We shall take another opportunity to speak of Jonson's "Masques,' which, in this Memoir, are in some respects highly commended, but so poorly, that it is evident our critic cares not for them; indeed he confesses, "the dialogue in the Masques generally strikes us as being tedious and somewhat too pedantic, even for the classic subjects represented." This is harmless want of perception; but what follows demands severe reproof.

"On referring, after an interval of many years, to these old masques, we find ourselves somewhat staggered at the character of the jests, and the homely (not to say vulgar) allusions in which they abound. The taste of the times was, indeed, rude

enough; and we can easily understand, that jests of this nature were tolerated or even relished by common audiences. But when we hear that the pieces which contain them were exhibited repeatedly, with applause, before the nobles and court ladies of the time (some of them young unmarried women), we are driven to the conclusion, that civilisation must have failed in some respects, and to fear that the refined and graceful compliments which our author so frequently lavished upon the high damas' of King James's court, was a pure waste of his poetical bounty. It is scarcely possible that the ladies who could sit and hear jokes, far coarser than Smol

let's, uttered night after night, could ever have fully relished the delicate and sparkling verses which flowed from Jonson's pen."

This is neither more nor less than downright nonsense and senseless slander. The" Masques" are perfectly pure. A small shock, indeed, must suffice to "stagger" Missy Cornwall. An occasional coarse or indelicate allusion occurs, not thought to be such, or not distasteful in those days, and 'tis easy to overlook them now; they are exceedingly rare; and the prevalent expression, as well as spirit of those exquisite productions is that of consummate grace, elegance, and beauty. With the omission of, perhaps, not more than half a dozen audacious or licentious phrases, in which no harm was meant, there is not one of them that might not be represented now, before and by the most delicateminded of women; and the greater number of them are throughout as chaste in their glowing language, as the Arcades or Comus of Milton.

Some pages back we quoted, without comment, a remark of Mr Cornwall's, which he thinks is new-" We do not recollect to have seen it remarked that The Alchemist and Volpone are essentially alike in their constitution; the whole material and burthen of each play consisting of a tissue of cheats, effected by two confederate sharpers, upon various gulls gaping for money," &c.

The remark was not trivial; they are" alike, but oh how worth making, it is so obvious and different!" Between Volpone the Fox, and Subtle the Alchemist, though both sharpers, how wide the distance! And what gull, in the other play, may be compared with Sir Epicure Mammon? The forms of the two plays are cast in a somewhat similar mould

but that is all; and we are lost in astonishment at the genius that, from beginning to end of both, in the proud consciousness of power, keeps ceaselessly pouring forth its inexhaustible riches.

"SCENE I.-An Outer Room in LovE-
WIT's House.
Enter SIR EPICURE MAMMON and SURLY.
Mam. Come on, sir. Now you set your
foot on shore

In Novo Orbe; here's the rich Peru:
And there within, sir, are the golden mines,
Great Solomon's Ophir ! he was sailing to't,

Three years, but we have reach'd it in ten months.

This is the day, wherein, to all my friends, I will pronounce the happy word, BE RICH;

THIS DAY YOU SHALL BE SPECTATISSIMI.

You shall no more deal with the hollow dye, Or the frail card. No more be at charge of keeping

The livery-punk for the young heir, that

must

Seal, at all hours, in his shirt: no more
If he deny, have him beaten to't, as he is
That brings him the commodity. No more
Shall thirst of satin, or the covetous hunger
Of velvet entrails for a rude-spun cloke,
To be display'd at madam Augusta's, make
The sons of Sword and Hazard fall before
The golden calf, and on their knees, whole
nights,

Commit idolatry with wine and trumpets:
Or go a feasting after drum and ensign.
No more of this. You shall start up young
viceroys,

And have your punks, and punketees, my
Surly.

And unto thee I speak it first, BE RICH. Where is my Subtle, there? Within, ho! Face. (Within.) Sir, he'll come to you by and by.

