where he visited William Drummond of Hawthornden. In Drum-
mond's note-book, which survives, we have a remarkable record of
his conversation. Quotations from this will give a better idea of him
than can any paraphrase:-
Of His OWNE LYFE, EDUCATION, Birth, ACTIONS
His grandfather came from Carlisle, and, he thought, from Anandale to
it; he served King Henry 8, and was a gentleman. His Father losed all his
estate under Queen Marie, having been cast in prisson and forfaitted; at last
turn'd Minister: so he was a minister's son. He himself was posthumous
born, a moneth after his father's decease; brought up poorly, putt to school by
a friend (his master Cambden); after taken from it, and put to ane other
craft (I think was to be a wright or bricklayer), which he could not endure;
then went he to the Low Countries; but returning soone he betook himself to
his wonted studies. In his service in the Low Countries, he had, in the face
of both the campes, killed ane enemie and taken spolia opima from him; and
since his comming to England, being appealed to the fields, he had killed his
adversarie, which had hurt him in the arme, and whose sword was 10 inches
longer than his: for the which he was emprissoned, and almost at the gal-
lowes. Then took he his religion by trust, of a priest who visited him in
prisson. Thereafter he was 12 yeares a Papist.
He was Master of Arts in both the Universities, by their favour, not his
studie.
At that tyme the pest was in London; he being in the country
with old Cambden, he saw in a vision his eldest sone, then a child and at
London, appear unto him with the mark of a bloodie crosse on his forehead,
as if it had been cutted with a sword, at which amazed he prayed unto God,
and in the morning he came to Mr. Cambden's chamber to tell him; who
persuaded him it was but ane apprehension of his fantasie, at which he sould
not be disjected; in the mean tyme comes then letters from his wife of the
m


## p. 8342 (#554) ###########################################

83+2
BEN JONSON
death of that boy in the plague. He appeared to him (he said) of a manlie
shape, and of that grouth that he thinks he shall be at the resurrection.
He was dilated
. . to the King for writting something against the
Scots,
and voluntarly imprissoned himself with Chapman and Mar-
ston, who had written it amongst them. The report was, that they should
then had their ears cut and noses. After their delivery he banqueted all his
friends; . . at the midst of the feast his old Mother dranke to him,
and shew him a paper which she had (if the sentence had taken execution) to
have mixed in the prisson among his drinke, which was full of lustie strong
poison; and that she was no churle, she told: she minded first to have drunk
of it herself.
S. W. Raulighe sent him governour with his Son, anno 1613, to France.
This youth being knavishly inclined, among other pastimes
caused
him to be drunken, and dead drunk, so that he knew not wher he was; ther-
after laid him on a carr, which he made to be drawen by pioners through
the streets, at every corner showing his governour stretched out, and telling
them that was a more lively image of the Crucifix than any they had: at which
sport young Raughlie's mother delyghted much (saying, his father young was
so inclyned), though the Father abhorred it. .
After he was reconciled with the Church, and left of to be a recusant, at
his first communion, in token of true reconciliation, he drank out all the full
cup of wine.
He heth consumed a whole night in lying looking to his great toe, about
which he hath seen Tartars and Turks, Romans and Carthaginians, feight in
his imagination.
His CENSURE OF MY VERSES WAS: That they were all good, especiallie my
Epitaphe of the Prince, save that they smelled too much of the Schooles, and .
were not after the fancie of the tyme.
He dissuaded me from Poetrie, for that she had beggered him, when he
might have been a rich lawer, physitian, or marchant.
[He said] he was better versed, and knew more in Greek and Latin, than
all the Poets in England.
In his merry humor he was wont to name
himself The Poet.
He went from Lieth homeward the 25 of January, 1619, in a pair of shoes
which, he told, lasted him since he came from Darnton, which he minded to
take back that farr again.
If he died by the way, he promised to send me his papers of this Coun-
try, hewen as they were.
man.
Drummond of Hawthornden was a rather precise Scottish gentle-
When he made these memoranda, he was clearly stirred by
such emotions as declare themselves in any conservative and respect-
able man who has been startled at his own table by the outburst of
an unconventional Bohemian. His private opinion of his guest, there-
fore, was hardly favorable.
JANUARY 19, 1619. — He is a great lover and praiser of himself; a contemner
and scorner of others; given rather to losse a friend than a jest; jealous
of every word and action of those about him (especiallie after drink, which is


