open their friend by, wherein he most faulted, and to justify my own candour; for I loved the man, and do honour his memory on this side idolatry, as much as any. He was (indeed) honest, and of an and free nature; had an excellent phantasy, brave notions, and gentle expressions; wherein he flowed with that facility that sometimes it was necessary that 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 to. Many times he fell into those things could not escape laughter: as when he said, in the person of Cæsar, one speaking to him, 'Cæsar, thou dost me wrong,' he replied, 'Cæsar did never wrong but with just cause;' and such like, which were ridiculous. But he redeemed his vices with his virtues. There was ever more in him to be praised than to be pardoned." The edition of Jonson's works, published in 1616, —a rare folio-does not contain the Discoveries : they were first published in 1640, three years after Jonson's death. The Discoveries are detached thoughts and reflections, which appear to have been dotted down or entered in a commonplace book, without much regard to order, sequence, or priority. It is hardly possible to imagine any man, who had read the collected plays of Shakespeare, writing such a description of him as herein contained, or, in the face of such evidence misquoting a passage from one of these plays. The probability is, that Jonson wrote this passage prior to 1623, very likely soon after Shakespeare's death, and before he became so intimately acquainted with these plays, as we shall presently endeavour to show that he ultimately was. Pope surmises that his remark on Julius Caesar was made "upon no better credit than some blunder of an actor in speaking the verse." This doubtless was the fact; and Jonson, having noted it down, and neglected to destroy or expunge it, his executors found it after his death, and published it with his other writings, thus perpetuating a blunder which reflects ridicule, not upon Shakespeare, but upon Jonson himself. As we cannot believe that Jonson retained this opinion after the publication of the folio, or would have wished such a comment on Julius Cæsar to have been published, so we may fairly infer that his judgment with regard to Shakespeare would in other respects also have been greatly changed. This paragraph, therefore, has not the weight and importance which at first sight it would seem to possess. Shakespeare's fame-the fame which he now and ever will enjoy-is based upon the folio of 1623. At its publication, it was ushered into the world accompanied by verses written by Ben Jonson, and Malone satisfactorily shows that the dedication and preface, ascribed to Heminge and Condell, were also most likely from his pen; in fact, it probably would not be too much to say, that Ben Jonson was the Editor of the Folio of 1623. Now, at this time Ben Jonson was at the zenith of his fame, and on terms of intimacy with Lord Bacon, and perhaps the most competent living judge and discriminator of the works of his various contemporaries. If then the lines which he wrote, and which accompany this volume, celebrate and identify the William Shakespeare who died in 1616 as the author of the plays therein written, that evidence ought to be conclusive. The lines are in many parts incomprehensible, and throughout exhibit a mysterious vagueness quite at variance with the general character of Ben Jonson's laudatory verses. The critic who would translate them into plain prose, would not be ill employed; but, as Bacon observes, with commentators, "it is ever usual to blanche the obscure places and discourse upon the plain." TO THE READER. This Figure, that thou here seest put, His face; the Print would then surpasse Not on his Picture, but his Booke. B. I. To the Memory of my beloved, the Author, MR. WILLIAM To draw no envy (Shakespeare) on thy name, As neither Man, nor Muse, can praise too much. Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right; And thinke to ruine, where it seem'd to raise. Should praise a Matron. What could hurt her more? I, therefore will begin. Soule of the Age! Thou art a Moniment, without a Tombe, And we have wits to read, and praise to give. I meane with great, but disproportion'd Muses: And though thou hadst small Latine, and lesse Greeke, Paccuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead, To life againe, to heare thy Buskin tread, Of all, that insolent Greece, or haughtie Rome Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come. Triumph, my Britaine, thou hast one to showe, 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 warme Our eares, or like a Mercury to charme! Nature her selfe was proud of his designes, And joy'd to weare the dressing of his lines! Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit, As, since, she will vouchsafe no other Wit. The merry Greeke, tart Aristophanes, Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please; As they were not of Nature's family. 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 |