Mam. That is his fire-drake,

Give safety, valour, yea, and victory, To whom he will. In eight-and-twenty days,

I'll make an old man of fourscore, a child. Sur. No doubt; he's that already. Mam. Nay, I mean,

Restore his years, renew him, like an eagle, To the fifth age; make him get sons and daughters.

Young giants; as our philosophers have done,

The ancient patriarchs, afore the flood,
But taking, once a-week, on a knife's point,
The quantity of a grain of mustard of it;
Become stout Marses, and beget young
Cupids.

Sur. The decay'd vestals of Pict-hatch
would thank you.

That keep the fire alive, there.

Mam. 'Tis the secret

Of nature naturiz'd against all infections,
Cures all diseases coming of all causes;
A month's grief in a day, a year's in twelve ;
And, of what age soever, in a month:
Past all the doses of your drugging doctors.
I'll undertake, withal, to fright the plague,
Out of the kingdom in three months.
Sur. And I'll

Be bound, the players shall sing your praises, then,

coals,

Till he firk nature up, in her own centre.

You are not faithful, sir. This night, I'll

change

All that is metal, in my house, to gold:
And, early in the morning, will I send
To all the plumbers and the pewterers,

And buy their tin and lead up; and to Loth

bury

For all the copper.

Sur. What, and turn that too?

Mam. Yes, and I'll purchase Devonshire and Cornwall,

Sur. No, faith.

sister,

And Solomon have written of the art;

"In enforcing a proposition, however, he accumulates sentence after sentence, thought after thought, till the original idea is lost or looks impoverished, amidst the wealth with which it is surrounded. This not only injures the idea, but mars the truth of his characters. It is the fault even of Sir

Epicure Mammon's splendid visions. There is nothing savouring of luxury which the Roman writers have put upon record, that he does not treat us with. A true epicure would have had a more select taste, we think, and have contented himself with fewer delicacies. At all events, he would not have placed all things upon a level; for that shows that he had a true relish for none.

He who appreciates wines, likes the best wines, which are few. He who really loves "the sex, loves but one woman-at a time."

mon.

That is rich. An original idea, looking impoverished amidst the wealth with which it is surrounded! or lost-and-only think-injured by being lost! Sir Epicure Mammon is not, it seems, a true epicure after all -perhaps neither is he a true MamA true epicure would have "had a more select taste"-" contented himself with fewer delicacies" -some recherchés entremets. Sir Epicure Mammon " placed all things upon a level "-therefore he had a true relish for none. "O rare Ben Jonson!" what a dunce wert thou! as ignorant of meats as of wines. "He who appreciates wines, likes the best wines, which are few!" So says the sage of the East-Sir Epicure Barry Cornwall-nay, shade of Benjamin the Ruler! with a

thin shrill voice, he cries, " He who really loves the sex,' loves but one woman at a time." O Ben! heard ye ever of such a ninny! And this is the identical philosopher who was prating a few pages ago of the great master-spirit of Imagination. Sir Epicure Mammon contented with "one woman at a time"-and two or three entremets. Poor dear Charles Lamb! thou wert spared the hearing of such were thy words, speaking of Sir this. "What a towering bravery"Epicure "there is in his sensuality! He affects no pleasure under a sultaun!" Behold, O shade of Elia! your muchadmired imaginative lord of a harem of houris, bound by Barry to one woman-at a time-and weep. Well didst thou once say in thy "Specimens" "the judgment is perfectly overwhelmed by the torrent of images, words, and book-knowledge with which Mammon confounds and stuns his incredulous hearer. They come pouring out like the successive strokes of Nilus. They 'doubly redouble strokes upon the foe.' Description outstrides proof. We are made to believe effects before we have testimony for their causes: a lively description of the joys of heaven sometimes passes for an argument to prove the existence of such a place. If there be no one image which rises to the height of the sublime, yet the confluence and assemblage of them all produces an effect equal to the grandest poetry."

"He affects no pleasure under a sultaun." Barry Cornwall says there is no true epicurism in such sensuality

and, certes, there is much virtue in the word true. He who loves but one woman has much the best of it in taste, morals, reason, and religion. But that is not the question-and here there are loud cries of "Question!" "At a time!". aha! who could have suspected such lax-such licentious ethics from so innocent a creature? He more than insinuates that the true epicure may change his mistress as often as he pleases and live in perpetual fruition of honeymoons.

