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To the Memory of Shakespeare

viernes, 5 de octubre de 2012

To the Memory of Shakespeare

Containing some early prefatory poems to Shakespeare's works. The so-called First Folio (Mr William Shakespeares Comedies, Histories, & Tragedies. Published according to the True Originall Copies), edited by John Heminges and Henry Condell in 1623, opens with a frontispice with the best-known portrait of Shakespeare, an engraving by Martin Droeshout:

shakFF1623
 

—a portrait presented by "B. I." (Ben Jonson) in the following poem:

        To the Reader.
 
This Figure, that thou here seest put,
    It was for gentle Shakesepare cut ;
Wherein the Grauer had a strife
    with Nature, to out-doo the life :
O, could he but haue drawne his wit
    As well in brasse, as he hath hit
His face ; the Print would then surpasse
    All, that was ever writ in brasse,
But, since he cannot, Reader, looke
    Not on his Picture, but his booke.
 

B. I.



There follows the editors' dedication to the Earls of Pembroke and of Montgomery, and the foreword they address "To the great Variety of Readers". Ben Jonson's poem prefixed to Mr William Shakespeares Comedies, Histories, & Tragedies (1623):



            To the memory of my beloued,
                     The AVTHOR
             MR. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE :
                              And
                   what he hath left vs.

To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name,
   Am I thus ample to thy Booke, and Fame:
While I confesse thy writings to be such
   As neither Man, nor Muse, can praise too much:
‘Tis true, and all mens suffrage. But these wayes
   Were not the paths I meant vnto thy praise:
For seeliest ignorance on these may light,
   Which, when it sounds at best, but eccho's right ;
Or blinde Affection, which doth ne’er advance
   The truth, but gropes, and vrgeth all by chance ;              10
Or crafty Malice, might pretend this praise,
   And thinke to ruine where it seem'd to raise.
These are, as some infamous Baud, or whore,
   Should praise a Matron: what could hurt her more ?
But thou art proofe against them, and indeed
   Aboue th'ill fortune of them, or the need.
I, therefore will begin. Soule 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 lye               20
A little further, to make thee a roome :
   Thou art a Moniment, without a tombe,
And art aliue still, while thy Booke doth liue,
   And we have wits to read, and praise to giue.
That I not mixe thee so, my braine excuses ;
   I meane with great, but disproportion'd Muses ;
For if I thought my iudgement were of yeeres,
   I should commit thee surely with thy peeres:
And tell, how far thou did'stst our Lily out-shine,
   Or sporting Kid, or Marlowes mighty line.                      30
And though thou hadst small Latine, and less Greeke,
   From thence to honour thee I would not seeke
For names, but call forth thundering AEschilus,
   Euripides, and Sophocles to vs,
Pacuuius, Accius, him of Cordoua dead,
   To life againe, to heare thy Buskin tread,
And shake a Stage; Or, when thy Sockes were on,
   Leaue thee alone, for the comparison
Of all, that insolent Greece, or haughtie Rome
   sent forth, or since did from their ashes come.              40
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 warm
   Our eares, or like a Mercury to charme !
Nature her selfe was proud of his designes,
   And ioy'd to weare the dressing of his lines !
Which were so richly spun and wouen so fit
   As, since, she will vouchsafe no other Wit.              50
The merry Greeke, tart Aristophanes,
   Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please,
But antiquated, and deserted lye
   As they were not of nature’s family.
Yet must I not giue nature all: Thy Art,
   My gentle Shakespeare, must enioy a part.
For though the Poets 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              60
Vpon the Muses anuile : turn the same,
   (And himselfe with it) that he thinkes to frame ;
Or for the lavrell, he may gain a scorne,
   For a good Poet’s made, as well as borne;
And such wert thou. Looke how the fathers face
   Liues in his issue, euen so, the race
Of Shakespeares minde, and manners brightly shines
   In his well torned and true filed lines :
In each of which, he seemes to shake a Lance,
   As brandish't at the eyes of Ignorance.                 70
Sweet Swan of Auon! What a sight it were
   To see thee in our waters yet appeare,
And make those flights vpon the bankes of Thames
   That so did take Eliza, and our Iames !
But stay, I see thee in the Hemisphere
   Advanc'd, and made a Constellation there !
Shine forth, thou Starre of Poets, and with rage
   Or influence, chide, or cheere the drooping Stage ;
Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourn'd like night,
   And despaires day, but for thy Volumes light.                              80

                                                  Ben: Ionson.

Jonson's poem alludes to a well-known elegy for Shakespeare, not included in the First Folio, by William Basse, which would appear in the 1633 edition of John Donne's poems and in Shakespeare's 1640 Poems:

On Mr. Wm. Shakespeare
he dyed in Aprill 1616

Renowned Spencer, lye a thought more nye
To learned Chaucer, and rare Beaumont lye
A little neerer Spenser to make roome
For Shakespeare in your threefold fowerfold Tombe.
To lodge all fowre in one bed make a shift
Untill Doomesdaye, for hardly will a fift
Betwixt this day and that by Fate be slayne
For whom your Curtaines may be drawn againe.
If your precedency in death doth barre
A fourth place in your sacred sepulcher,
Under this carved marble of thine owne
Sleep rare Tragoedian Shakespeare, sleep alone,
Thy unmolested peace, unshared Cave,
Possesse as Lord not Tenant of thy Grave
    That unto us and others it may be
    Honor hereafter to be layde by thee.