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BEN JONSON
8343
one of the elements in which he liveth); a dissembler of ill parts which raigne
in him, a bragger of some good that he wanteth; thinketh nothing well but
what either he himself or some of his friends and countrymen hath said or
done; he is passionately kynde and angry; careless either to gaine or keep;
vindicative, but, if he be well answered, at himself.
For any religion, as being versed in both. Interpreteth best sayings and
deeds often to the worst. Oppressed with fantasie, which hath ever mastered
his reason, a generall disease in many Poets. His inventions are smooth and
easie; but above all he excelleth in a Translation.
With due allowance for the personal feeling which pervades these
memoranda, they give incomparably the most vivid portrait in exist-
ence of an Elizabethan man of letters. The man they deal with,
while not the greatest poet of his time, was distinctly the most con-
spicuous personal figure among those whose profession was literature.
An excellent scholar, according to the contemporary standard; a
playwright who never deigned to sacrifice his artistic conscience to
popular caprice; a lyric poet acceptable alike to the great folk who
patronized him, and to the literary followers who gathered about him
at his favorite taverns; laureate; chief writer of the masques which
were so characteristic a diversion of the court;— he went sturdily
through life with more renown than fortune. Born before the out-
burst of Elizabethan literature, he lived until the times of Charles I.
had begun to be troublous. He lies in the north aisle of Westmin-
ster Abbey, with the epitaph “O rare Ben Jonson” cut in the pave-
ment above his head.
In 1616, the year when Shakespeare died, Jonson published in
folio a collection of his plays and poems. To this he gave the char-
acteristic title of Works. There were current jokes, of course, about
(
the absurdity of so naming a volume of obvious plays; but the name
was well chosen. What Jonson achieved, he achieved by conscien-
tious labor. Drummond was right when he wrote, "Above all he
excelleth in a Translation. ” Jonson knew two things thoroughly: the
language and literature of classical Rome, and the language and life
of London under Elizabeth, James, and Charles. The former he pos-
sessed to a degree almost unique; the latter, of course, he shared to
the full with the human beings about him. As his two tragedies
show, as is shown by many passages in his comedies, and again
and again in his lyrics, the thing he could do supremely well was to
turn the lifelessness of the classics into terms of contemporary vitality.
In the best sense of the word, no better translator ever lived: he
never forgot that faithfulness to his original is only half the task of
the translator, who adds only to the dead weight of printed matter if
he fail to bear to living men, in living language, tidings that without
him were to them unmeaning.


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8344
BEN JONSON
The very trait which made him a consummate translator, how-
ever, made him, in spite of his vigorous personality, a less effective
original writer than many of his less gifted contemporaries. Inevita-
bly, a man who becomes saturated with classical literature becomes
possessed of the chief ideal which pervades it, -- the ideal which
maintains that there is one definite way in which things ought to
be done, as distinguished from the innumerable other ways in which
they ought not to be done. The general trait of the Elizabethan
drama is untrammeled freedom of form. Jonson, as a dramatist, felt
conscientiously bound to keep in mind the laws of classical composi-
tion. In this respect, his work is more analogous to that which has
prevailed on the stage of France and of Italy than to that which has
characterized the stage of England. “Shakspeer,” he told Drum-
mond, “wanted art. ” No one ever admired Shakespeare more stur-
dily than did Ben Jonson. All the same, he could never forget that
Shakespeare broke every rule of dramatic art maintained by the
authorities of Greece and Rome. By the same token, Jonson's own
plays never achieved the full vitality of Elizabethan England.
This fact has been generally remarked. Another trait of his,
which greatly affected his dramatic writing, has hardly been recog-
nized.
He told Drummond, we may remember, that he had seen his
dead child in a vision; and that he had lain awake watching strange
figures battling about his great toe. In modern terms, this means
that he was gifted with an exceptional visual imagination. The chief
imaginative trait of the Elizabethan drama is sympathetic insight:
whatever else the dramatists knew of their characters, they knew
how those characters must have felt; they were in full touch not with
their physical life, but with their emotional. In Jonson's case, all this
was reversed; one often doubts whether he were in deep emotional
sympathy with his characters, but one is sure that he knew precisely
how those characters looked and moved. When one has been read-
ing Shakespeare, or almost any of his other contemporaries, Jonson's
plays often seem obscure and puzzling: If in such case one turn for
an hour to Hogarth, the whole thing is explained. Jonson's imagina-
tion was primarily visual; though his vehicle was poetry, his concep-
tion was again and again that of painting. Ask yourself not what
Jonson's characters felt, but what they looked like, and they will
spring into life.
The analogy between Jonson and Hogarth, indeed, is very suggest-
ive. Not only were both gifted with singular fertility of visual
imagination, but both alike instinctively expressed themselves in such
exaggerated terms as in our time would be called caricature, and as
in Jonson's time were called humorous. Both seized upon some few
characteristic traits of the personages with whom they dealt, and so


