interim, by vanquishing an enemy in single combat, and killing him and bearing off his It spoils, in the presence of both armies. does not appear that he obtained any rank or advantage, or indeed any especial reputation, either for this gallant action or for his general services in the field. Yet, there can be little doubt but that the combat took place, as stated by Jonson to Drummond; for Ben was a fellow of a fine masculine character, and however he may have possessed the Roman infirmity' of boasting, as Howell relates, he would not willingly misstate a fact."

Here it is said that Ben "signalized himself," but that it does not appear "he gained any especial reputation, either for this gallant exploit, or for his general service in the field." It is rather too much to expect of a private soldier, that he shall be distinguished "for his general services in the field ;" and rather too much to say, that a private soldier "signalizes himself," without gaining any especial reputation-the act by which he signalizes himself, having been the "killing an enemy in single combat, and bearing off his spoils in presence of both armies." That valorous gentleman, Mr A. Chalmers, observes, that "one man's killing and stripping another, is a degree of military prowess of no very extraordinary kind." Old Gifford, who was steel to the back bone, thinks that in days when great battles were rarely fought, and armies lay for half a campaign in sight of each other, and when it was not unusual for champions to advance into the midst and challenge their adversaries, we may venture to admit the gallantry of the youthful volunteer. Barry Cornwall goes a step farther than Alexander the Small, and says, "there can be little doubt but that the combat took place, as stated by Jonson to Drummond"-for, "that Ben would not willingly mistate a fact"-that is, tell a vain-glorious lie. Is there any doubt?

What does the man mean?

"He returned once more, as we have said, to his mother's house. Whether he ever resumed the bricklayer's trade, or sought for any employment in which his learning could help him, is uncertain. If the former were the case, it was during a short interval of time only; for he soon afterwards, according to the general account, took refuge on the stage. At this time, he was about nineteen years of age.

"The commencement of Jonson's dra

matic career is hid in obscurity. It is probable that he acted at the theatre called The Green Curtain' in Shoreditch, and it is tolerably certain that he made additions to existing plays, and wrote others, in conjunction with contemporary poets. These, in fact, were his sole or principal means of support. Whether he acted badly, as is asserted by some, or wrote unsuccessfully, as is alleged by others, remains uncertain; and, in effect, these matters are not very important. There is no entire play, traceable to his pen, anterior to Every Man in his Humour, which was not produced till however, he seems to have established a November, 1596. Previously to that time, footing at the theatres. Amongst other things, he was employed to make additions to a play, by Kyd, called The Spanish Tragedy, or Hieronymo is mad again. It has been stated by some authors, that he took Mad Jeronymo's part. This is denied by Mr Gifford, who quotes several passages to show that the personator of Jeronymo must necessarily have been of small stature. Now, to show how careful critics should be who deal hard measure to their brethren of the craft, the passages quoted by Mr Gifford are taken from another play, entitled (when it was subsequently printed in 1605) The first part of Jeronymo,- -a production which has not been established to be the work of Kyd,-to which Jonson did not make additions,-and in which certainly Jeronymo is not mad at all. In the other play-a continuation, indeed, of the history contained in the First Part'-there is no mention of any stature peculiar to Jeronymo, and therefore the character might have been played, without any inconsistency obvious to the audience, by an actor of any bulk or height."

This is wretched writing. "He took refuge on the stage! From what? "It is tolerably certain that he made additions to existing plays, and wrote others, in conjunction with contemporary poets." "These, in fact, were his sole or principal means of sup port." "Whether he acted badly, as is asserted by some, or wrote unsuccessfully, as is alleged by others, remains uncertain, and in effect THESE MATTERS are not very important.' "He seems, however, to have established a footing at the theatres." What? By acting badly and writing unsuccessfully? And supposing he had done both, "were these matters not very important" to a pennyless youth, who had taken refuge on the stage?"