                                                    Wm. Basse

After Ben Jonson's poem, the First Folio includes another sonnet by Hugh Holland. Notice the continuous allusion to the notion of life as drama in this and the other memorial poems.

     Vpon the Lines and Life of the Famous
         Scenicke Poet, Master WILLIAM
                   SHAKESPEARE

THose hands, which you so clapt, go now, and wring
You Britaines brawe, for done are Shakespeares dayes :
His dayes are done, that made the dainty Playes,
Which made the Globe of heau'n and earth to ring.
Dry'de is that veine, dry'd is the Thespian Spring,
Turn'd all to teares, and Phoebus clouds his rayes :
That corp's, that coffin now besticke those bayes,
Which crown'd him Poet first, then Poets King.
If Tragedies might any Prologue haue,
All those he made, would scarse make one to this :
Where Fame, now that he gone is to the graue
(Deaths publique tyring-house) the Nuncius is.
    For though his line on life went soone about,
    The life yet of his lines shall neuer out.
                              
                                                       HVGH HOLLAND.


The prefatory matter to the First Folio also includes a table of contents or "Catalogve" of the plays, and a variant of the title, The Workes of William Shakespeare, containing all his Comedies, Histories, and Tragedies: Truely set forth, according to their first Originall", which precedes the list of "The Names of the Principall Actors in all these Playes", a list headed by Shakespeare himself. There follows The Tempest, the first play in the book. But there are two additional memorial poems between the Catalogue and the list of actors. The first is by Leonard Digges, and the second by "I. M."(John Marston?).

TO THE MEMORIE
of the deceased Authour Maister
W. Shakespeare

SHake-speare, at length thy pious fellowes giue
The world thy Workes : thy Workes, by which out-liue
Thy Tombe, thy name must . when that stone is rent,
And Time dissoluies thy Stratford Moniment,
Here we aliue shall view thee still. This Booke,
When Brasse and Marble fade, shall make thee looke
Fresh to all Ages : when Posteritie
Shall loath what's new, thinke all is prodegie
That is not
Shakes-speares; eu'ry Line, each Verse
Here shall reuiue, redeeme thee from thy Herse.
Nor fire, nor cankring Age, as
Naso said,
Of his, thy wit-fraught Booke shall once inuade.
Nor shall I e're beleeue, or thinke thee dead
(Though mist) vntill our bankrout Stage be sped
(Impossible) with some new straine t'out-do
Passions of
Iuliet, and her Romeo :
Or till I heare a Scene more nobly take,
Then when thy half-sword parlying
Romans spake.
Till these, till any of thy Volumes rest
Shall with more fire, more feeling be exprest,
Be sure, our
Shake-speare, thou canst neuer dye,
But crown'd with Lawrell, liue eternally.


                                                 L. Digges

________


To the memorie of M. W. Shake-speare.

VV
EE wondred (Shake-speare) that thou went'st so soone
From the Worlds-Stage, to the Graues-Tyring-roome.
Wee thought thee dead, but this thy printed worth,
Tels thy Spectators, that thou went'st but forth
To enter with applause. An Actors Art,
Can dye, and liue, to acte a second part.
That's but an Exit of Mortalitie ;
This, a Re-entrance to a Plaudite.

                                              I. M.

Digges, an Oxford scholar, would also write a longer poem, posthumousy published as a preface to the 1640 edition of Shakespeare's own Poems (which are not included in the First Folio).