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BEN JONSON
8345
emphasized these traits as to make them monstrous.
Both were
stirred by conscious moral purpose; both had crude but wholesome
sense of fun; both knew London to the core. In spite of the century
and more which separates them, they may well be studied together.
Whoever understands the one will understand the other.
For both alike were really artists. In the color and the texture
of Hogarth's paintings, one feels, for all their seeming ugliness of
purpose, a genuine sense of what is beautiful. In Jonson's verses,
from beginning to end, one feels, as surely as one feels the occasional
limitations of pedantry, that higher, purer spirit of classical culture,
which maintains that whatever a poet utters should be phrased as
beautifully as his power can phrase it. In some lyrics, and in certain
lines and passages of his plays, Jonson fairly excels. A scholar and
a Londoner, vigorous, sincere, untiring, he stands in our literature as
the great type of a sturdy British artist.
In the selections which follow, an attempt has been made to give
some slight evidence of his purposes and his achievement. The two
passages from his posthumous (Timber, or Discoveries) may suggest
at once his literary method and the temper in which he regarded his
chief contemporary. His well-known verses on Shakespeare repeat
in more studied form the latter views, and at the same time show
his mastery of English verse. The prologue to Every Man in His
Humour) states his dramatic creed. The passage from Sejanus'
shows his great, if superficial, mastery of Roman life and manners.
The passage from the (Silent Woman' shows at once his humorous »
manner, and his consummate power of translation; for the tirade
against women is taken straight from Juvenal. Finally, the neces-
sarily few fragments from his other plays, and selections from his
lyrics, may perhaps serve to indicate the manner of thing which his
conscientious art has added to permanent literature.
Burnett wendul
ON STYLE
From (Timber, or Discoveries Made upon Men and Matter)
E Stilo, ET OPTIMO SCRIBENDI GENERE. — For a man to write
well, there are required three necessaries, – to read the
best authors, observe the best speakers, and much exercise
of his own style. In style, to consider what ought to be written,
and after what manner, he must first think and excogitate his
matter, then choose his words, and examine the weight of either.


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8346
BEN JONSON
Then take care, in placing and ranking both matter and words,
that the composition becomely; and to do this with diligence
and often. No matter how slow the style be at first, so it be
labored and accurate; seek the best, and be not glad of the
forward conceits or first words that offer themselves to us: but
judge of what we invent, and order what we approve. Repeat
often what we have formerly written; which beside that it helps
the consequence, and makes the juncture better, it quickens the
heat of imagination, that often cools in the time of setting down,
and gives it new strength, as if it grew lustier by the going
back. As we see in the contention of leaping, they jump farthest
that fetch their race largest; or as in throwing a dart or javelin,
we force back our arms to make our loose the stronger. Yet, if
we have a fair gale of wind, I forbid not the steering out of our
sail, so the favor of the gale deceive us not. For all that we
invent doth please us in the conception of birth, else we would
never set it down. But the safest is to return to our judgment,
and handle over again those things the easiness of which might
make them justly suspected. So did the best writers in their
beginnings: they imposed upon themselves care and industry;
they did nothing rashly; they obtained first to write well, and
then custom made it easy and a habit. By little and little their
matter showed itself to them more plentifully; their words an-
swered, their composition followed; and all, as in a well-ordered
family, presented itself in the place. So that the sum of all is,
ready writing makes not good writing, but good writing brings
on ready writing: Yet when we think we have got the faculty,
it is even then good to resist it, as to give a horse a check some-
times with a bit, which doth not so much stop his course as stir
his mettle. Again, whither a man's genius is best able to reach,
thither it should more and more contend, lift, and dilate itself;
as men of low stature raise themselves on their toes, and so oft-
times get even, if not eminent. Besides, as it is fit for grown
and able writers to stand of themselves, and work with their own
strength, to trust and endeavor by their own faculties; so it is
fit for the beginner and learner to study others and the best.
For the mind and memory are more sharply exercised in com-
prehending another man's things than our own; and such as
accustom themselves and are familiar with the best authors shall
ever and anon find somewhat of them in themselves: and in the
expression of their minds, even when they feel it not, be able to