It seems at first sight incredible,

that Barry Cornwall should correct William Gifford. Yet in the above passage he does so-not of himself but through Mr J. Payne Collier. That gentleman, in his excellent Annals of the Stage, says, "that the First Part of Jeronimo is the first play upon record that bears evidence of having been written for a particular performer-a man of unusually small stature-and in many places this circumstance is brought forward. Now, it is evident, that if there be any truth in Dekker's assertion (controverted by Gifford), that Ben Jonson originally performed the part of Jeronimo, he must allude not to the tragedy now under consideration, but to the Spanish tragedy, where nothing is said regarding the personal appearance of the hero or his representative."

Still it is not quite certain that Gifford committed any mistake. Mr Collier says rightly, that the Spanish Tragedy" may be fitly termed the second part of Jeronimo." What, then, would an audience have thought of Big Ben personating in the second part of a tragedy, the character which, in the first part, had been acted by and written for a dwarf?

Barry Cornwall is pleased to say in the above pompous passage-exulting in his victory over Gifford—that "the First Part of Jeronimo" is aproduction which "has not been established to be the work of Kyd." He knows nothing about the matter-but Mr Collier knows every thing about it that can be known-and he says "it is undoubtedly the work of Kyd."

Of the Spanish Tragedy," Mr Collier says truly, that "it is a very powerful performance. The story has many incongruities and absurdities, and various passages and situations were made the laughingstocks of subsequent dramatists; but parts of it are in the highest degree pathetic and interesting.' It went through more editions than perhaps any play of the time. It is shown in Malone's Shakspeare by Boswell, that on the 25th September, 1601, Ben Jonson was paid 40s. for "writing his additions" to it; and Mr Collier says, "that the precise amount of the additions is ascertained by comparing the older printed copy of 1599 with that of 1602, which professes to be newly corrected, amended, and enlarged, with the new addition of the Painter's

part, and others.' The Painter's part was consequently the last improvement made by Ben Jonson."

Hawkins, in his Origin of the English Stage, not knowing that those additions were by Jonson, contemptuously says, "that they were foisted in by the players," and degrades them to a note. Gifford passes them over almost without notice. Barry Cornwall, taught by Charles Lamb, who calls them the "very salt of the Play," and conjectures they might have been written by Webster, says, that "neither Jonson nor any of his contemporaries— always omitting Shakspeare-need have scrupled to confess himself the author." He says, at the same time, with his usual ignorance, "that Jonson is supposed to have made addi. tions to the Spanish Tragedy"—and, with his usual imbecility, that "it contains a passage or two that deserve to be remembered;" which " "passage or two" are, in his opinion, worthy of any man save Shakspeare. Mr Collier says well, that "these very striking and characteristic additions represent Ben Jonson in rather a new light, for certainly there is nothing in his own entire plays equalling in pathetic beauty some of his contributions to the Spanish Tragedy." That the passages added in the edition of 1602 are by Jonson we believe-the proof seems positivethat it is so with regard to "the Painter's part" is indisputable—and that part is in the same strain with what immediately precedes it.

And here it is only worth while farther to observe, that Mr Cornwall, who will blunder, if blundering be within human reach, tells us in the above passage, on which we have written, we perceive, without intending it, an unmerciful critique, that Ben Jonson had been employed to make additions to the Spanish Tragedy, before he wrote Every Man in his Humour, which was brought out in 1596-whereas, we have seen that he was not employed to do so till 1601 and 1602. Barry is the facile princeps of Chronologers.

He then, with his usual want of judgment, quotes some twenty lines or so-without saying a single syllable to enable readers who see them, for the first time, to know what they are about, or what has happened to the two persons appearing before them,

"JAQUES and PEDRO, servants. "Jaq. I wonder, Pedro, why our master thus

At midnight sends us with our torches lit, When man and bird and beast are all at rest, Save those that watch for rape and bloody murder.