Upon Master William Shakespeare, the Decesaed Authour, and his Poems

Poets are borne not made, when I would prove
This truth, the glad rememberance I must love
Of never dying Shakespeare, who alone
Is argument enough to make that one.
First, that he was a Poet none would doubt,
That heared th'applause of what he sees set out
Imprinted; where thou hast (I will not say
Reader his Workes for to contrive a Play:
To him twas none) the patterne of all wit,
Art without Art unparaleld as yet.
Next Nature onely helpt him, for looke thorow
This whole Booke, thou shalt find he doth not borrow,
One phrase from Greekes, nor Latines imitate,
Not once from vulgar languages Translate,
Nor Plagiari-like from others gleane,
Nor begges he from from each witty friend a Scene
To peece his Acts with, all that he doth writer,
Is pure his owne, plot, language exquisite,
But oh! what praise more powerfull can we give
The dead, then that by him the Kings men live,
All else expir'd within the short Termes date;
How could the Globe have prospered, since through want
Of change, the Plaies and Poems had growne Scant.
but happy Verse thou shall be sung and heard,
When hungry quills shall be such honour bard
Then vanish upstart Writers to each Stage,
You needy Poetasters of this Age,
Where Shakespeare liv'd or spake, Vermine forbeare,
Least with your froth you spot them, come not neere;
But if you needs must write, if poverty
So pinch, that otherwise you starve and die,
On Gods name may the Bull or Cockpit have
Your lame blancke Verse, to keepe you from the grave
Or let new Fortunes younger brethren see,
What they can picke from your leane industry.
I doe not wonder when you offer at
Blacke-Friers, that you suffer; tis the fate
Of richer veines, primer judgements that have far'd
The worse, with this deceased man compar'd.
So have I seene, when Caesar would appeare,
And on the Stage at halfe-sword parley were,
Brutus and Cassius: oh how the Audience,
Were ravish'd, with what wonder they went thence,
When some new day they would not brooke a line,
Of tedious (though well laboured) Catalines;
Sejanus too was irkesome, they priz'de more
Honest Iago, or the jealous Moore.
And though the Fox and subtill alchimist,
Long intermitted could not quite be mist,
Though these have sham'd all the Ancients, and might raise,
Thie Authours merit with a crown of Bayes,
Yet these sometimes, even at a friends desire
Acted, have scarce defrai'd the Seacole fire
And doore-keepers: when let but Falstaffe come,
Hall, Poines, the rest you scarce shall have a roome
All is so pester'd: let but Beatrice
And Benedicke be scene, loe in a trice
The Cockpit Galleries, Boxes, all are full
To heare Malvoglio that crosse garter'd Gull.
Briefe, there is nothing in his wit fraught Booke,
Whose sound we would not heare, on whose worth looke
Like old coynd gold, whose lines, in every page,
Shall passe true currant to succeeding age.
But why do I dread Shakespeares praise recite,
Some second Shakespeare must of Shakespeare write;
For me tis needlesse, since an host of men,
Will pay to clap his praise, to free my Pen.


And those 1640 Poems also include another famous tribute, a sonnet by John Milton which had already appeared in the Second Folio of Shakespeare's works, 1632; written in 1630:


An Epitaph on the admirable Dramaticke Poet, W. Shakespeare

What needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones
The labour of an age in pilèd stones,
Or that his hallowed relics should be hid
Under a star-ypointing pyramid?
Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,
What need’st thou such weak witness of thy name?
Thou in our wonder and astonishment
Hast built thyself a lifelong monument.
For whilst to th’shame of slow-endeavoring art
Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book
Those Delphic lines with deep impression took,
Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving,
Dost make us marble with too much conceiving;
And so sepulchred in such pomp dost lie,
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.



La mejor página sobre Shakespeare

Jonson, Ben

martes, 2 de octubre de 2012

Jonson, Ben


(From Margaret Drabble's Oxford Companion to English Literature):


Ben[jamin] Jonson (1572-1637). Dramatist, poet, scholar, and writer of court masques. He was of Border descent, but was born in or near London, the posthumous son of a clergyman. He was educated at Westminster School under Camden. During the early 1590s he worked as a bricklayer in his stepfather's employ, saw military service in Flanders, where he killed an enemy champion in single combat, and joined a strolling company of players for whom he acted the part of Hieronimo in The Spanish Tragedy, a play for which he wrote additional scenes in 1601-2. In 1597 he began to work for Henslowe's companies as a player and playwright, and was imprisoned for his share in The Isle of Dogs, a satire now lost 'containing very seditious and slandrous matter' (See Swan Theatre). In 1598 he killed a fellow actor in a duel, but escaped hanging by pleading benefit of clergy, being branded instead as a felon. He became a Roman Catholic during his imprisonment, but returned to Anglicanism 15 years later. His first important play, Every Man in His Humour, with Shakespeare in the cast, was performed by the Lord Chamberlain's Company at the Curtain in 1598, and Every Man Out of His Humour at the Globe in 1599. Cynthia's Revels (1600) and Poetaster (1600-1, attacking Dekker and Marston) were performed by the Children of the Queen's Chapel. His first extant tragedy, Sejanus, was given at the Globe by Shakespeare's company, 1603; his first court masque, The Masque of Blackness, written to accomodate Queen Anne's desire to appear a a Negress, was given on Twelfth Night, 1605. In that year he was imprisoned and in danger of having his nose and ears slit, for his share in Eastward Hoe, and gave evidence to the Privy Council concerning the Gunpowder Plot. Then followed the period of his major plays: Volpone, acted at both the Globe and the two universities, 1605-6, Epicene, or The Silent Woman, 1609-10; The Alchemist, 1610; and Bartholomew Fair (1614). In 1612-13 he was in France as tutor to Ralegh's son, and in 1618-19 journeyed on foot to Scotland, where he stayed with Drummond of Hawthornden, who recorded their conversation.