But he does not seem to be aware that SirEpicure Mammon at had first no mistress at all-not even "one woman

at a time." It was his imagination he was feeding with those voluptuous dreams; and we know "such tricks hath strong imagination." Neither had he a dinner to sit down to-deserving

dence of familiar intercourse, entrusted him with various particulars of his life, and with many of his opinions on men and books. All this social fireside talk Drummond privately set down in writing, and afterwards published in his notorious Conversation. Now, considering that parts of this communication consisted of Jonson's free strictures upon his brother poets and contemporaries, and that the whole was given to the world without explanation or softening of any sort; and that it was, in fact, set down from Drummond's memory (in which case, all the censure would naturally be divested of the ordinary qualifying phrases which probably accompanied it), we think that the publication was as complete a piece of treachery as can be found in the history of literary men. Drummond of Hawthornden has written poems of much merit; but we trust that, whoever may read them hereafter, will never forget that he was a traitor to his friend and guest, and that he has discredited the name of poet, and tarnished the hospitality of his hospitable country."

"All this fireside talk, Drummond privately set down in writing, and afterwards published in his notorious Conversation." Why, he could not well have set it down publicly; so there was no offence in the mere privacy, had there been none in the thing itself. Neither do we see the enormous wickedness of "setting it down from memory"-for how else can you set down any thing you hear? Barry Cornwall, it appears, "sets down" much of what he reads, from imagination. He does not even know the title of the unlucky leaves which probably he never perused. However, considering this, and that, and t'other thing, Barry comes to the conclusion, that "the publication was as complete a piece of treachery as can be found in the history of literary men." And how is the sinner to be punished? Whoever may read his verses, must keep in his mind one predominant feeling of reprobation and scorn of the unhallowed traitor. This it is more especially the bounden duty of all Scotsmen to do, as the Poet of Hawthornden has "tarnished the hospitality of their hospitable country." What! Is there to be no forgiveness? Scotland is not only a hospitable, but she is a Christian country; and must she never forget the offence of a favourite son?

What would Barry Cornwall think of us were we to call on Christendom

time.'

never to forget that he is an ignorant calumniator of the distinguished dead? He too has written poems of much merit"-though his genius is not for a moment to be compared with that of Drummond of Hawthornden-a memorable name in our poetical literature. He too is a worthy private character-so was Drummond." His memory," says Sir Walter Scott, "has been uniformly handed down to us as that of an amiable and retired scholar, loved by his friends, and respected by the literary men of his Why seek, then, to affix an indelible stain on a name of which his country has reason to be proud? And why, in particular, all this boiling indignation in the breast of Barry Cornwall? Gifford was a bitter creature; and then he was entitled to resent any injustice done to Jonson, for he was likewise a good creature, had studied Ben, knew and loved him well, and was his triumphant champion against a host of calumniators whom he slew and trod into the mire. Conceiving Drummond, in the peculiar circumstances of the case, to have been the most culpable of them all, he waxed so exceeding wroth, that, with red eyes, he saw in him an absolute fiend. In short, he fell into monomania. You had only to utter the word "Drummond," in order to see him" into such vagaries fall as he would dance." But the gentle Barry! Why should he be transformed into such a virago?" What is Hawthornden to him, or he to Hawthornden ?" At this moment he knows little-and seems to care less about Ben Jonson, -and it is laughable, and something more, to see him sporting the indignant, to hear his yelp after the growl of Gifford-to behold the lap-dog affecting the lion.

By the bye with what indignation and horror must not the high-souled Barry Cornwall gaze at the vignette which insults the shade of Ben Jonson, on the very title-page of this edition of his works! Mr Moxon having "hired a poetaster" to traduce Drummond, and to excommunicate the gentle bard for ever from the sympathies of his kind, at the same time engages a painter and an engraver to exhibit, to the eyes of all posterity, the abode of this traitor to friendship and violator of all the most sacred observances of domestic life!

There