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BEN JONSON
8347
utter something like theirs, which hath an authority above their
own. Nay, sometimes it is the reward of a man's study, the
praise of quoting another man fitly; and though a man be more
prone and able for one kind of writing than another, yet he
must exercise all. For as in an instrument, so in style, there
must be a harmony and consent of parts.
ON SHAKESPEARE
From "Timber, or Discoveries Made upon Men and Matter)
D'
»
E SHAKESPEARE NOSTRAT[1]. — I remember the players have
often mentioned it as an honor to Shakespeare, that in his
writing, whatsoever he penned, he never blotted out a line.
My answer hath been, “Would he had blotted a thousand;
which they thought a malevolent speech. I had not told pos-
terity this, but for their ignorance who chose that circumstance
to commend their friend by wherein he most faulted; and to
justify mine own candor, for I loved the man, and do honor his
memory on this side idolatry as much as any. He was indeed
honest, and of an open and free nature; had an excellent fancy,
brave notions, and gentle expressions, wherein he flowed with
that facility that sometime it was necessary he should be stopped.
“Sufflaminandus erat,” as Augustus said of Haterius. His wit
was in his own power: would the rule of it had been so too.
But he redeemed his vices with his virtues. There was ever
more in him to be praised than to be pardoned.
TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MASTER, WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE
Tº
NO DRAW no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name,
Am I thus ample to thy book and fame;
While I confess thy writings to be such
As neither man nor Muse can praise too much.
'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these ways
Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise:
For silliest ignorance on these may light,
Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right;
Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance
The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance;


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8348
BEN JONSON
Or crafty malice might pretend this praise,
And think to ruin, where it seemed to raise.
These are, as some infamous bawd or whore
Should praise a matron: what could hurt her more?
But thou art proof against them, and indeed
Above the ill fortune of them, or the need.
I therefore will begin: Soul of the age !
The applause! delight! the wonder of our stage!
My SHAKESPEARE rise! I will not lodge thee by
Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie
A little further off, to make thee room:
Thou art a monument without a tomb;
And art alive still, while thy book doth live,
And we have wits to read and praise to give.
That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses,
I mean with great, but disproportioned Muses;
For if I thought my judgment were of years,
I should commit thee surely with thy peers,
And tell how far thou didst our Lily outshine,
Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe's mighty line.
And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek,
From thence to honor thee, I will not seek
For names: but call forth thundering Æschylus,
Euripides, and Sophocles to us,
Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordoua dead,
To live again, to hear thy buskin tread,
And shake a stage; or when thy socks were on,
Leave thee alone for the comparison
Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome
Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come.
Triumph, my Britain! thou hast one to show,
To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe.
He was not of an age, but for all time!
And all the Muses still were in their prime
When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm
Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm!
Nature herself was proud of his designs,
And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines!
Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit,
As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit.
The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,
Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please;
But antiquated and deserted lie,
As they were not of nature's family.


## p. 8349 (#561) ###########################################

BEN JONSON
8349
Yet must I not give nature all: thy art,
My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part.
For though the poet's matter nature be,
His art doth give the fashion; and that he
Who casts to write a living line, must sweat,
(Such as thine are) and strike the second heat
Upon the Muses' anvil; turn the same,
And himself with it, that he thinks to fame:
Or for the laurel he may gain a scorn;
For a good poet's made as well as born.
And such wert thou! Look how the father's face
Lives in his issue: even so the race
Of Shakespeare's mind and manners brightly shines
In his well turned and true filed lines;
In each of which he seems to shake a lance,
As brandished at the eyes of ignorance.
Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it were
To see thee in our water yet appear,
And make those flights upon the banks of Thames
That so did take Eliza, and our James!
But stay: I see thee in the hemisphere
Advanced, and made a constellation there!
Shine forth, thou Star of poets, and with rage
Or influence, chide or cheer the drooping stage;
Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourned like
night,
And despairs day, but for thy volume's light.
FROM (SEJANUS)
Scene :
The Garden of Eudemus in Rome. Enter Sejanus, Livia, and
Eudemus.
EJANUS
Physician, thou art worthy of a province
For the great favors done unto our loves;
And but that greatest Livia bears a part
In the requital of thy services,
I should alone despair of aught like means
To give them worthy satisfaction.
Eudemus, I will see it, shall receive
A fit and full reward for his large merit.
But for this potion we intend to Drusus, –
No more our husband now,- whom shall we choose
Livia -