Though not formally appointed the first poet laureate, the essentials of the position were conferred on Jonson in 1616, when a pension was granted to him by James I. In the same year he published a folio edition of his Works, which raised the drama to a new level of literary respectability, received an honorary MA from the Oxford University, and about this date became lecturer in rhetoric at Gresham College in London. He was elected chronologer of London in 1628. After The Devil Is an Ass (1616), he abandoned the public stage for ten years, and his later plays, The Magnetic Lady (1631) and A Tale of a Tub (1633), show a relatively unsuccessful reliance on allegory and symbolism. Dryden called them his 'dotages'. From 1605 onwards Jonson was constantly producing masques for the court, with scenery by Inigo Jones. This form of entertainment reached its highest elaboration in Jonson's hands. He introduced into it the 'antimasque', an antithetical, usuallly disorderly, prelude to the main action which served to highlight by contrast the central theme of political and social harmony. There are examples of this in The Masque of Queens (1609), Love Restored (1612), Mercury Vindicated from the Alchemists at Court (1616), Pleasure Reconciled to Virtue (1618, which gave Milton his idea for Comus), and Neptune's Triumph for the Return of Albion (1624). After Chloridia (1631), his collaboration with Jones ended in a famous quarrel, which Jonson treated in several vituperative poems, concerning the relative priority of verbal and thematic content and spectacle. His last masques were produced in 1633-4. His non-dramatic verse includes Epigrammes and The Forest, printed in the Folio of 1616: notable among his epigrams are two tender and moving epitaphs, Nos. xxii and xlv, 'On My First Daughter' (c. 1595) and 'On His First Sonne' (1603) ('Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy'). The Underwood and a translation of Horace's Ars Poetica were printed in 1640. His chief prose works are The English Grammar and Timber, or Discoveries, printed in 1640.

During the reign of James I Jonson's literary prestige and influence were unrivalled. He presided over a literary circle which met at the Mermaid Tavern, and later in the Apollo Room of the Devil and St Dunstan Tavern, where his leges conviviales or 'social rules' were inscribed over the mantlepiece. His friends included Shakespeare, whom he loved 'on this side idolatry', Donne, F. Bacon, George Chapman, Beaumont, Fletcher, Cotton, and Selden, and among the younger writers (who styled themselves the 'sons' or 'tribe of Ben' R. Brome, Carew, Cartwright, Sir K. Digby, Lord Falkland, Herrick, Nabbes, Randolph, and Suckling. His chief patrons were the Sidney family, the earl of Pembroke, the countess of Bedford, and the duke and duchess of Newcastle. Jonson suffered a stroke in 1628, after which he was perhaps permanently bedridden until his death in August 1637. He was buried in Westminster Abbey under a tombstone bearing the inscription 'O rare Ben Jonson', and celebrated in a collection of elegies entitled Jonsonus Virbius (1638). As a man Jonson was arrogant and quarrelsome, but fearless, warm-hearted, and intellectually honest. His reputation declined sharply from about 1700, as Shakespeare's, with whom he was inevitably compared, increased, but in this century it has revived, thanks partly to the comprehensive edition of C. H. Herford and P. and E. Simpson (11 vols, 1925-52), vols. i and ii of which contain the standard biography.



 ________



Felix E. Schelling, Introduction to Every Man Out of His Humoura longer introduction to Ben Jonson's life and literary career:



THE greatest of English dramatists except Shakespeare, the first literary dictator and poet-laureate, a writer of verse, prose, satire, and criticism who most potently of all the men of his time affected the subsequent course of English letters: such was Ben Jonson, and as such his strong personality assumes an interest to us almost unparalleled, at least in his age. 

Ben Jonson came of the stock that was centuries after to give to the world Thomas Carlyle; for Jonson's grandfather was of Annandale, over the Solway, whence he migrated to England. Jonson's father lost his estate under Queen Mary, "having been cast into prison and forfeited." He entered the church, but died a month before his illustrious son was born, leaving his widow and child in poverty. Jonson's birthplace was Westminster, and the time of his birth early in 1573. He was thus nearly ten years Shakespeare's junior, and less well off, if a trifle better born. But Jonson did not profit even by this slight advantage. His mother married beneath her, a wright or bricklayer, and Jonson was for a time apprenticed to the trade. As a youth he attracted the attention of the famous antiquary, William Camden, then usher at Westminster School, and there the poet laid the solid foundations of his classical learning. Jonson always held Camden in veneration, acknowledging that to him he owed,

"All that I am in arts, all that I know;" 

and dedicating his first dramatic success, "Every Man in His Humour," to him. It is doubtful whether Jonson ever went to either university, though Fuller says that he was "statutably admitted into St. John's College, Cambridge." He tells us that he took no degree, but was later "Master of Arts in both the universities, by their favour, not his study." When a mere youth Jonson enlisted as a soldier, trailing his pike in Flanders in the protracted wars of William the Silent against the Spanish. Jonson was a large and raw-boned lad; he became by his own account in time exceedingly bulky. In chat with his friend William Drummond of Hawthornden, Jonson told how "in his service in the Low Countries he had, in the face of both the camps, killed an enemy, and taken opima spolia from him;" and how "since his coming to England, being appealed to the fields, he had killed his adversary which had hurt him in the arm and whose sword was ten inches longer than his." Jonson's reach may have made up for the lack of his sword; certainly his prowess lost nothing in the telling. Obviously Jonson was brave, combative, and not averse to talking of himself and his doings. 