"Ped. O Jaques, know thou that our
master's mind

Is much distract since his Horatio died :
And, now his aged years should sleep in rest,
His heart in quiet, like a desperate man
Grows lunatic and childish for his son:
Sometimes as he doth at his table sit,
He speaks as if Horatio stood by him,
Then starting in a rage, falls on the earth,
Cries out, Horatio, where is my Horatio?
So that with extreme grief, and cutting sor-

row,

There is not left in him one inch of man: See here he comes.

"HIERONYMO enters. "Hier. I pry thro' every crevice of each wall,

Look at each tree, and search thro' every brake,

Beat on the bushes, stamp our grandame earth,

Had the moon shone in my boy's face, there was a kind of grace,

That I know, nay, I do know, had the murd'rer seen him,

His weapon would have fallen, and cut the earth,

Had he been fram'd of nought but blood and death;

Alack, when mischief doth it knows not what,

What shall we say to mischief?

ISABELLA, his Wife, enters.

"Isa. Dear Hieronymo, come in a doors, O seek not means to increase thy sorrow. "Hier. Indeed, Isabella, we do nothing

Isa. How? be merry here, be merry here?

Is not this the place, and this the very tree, Where my Horatio died, where he was murder'd?

"Hier. Was, do not say what: let her weep it out.

This was the tree, I set it of a kernel;

"Hier. Nor I, nor I; but this same one of mine

Was worth a legion. But all is one. Pedro, Jaques, go in a doors, Isabella, go, And this good fellow here, and I,

Will range this hideous orchard up and down,

Like two she lions reaved of their young. [Exeunt.

wicked plant.

See who knocks there,

[The Painter and he sit down. Come, let's talk wisely now. Was thy son murder'd? "Pain. Ay, sir.

"Hier. So was mine.

How dost thou take it? art thou not some

a tear, a wound?

"Hier. Bid him come in, and paint some

comfort,

tree as this?

"Pain. Sir, I am sure you have heard of my painting :

comfort.

Let him come in, one knows not what may

chance.

God's will that I should set this tree! but

even so

Masters ungrateful servants rear from nought, And then they hate them that did bring them up.

The Painter enters.

"Pain. God bless you, sir, "Hier. Wherefore? why, thou scornful villain?

How, where, or by what means should I be blest?

"Isa. What wouldst thou have, good fellow?

"Pain. Justice, madam.

"Hier. O, ambitious beggar, wouldst thou have that

That lives not in the world?

Why, all the undelved mines cannot buy An ounce of Justice, 'tis a jewel so inestimable.

I tell thee, God hath engross'd all justice in his hands,

And there is none but what comes from him.

"Pain. O then I see that God must

right me for my murder'd son. "Hier. How, was thy son murder'd? "Pain. Ay, sir, no man did hold a son so dear.

"Hier. What, not as thine? that's a
lie,

As massy as the earth: I had a son,
Whose least unvalued hair did weigh
A thousand of thy sons, and he was mur-
der'd.

"Hier. Bazardo? 'fore God an excel

lent fellow. Look you, sir.

Do you see? I'd have you paint me in my gallery, in your oil colours matted, and draw me five years younger than I am: do you see, sir? let five years go, let them go,-my wife Isabella standing by me, with a speaking look to my son Horatio, which should intend to this, or some such like purpose; God bless thee, my sweet son; and my hand leaning upon his head thus, sir, do you see? may it be done? "Pain. Very well, sir.

"Hier. Nay, I pray mark me, sir: Then, sir, would I have you paint me this tree, this very tree: Canst paint a doleful cry?

"Pain. Seemingly, sir.

"Hier. Nay, it should cry; but all is

one.

Well, sir, paint me a youth run thro' and thro' with villains' swords hanging upon this tree.

Canst thou draw a murd'rer?

"Pain. I'll warrant you, sir; I have the pattern of the most notorious villains, that ever lived in all Spain.

"Hier. O, let them be worse, worse: stretch thine art,

And let their beards be of Judas's own colour,

And let their eye-brows jut over: in any case observe that;

Then, sir, after some violent noise,
Bring me forth in my shirt, and my gown

under my arm, with my torch in my hand, and my sword rear'd up thus,And with these words; What noise is this? who calls Hieronymo ?