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8350
BEN JONSON
As the most apt and abled instrument
To minister it to him ?
Eudemus-
I say, Lydgus.
Sejanus — Lydgus? what's he?
Livia –
An eunuch Drusus loves.
Eudemus - Ay, and his cup-bearer. .
Sejanus — Send him to me; I'll work him. - Royal lady,
Though I have loved you long, and with that height
Of zeal and duty, like the fire, which more
It mounts it trembles, thinking naught could add
Unto the fervor which your eye had kindled, -
Yet now I see your wisdom, judgment, strength,
Quickness and will to apprehend the means
To your own good and greatness, I protest
Myself through rarefied and turned all flame
In your affection: such a spirit as yours
Was not created for the idle second
To a poor flash, as Drusus; but to shine
Bright as the moon among the lesser lights,
And share the sovereignty of all the world.
Then Livia triumphs in her proper sphere,
When she and her Sejanus shall divide
The name of Cæsar, and Augusta's star
Be dimmed with glory of a brighter beam;
When Agrippina's fires are quite extinct,
And the scarce-seen Tiberius borrows all
His little light from us, whose folded arms
Shall make one perfect orb.
[Knocking within. ]
Who's that? Eudemus,
Look. 'Tis not Drusus, lady; do not fear.
[Exit Eudemus. ]
Livia Not I, my lord: my fear and love of him
Left me at once.
Sejanus
Illustrious lady, stay —
Eudemus within-
I'll tell his Lordship.
Re-enter Eudemus
Sejanus —
Who is it, Eudemus ?
Eudemus — One of your Lordship's servants brings you word
The Emperor hath sent for you.


## p. 8351 (#563) ###########################################

BEN JONSON
8351
Sejanus -
Oh, where is he?
With your fair leave, dear princess, I'll but ask
A question, and return.
(Exit.
Eudemus
Fortunate princess!
How are you blest in the fruition
Of this unequaled man, the soul of Rome,
The Empire's life, and voice of Cæsar's world!
Livia - So blessèd, my Eudemus, as to know
The bliss I have, with what I ought to owe
The means that wrought it. How do I look to-day?
Eudemus -- Excellent clear, believe it. This same fucus
Was well laid on.
Livia
Methinks 'tis here not white.
Eudemus Lend me your scarlet, lady. 'Tis the sun
Hath given some little taint unto the ceruse;
You should have used of the white oil I gave you.
Sejanus, for your love! his very name
Commandeth above Cupid or his shafts —
Livia —
Eudemus
Livia -
Eudemus
Livia -
Eudemus
[Paints her cheek. ]
Nay, now you've made it worse.
I'll help it straight-
And but pronounced, is a sufficient charm
Against all rumor; and of absolute power
To satisfy for any lady's honor.
What do you now, Eudemus?
Make a light fucus,
To touch you o'er withal. Honored Sejanus !
What act, though ne'er so strange and insolent,
But that addition will at least bear out,
If't do not expiate?
Here, good physician.
- I like this study to preserve the love
Of such a man, that comes not every hour
To greet the world. —'Tis now well, lady, you should
Use of this dentifrice I prescribed you too,
To clear your teeth; and the prepared pomatum,
To smooth the skin. A lady cannot be
Too curious of her form, that still would hold
The heart of such a person, made her captive,
As you have his; who, to endear him more
In your clear eye, hath put away his wife,
The trouble of his bed, and your delights,
Fair Apicata, and made spacious room
To your new pleasures.