In 1592, Jonson returned from abroad penniless. Soon after he married, almost as early and quite as imprudently as Shakespeare. He told Drummond curtly that "his wife was a shrew, yet honest"; for some years he lived apart from her in the household of Lord Albany. Yet two touching epitaphs among Jonson's "Epigrams," "On my first daughter," and "On my first son," attest the warmth of the poet's family affections. The daughter died in infancy, the son of the plague; another son grew up to manhood little credit to his father whom he survived. We know nothing beyond this of Jonson's domestic life. 

How soon Jonson drifted into what we now call grandly "the theatrical profession" we do not know. In 1593, Marlowe made his tragic exit from life, and Greene, Shakespeare's other rival on the popular stage, had preceded Marlowe in an equally miserable death the year before. Shakespeare already had the running to himself. Jonson appears first in the employment of Philip Henslowe, the exploiter of several troupes of players, manager, and father-in-law of the famous actor, Edward Alleyn. From entries in "Henslowe's Diary," a species of theatrical account book which has been handed down to us, we know that Jonson was connected with the Admiral's men; for he borrowed 4 pounds of Henslowe, July 28, 1597, paying back 3s. 9d. on the same day on account of his "share" (in what is not altogether clear); while later, on December 3, of the same year, Henslowe advanced 20s. to him "upon a book which he showed the plot unto the company which he promised to deliver unto the company at Christmas next." In the next August Jonson was in collaboration with Chettle and Porter in a play called "Hot Anger Soon Cold." All this points to an association with Henslowe of some duration, as no mere tyro would be thus paid in advance upon mere promise. From allusions in Dekker's play, "Satiromastix," it appears that Jonson, like Shakespeare, began life as an actor, and that he "ambled in a leather pitch by a play-wagon" taking at one time the part of Hieronimo in Kyd's famous play, "The Spanish Tragedy." By the beginning of 1598, Jonson, though still in needy circumstances, had begun to receive recognition. Francis Meres — well known for his "Comparative Discourse of our English Poets with the Greek, Latin, and Italian Poets," printed in 1598, and for his mention therein of a dozen plays of Shakespeare by title — accords to Ben Jonson a place as one of "our best in tragedy," a matter of some surprise, as no known tragedy of Jonson from so early a date has come down to us. That Jonson was at work on tragedy, however, is proved by the entries in Henslowe of at least three tragedies, now lost, in which he had a hand. These are "Page of Plymouth," "King Robert II. of Scotland," and "Richard Crookback." But all of these came later, on his return to Henslowe, and range from August 1599 to June 1602. 

Returning to the autumn of 1598, an event now happened to sever for a time Jonson's relations with Henslowe. In a letter to Alleyn, dated September 26 of that year, Henslowe writes: "I have lost one of my company that hurteth me greatly; that is Gabriel [Spencer], for he is slain in Hogsden fields by the hands of Benjamin Jonson, bricklayer." The last word is perhaps Henslowe's thrust at Jonson in his displeasure rather than a designation of his actual continuance at his trade up to this time. It is fair to Jonson to remark however, that his adversary appears to have been a notorious fire-eater who had shortly before killed one Feeke in a similar squabble. Duelling was a frequent occurrence of the time among gentlemen and the nobility; it was an impudent breach of the peace on the part of a player. This duel is the one which Jonson described years after to Drummond, and for it Jonson was duly arraigned at Old Bailey, tried, and convicted. He was sent to prison and such goods and chattels as he had "were forfeited." It is a thought to give one pause that, but for the ancient law permitting convicted felons to plead, as it was called, the benefit of clergy, Jonson might have been hanged for this deed. The circumstance that the poet could read and write saved him; and he received only a brand of the letter "T," for Tyburn, on his left thumb. While in jail Jonson became a Roman Catholic; but he returned to the faith of the Church of England a dozen years later. 

On his release, in disgrace with Henslowe and his former associates, Jonson offered his services as a playwright to Henslowe's rivals, the Lord Chamberlain's company, in which Shakespeare was a prominent shareholder. A tradition of long standing, though not susceptible of proof in a court of law, narrates that Jonson had submitted the manuscript of "Every Man in His Humour" to the Chamberlain's men and had received from the company a refusal; that Shakespeare called him back, read the play himself, and at once accepted it. Whether this story is true or not, certain it is that "Every Man in His Humour" was accepted by Shakespeare's company and acted for the first time in 1598, with Shakespeare taking a part. The evidence of this is contained in the list of actors prefixed to the comedy in the folio of Jonson's works, 1616. But it is a mistake to infer, because Shakespeare's name stands first in the list of actors and the elder Kno'well first in the dramatis personae, that Shakespeare took that particular part. The order of a list of Elizabethan players was generally that of their importance or priority as shareholders in the company and seldom if ever corresponded to the list of characters. 