"Rain. Yea, sir. "Hier. Well, sir, then bring me forth, bring me thro' alley and alley, still with a distracted countenance going along, and let my hair heave up my night-cap.

"Let the clouds scowl, make the moon dark, the stars extinct, the winds blowing, the bells tolling, the owls shrieking, the toads croaking, the minutes jarring, and the clock striking twelve.

"And then at last, sir, starting, behold a man hanging, and tott'ring, and tott'ring, as you know the wind will wave a man, and I with a trice to cut him down.

"And looking upon him by the advantage of my torch, find it to be my son Horatio.

"There you may show a passion, there you may show a passion.

"Draw me like old Priam of Troy, crying, the house is a fire, a fire, the house is a fire; and the torch over my head; make me curse, make me rave, make me cry, make me mad, make me well again, make me curse hell, invocate, and in the end leave me in a trance, and so forth.

"Pain. And is this the end?

"Hier. O no, there is no end: the end is death and madness;

And I am never better than when I am mad;

Then methinks I am a brave fellow; Then I do wonders; but reason abuseth

me;

And there's the torment, there's the hell. At last, sir, bring me to one of the murderers;

Were he as strong as Hector,

ten inches longer than his own. Be that as it may, he himself, in consequence of the man's death, was thrown into prison, under an accusation of murder.

"It was during this incarceration that he was induced to renounce the Protestant for the Romish Church. In his prison, he was visited by a Roman Catholic priest, under the influence of whose arguments or persuasions, and the melancholy induced by his own precarious situation, he became a temporary convert to the Church of Rome. He appears to have been beset by dangers, or else full of apprehensions, at this period. Spies were set to catch him, according to his own account; but he was warned against these emissaries by his jailer and saved. How far this was a matter of fact, or imagination, we have no means of ascertaining. But it seems singular that Jonson, who was then liable to be tried for his life for murder, and who was beyond a doubt a Protestant on his entering prison, should excite such serious and sudden suspicion of being connected with any Popish conspiracy, as to induce the government to surround him with spies. And had even that been the case, one does not well see, first, how his jailer should learn that the persons alluded to were spies; or, secondly, why he should communicate the matter to Jonson, to whom he was a stranger, and thus compromise himself with the persons above him. We are inclined to treat the matter as altogether very doubtful; the more especially as the attempt never was repeated after Jonson was delivered from his imprisonment. It was never known to what circumstances our

(He beats the painter in).” True, as Mr Collier says, there is nothing in Jonson's entire plays equal ling the best parts of this "in pathetic beauty;" but in Sejanus and Catiline, his only surviving tragedies, there could not be; and what forbids us to believe that his genius was equal to the production of this-the wonderful, the woful, and the wild-inspired by its imaginations of misery and madness? Nothing.

We return to the Memoir.

"What Jonson's success was at this period, as an author or an actor, is doubtful. It is clear, however, that his progress was

interrupted by a melancholy event, arising out of a quarrel with a player. This person (whose name is not known) sent him a challenge, and the consequence was that a duel took place, in which Jonson slew his antagonist, receiving at the same time a severe wound in his own arm. In recounting the transaction to Drummond, he says, that his opponent brought into the field a sword

unless, as has been thought, it was that he was the party challenged, a circumstance that must have operated in his favour before a jury, but which would scarcely have saved him from a trial.”

Here, again, we have some more of Mr Barry Cornwall's impertinence to transaction to Drummond, he says that Ben Jonson. "In recounting the his opponent brought into the field a sword ten inches longer than his own. Be that as it may," &c. Was it not true? Was Ben bouncing? What does he know "of the melancholy induced by Ben's precarious situaBen does not say he was melancholy-but that he took the priest at his word." What does he mean by a temporary convert ?" Ben continued in his adopted creed for twelve years. The prisoner himself said he was beset with spies-" they placed two damned villains to catch advantage of him, with him, but he was advertised by his keeper; of the

tion ?"