## p. 8352 (#564) ###########################################

8352
BEN JONSON
Liria
Eudemus
Have not we returned
That with our hate to Drusus, and discovery
Of all his counsels ?
Yes, and wisely, lady.
The ages that succeed, and stand far off
To gaze at your high prudence, shall admire,
And reckon it an act without your sex:
It hath that rare appearance.
Some will think
Your fortune could not yield a deeper sound
Than mixed with Drusus; but when they shall hear
That and the thunder of Sejanus meet, -
Sejanus, whose high name doth strike the stars,
And rings about the concave; great Sejanus,
Whose glories, style, and titles are himself,
The often iterating of Sejanus,-
They then will lose their thoughts, and be ashamed
To take acquaintance of them.
Re-enter Sejanus
Sejanus -
I must take
A rude departure, lady: Cæsar sends
With all his haste both of command and prayer.
Be resolute in our plot: you have my soul,
As certain yours as it is my body's.
And, wise physician, so prepare the poison,
As you may lay the subtle operation
Upon some natural disease of his;
Your eunuch send to me. I kiss your hands,
Glory of ladies, and commend my love
To your best faith and memory.
Livia
My lord,
I shall but change your words. Farewell. Yet this
Remember for your heed: he loves you not;
You know what I have told you; his designs
Are full of grudge and danger; we must use
More than a common speed.
Sejanus —
Excellent lady,
How you do fire my blood !
Livia
Well, you must go?
The thoughts be best, are least set forth to show.
[Exit Sejanus.
Eudemus. - When will you take some physic, lady?
Livia -
When
I shall, Eudemus: but let Drusus's drug
Be first prepared.


## p. 8353 (#565) ###########################################

BEN JONSON
8353
SOLILOQUY OF SEJANUS
D
ULL, heavy Cæsar!
Wouldst thou tell me thy favors were made crimes,
And that my fortunes were esteemed thy faults,
That thou for me wert hated, and not think
I would with winged haste prevent that change
When thou mightest win all to thyself again
By forfeiture of me? Did those fond words
Fly swifter from thy lips, than this my brain,
This sparkling forge, created me an armor
T'encounter chance and thee? Well, read my charms,
And may they lay that hold upon thy senses,
As thou hadst snuffed up hemlock, or ta'en down
The juice of poppy and of mandrakes. Sleep,
Voluptuous Cæsar, and security
Seize on thy stupid powers, and leave them dead
To public cares.
FROM THE SILENT WOMAN)
Enter Morose, with a tube in his
Scene: A Room in Morose's House.
hand, followed by Mute.
-
M
Let me
OROSE — Cannot I yet find out a more compendious method
than by this trunk, to save my servants the labor of
speech, and mine ears the discords of sounds ?
see: all discourses but my own afflict me; they seem harsh,
impertinent, and irksome. Is it not possible that thou shouldst
answer me by signs, and I apprehend thee, fellow? Speak not,
though I question you. You have taken the ring off from the
street door, as I bade you? Answer me not by speech, but by
silence; unless it be otherwise. [Mute makes a leg. ] Very good.
And you have fastened on a thick quilt or flock bed on the out-
side of the door: that if they knock with their daggers or with
brickbats, they can make no noise ? - But with your leg, your
answer, unless it be otherwise. [Mute makes a leg. ] Very good.
This is not only fit modesty in a servant, but good state and
discretion in a master. And you have been with Cutbeard the
barber, to have him come to me? [Mute makes a leg:] Good.
.
And he will come presently? Answer me not but with your
leg, unless it be otherwise: if it be otherwise, shake your head
XIV-523


## p. 8354 (#566) ###########################################

8354
BEN JONSON
or shrug. [Mute makes a leg: ] So! Your Italian and Spaniard
are wise in these: and it is a frugal and comely gravity. How
long will it be ere Cutbeard come ? Stay: if an hour, hold up
your whole hand; if half an hour, two fingers; if a quarter, one.
[Mute holds up a finger bent. ]
finger bent. ] Good: half a quarter ? 'Tis well.
And have you given him a key, to come in without knocking?
[Mute makes a leg:) Good. And is the lock oiled, and the
hinges, to-day? [1/ute makes a leg. ] Good.
[Mute makes a leg. ] Good. And the quilting
of the stairs nowhere worn out and bare ? [Mute makes a leg:]
Very good. I see, by much doctrine and impulsion it may be
effected; stand by. The Turk, in this divine discipline, is admir-
able, exceeding all the potentates of the earth: still waited on
by mutes; and all his commands so executed; yea, even in the
war, as I have heard, and in his marches, most of his charges
and directions given by signs, and with silence: an exquisite art!
and I am heartily ashamed, and angry oftentimes, that the princes
of Christendom should suffer a barbarian to transcend them in
so high a point of felicity. I will practice it hereafter.