"Every Man in His Humour" was an immediate success, and with it Jonson's reputation as one of the leading dramatists of his time was established once and for all. This could have been by no means Jonson's earliest comedy, and we have just learned that he was already reputed one of "our best in tragedy." Indeed, one of Jonson's extant comedies, "The Case is Altered," but one never claimed by him or published as his, must certainly have preceded "Every Man in His Humour" on the stage. The former play may be described as a comedy modelled on the Latin plays of Plautus. (It combines, in fact, situations derived from the "Captivi" and the "Aulularia" of that dramatist). But the pretty story of the beggar-maiden, Rachel, and her suitors, Jonson found, not among the classics, but in the ideals of romantic love which Shakespeare had already popularised on the stage. Jonson never again produced so fresh and lovable a feminine personage as Rachel, although in other respects "The Case is Altered" is not a conspicuous play, and, save for the satirising of Antony Munday in the person of Antonio Balladino and Gabriel Harvey as well, is perhaps the least characteristic of the comedies of Jonson. 

"Every Man in His Humour," probably first acted late in the summer of 1598 and at the Curtain, is commonly regarded as an epoch-making play; and this view is not unjustified. As to plot, it tells little more than how an intercepted letter enabled a father to follow his supposedly studious son to London, and there observe his life with the gallants of the time. The real quality of this comedy is in its personages and in the theory upon which they are conceived. Ben Jonson had theories about poetry and the drama, and he was neither chary in talking of them nor in experimenting with them in his plays. This makes Jonson, like Dryden in his time, and Wordsworth much later, an author to reckon with; particularly when we remember that many of Jonson's notions came for a time definitely to prevail and to modify the whole trend of English poetry. First of all Jonson was a classicist, that is, he believed in restraint and precedent in art in opposition to the prevalent ungoverned and irresponsible Renaissance spirit. Jonson believed that there was a professional way of doing things which might be reached by a study of the best examples, and he found these examples for the most part among the ancients. To confine our attention to the drama, Jonson objected to the amateurishness and haphazard nature of many contemporary plays, and set himself to do something different; and the first and most striking thing that he evolved was his conception and practice of the comedy of humours. 

As Jonson has been much misrepresented in this matter, let us quote his own words as to "humour." A humour, according to Jonson, was a bias of disposition, a warp, so to speak, in character by which 

     "Some one peculiar quality
Doth so possess a man, that it doth draw
All his affects, his spirits, and his powers,
In their confluctions, all to run one way."
 

But continuing, Jonson is careful to add: 

     "But that a rook by wearing a pied feather,
The cable hat-band, or the three-piled ruff,
A yard of shoe-tie, or the Switzers knot
On his French garters, should affect a humour!
O, it is more than most ridiculous."
 

Jonson's comedy of humours, in a word, conceived of stage personages on the basis of a ruling trait or passion (a notable simplification of actual life be it observed in passing); and, placing these typified traits in juxtaposition in their conflict and contrast, struck the spark of comedy. Downright, as his name indicates, is "a plain squire"; Bobadill's humour is that of the braggart who is incidentally, and with delightfully comic effect, a coward; Brainworm's humour is the finding out of things to the end of fooling everybody: of course he is fooled in the end himself. But it was not Jonson's theories alone that made the success of "Every Man in His Humour." The play is admirably written and each character is vividly conceived, and with a firm touch based on observation of the men of the London of the day. Jonson was neither in this, his first great comedy (nor in any other play that he wrote), a supine classicist, urging that English drama return to a slavish adherence to classical conditions. He says as to the laws of the old comedy (meaning by "laws," such matters as the unities of time and place and the use of chorus): "I see not then, but we should enjoy the same licence, or free power to illustrate and heighten our invention as they [the ancients] did; and not be tied to those strict and regular forms which the niceness of a few, who are nothing but form, would thrust upon us." "Every Man in His Humour" is written in prose, a novel practice which Jonson had of his predecessor in comedy, John Lyly. Even the word "humour" seems to have been employed in the Jonsonian sense by Chapman before Jonson's use of it. Indeed, the comedy of humours itself is only a heightened variety of the comedy of manners which represents life, viewed at a satirical angle, and is the oldest and most persistent species of comedy in the language. None the less, Jonson's comedy merited its immediate success and marked out a definite course in which comedy long continued to run. To mention only Shakespeare's Falstaff and his rout, Bardolph, Pistol, Dame Quickly, and the rest, whether in "Henry IV." or in "The Merry Wives of Windsor," all are conceived in the spirit of humours. So are the captains, Welsh, Scotch, and Irish of "Henry V.," and Malvolio especially later; though Shakespeare never employed the method of humours for an important personage. It was not Jonson's fault that many of his successors did precisely the thing that he had reprobated, that is, degrade the humour: into an oddity of speech, an eccentricity of manner, of dress, or cut of beard. There was an anonymous play called "Every Woman in Her Humour." Chapman wrote "A Humourous Day's Mirth," Day, "Humour Out of Breath," Fletcher later, "The Humourous Lieutenant," and Jonson, besides "Every Man Out of His Humour," returned to the title in closing the cycle of his comedies in "The Magnetic Lady or Humours Reconciled." 

With the performance of "Every Man Out of His Humour" in 1599, by Shakespeare's company once more at the Globe, we turn a new page in Jonson's career. Despite his many real virtues, if there is one feature more than any other that distinguishes Jonson, it is his arrogance; and to this may be added his self-righteousness, especially under criticism or satire. "Every Man Out of His Humour" is the first of three "comical satires" which Jonson contributed to what Dekker called the poetomachia or war of the theatres as recent critics have named it. This play as a fabric of plot is a very slight affair; but as a satirical picture of the manners of the time, proceeding by means of vivid caricature, couched in witty and brilliant dialogue and sustained by that righteous indignation which must lie at the heart of all true satire — as a realisation, in short, of the classical ideal of comedy — there had been nothing like Jonson's comedy since the days of Aristophanes. "Every Man in His Humour," like the two plays that follow it, contains two kinds of attack, the critical or generally satiric, levelled at abuses and corruptions in the abstract; and the personal, in which specific application is made of all this in the lampooning of poets and others, Jonson's contemporaries. The method of personal attack by actual caricature of a person on the stage is almost as old as the drama. Aristophanes so lampooned Euripides in "The Acharnians" and Socrates in "The Clouds," to mention no other examples; and in English drama this kind of thing is alluded to again and again. What Jonson really did, was to raise the dramatic lampoon to an art, and make out of a casual burlesque and bit of mimicry a dramatic satire of literary pretensions and permanency. With the arrogant attitude mentioned above and his uncommon eloquence in scorn, vituperation, and invective, it is no wonder that Jonson soon involved himself in literary and even personal quarrels with his fellow-authors. The circumstances of the origin of this 'poetomachia' are far from clear, and those who have written on the topic, except of late, have not helped to make them clearer. The origin of the "war" has been referred to satirical references, apparently to Jonson, contained in "The Scourge of Villainy," a satire in regular form after the manner of the ancients by John Marston, a fellow playwright, subsequent friend and collaborator of Jonson's. On the other hand, epigrams of Jonson have been discovered (49, 68, and 100) variously charging "playwright" (reasonably identified with Marston) with scurrility, cowardice, and plagiarism; though the dates of the epigrams cannot be ascertained with certainty. Jonson's own statement of the matter to Drummond runs: "He had many quarrels with Marston, beat him, and took his pistol from him, wrote his "Poetaster" on him; the beginning[s] of them were that Marston represented him on the stage."* 

[footnote] *The best account of this whole subject is to be found in the edition of "Poetaster" and "Satiromastrix" by J. H. Penniman in "Belles Lettres Series" shortly to appear. See also his earlier work, "The War of the Theatres," 1892, and the excellent contributions to the subject by H. C. Hart in "Notes and Queries," and in his edition of Jonson, 1906. 

Here at least we are on certain ground; and the principals of the quarrel are known. "Histriomastix," a play revised by Marston in 1598, has been regarded as the one in which Jonson was thus "represented on the stage"; although the personage in question, Chrisogonus, a poet, satirist, and translator, poor but proud, and contemptuous of the common herd, seems rather a complimentary portrait of Jonson than a caricature. As to the personages actually ridiculed in "Every Man Out of His Humour," Carlo Buffone was formerly thought certainly to be Marston, as he was described as "a public, scurrilous, and profane jester," and elsewhere as the grand scourge or second untruss [that is, satirist], of the time (Joseph Hall being by his own boast the first, and Marston's work being entitled "The Scourge of Villainy"). Apparently we must now prefer for Carlo a notorious character named Charles Chester, of whom gossipy and inaccurate Aubrey relates that he was "a bold impertinent fellow...a perpetual talker and made a noise like a drum in a room. So one time at a tavern Sir Walter Raleigh beats him and seals up his mouth (that is his upper and nether beard) with hard wax. From him Ben Jonson takes his Carlo Buffone ['i.e.', jester] in "Every Man in His Humour" ['sic']." Is it conceivable that after all Jonson was ridiculing Marston, and that the point of the satire consisted in an intentional confusion of "the grand scourge or second untruss" with "the scurrilous and profane" Chester? 

We have digressed into detail in this particular case to exemplify the difficulties of criticism in its attempts to identify the allusions in these forgotten quarrels. We are on sounder ground of fact in recording other manifestations of Jonson's enmity. In "The Case is Altered" there is clear ridicule in the character Antonio Balladino of Anthony Munday, pageant-poet of the city, translator of romances and playwright as well. In "Every Man in His Humour" there is certainly a caricature of Samuel Daniel, accepted poet of the court, sonneteer, and companion of men of fashion. These men held recognised positions to which Jonson felt his talents better entitled him; they were hence to him his natural enemies. It seems almost certain that he pursued both in the personages of his satire through "Every Man Out of His Humour," and "Cynthia's Revels," Daniel under the characters Fastidious Brisk and Hedon, Munday as Puntarvolo and Amorphus; but in these last we venture on quagmire once more. Jonson's literary rivalry of Daniel is traceable again and again, in the entertainments that welcomed King James on his way to London, in the masques at court, and in the pastoral drama. As to Jonson's personal ambitions with respect to these two men, it is notable that he became, not pageant-poet, but chronologer to the City of London; and that, on the accession of the new king, he came soon to triumph over Daniel as the accepted entertainer of royalty. 

"Cynthia's Revels," the second "comical satire," was acted in 1600, and, as a play, is even more lengthy, elaborate, and impossible than "Every Man Out of His Humour." Here personal satire seems to have absorbed everything, and while much of the caricature is admirable, especially in the detail of witty and trenchantly satirical dialogue, the central idea of a fountain of self-love is not very well carried out, and the persons revert at times to abstractions, the action to allegory. It adds to our wonder that this difficult drama should have been acted by the Children of Queen Elizabeth's Chapel, among them Nathaniel Field with whom Jonson read Horace and Martial, and whom he taught later how to make plays. Another of these precocious little actors was Salathiel Pavy, who died before he was thirteen, already famed for taking the parts of old men. Him Jonson immortalised in one of the sweetest of his epitaphs. An interesting sidelight is this on the character of this redoubtable and rugged satirist, that he should thus have befriended and tenderly remembered these little theatrical waifs, some of whom (as we know) had been literally kidnapped to be pressed into the service of the theatre and whipped to the conning of their difficult parts. To the caricature of Daniel and Munday in "Cynthia's Revels" must be added Anaides (impudence), here assuredly Marston, and Asotus (the prodigal), interpreted as Lodge or, more perilously, Raleigh. Crites, like Asper-Macilente in "Every Man Out of His Humour," is Jonson's self-complaisant portrait of himself, the just, wholly admirable, and judicious scholar, holding his head high above the pack of the yelping curs of envy and detraction, but careless of their puny attacks on his perfections with only too mindful a neglect. 

The third and last of the "comical satires" is "Poetaster," acted, once more, by the Children of the Chapel in 1601, and Jonson's only avowed contribution to the fray. According to the author's own account, this play was written in fifteen weeks on a report that his enemies had entrusted to Dekker the preparation of "Satiromastix, the Untrussing of the Humorous Poet," a dramatic attack upon himself. In this attempt to forestall his enemies Jonson succeeded, and "Poetaster" was an immediate and deserved success. While hardly more closely knit in structure than its earlier companion pieces, "Poetaster" is planned to lead up to the ludicrous final scene in which, after a device borrowed from the "Lexiphanes" of Lucian, the offending poetaster, Marston-Crispinus, is made to throw up the difficult words with which he had overburdened his stomach as well as overlarded his vocabulary. In the end Crispinus with his fellow, Dekker-Demetrius, is bound over to keep the peace and never thenceforward "malign, traduce, or detract the person or writings of Quintus Horatius Flaccus [Jonson] or any other eminent man transcending you in merit." One of the most diverting personages in Jonson's comedy is Captain Tucca. "His peculiarity" has been well described by Ward as "a buoyant blackguardism which recovers itself instantaneously from the most complete exposure, and a picturesqueness of speech like that of a walking dictionary of slang." 

It was this character, Captain Tucca, that Dekker hit upon in his reply, "Satiromastix," and he amplified him, turning his abusive vocabulary back upon Jonson and adding "an immodesty to his dialogue that did not enter into Jonson's conception." It has been held, altogether plausibly, that when Dekker was engaged professionally, so to speak, to write a dramatic reply to Jonson, he was at work on a species of chronicle history, dealing with the story of Walter Terill in the reign of William Rufus. This he hurriedly adapted to include the satirical characters suggested by "Poetaster," and fashioned to convey the satire of his reply. The absurdity of placing Horace in the court of a Norman king is the result. But Dekker's play is not without its palpable hits at the arrogance, the literary pride, and self-righteousness of Jonson-Horace, whose "ningle" or pal, the absurd Asinius Bubo, has recently been shown to figure forth, in all likelihood, Jonson's friend, the poet Drayton. Slight and hastily adapted as is "Satiromastix," especially in a comparison with the better wrought and more significant satire of "Poetaster," the town awarded the palm to Dekker, not to Jonson; and Jonson gave over in consequence his practice of "comical satire." Though Jonson was cited to appear before the Lord Chief Justice to answer certain charges to the effect that he had attacked lawyers and soldiers in "Poetaster," nothing came of this complaint. It may be suspected that much of this furious clatter and give-and-take was pure playing to the gallery. The town was agog with the strife, and on no less an authority than Shakespeare ("Hamlet," ii. 2), we learn that the children's company (acting the plays of Jonson) did "so berattle the common stages...that many, wearing rapiers, are afraid of goose-quills, and dare scarce come thither." 

Several other plays have been thought to bear a greater or less part in the war of the theatres. Among them the most important is a college play, entitled "The Return from Parnassus," dating 1601-02. In it a much-quoted passage makes Burbage, as a character, declare: "Why here's our fellow Shakespeare puts them all down; aye and Ben Jonson, too. O that Ben Jonson is a pestilent fellow; he brought up Horace, giving the poets a pill, but our fellow Shakespeare hath given him a purge that made him bewray his credit." Was Shakespeare then concerned in this war of the stages? And what could have been the nature of this "purge"? Among several suggestions, "Troilus and Cressida" has been thought by some to be the play in which Shakespeare thus "put down" his friend, Jonson. A wiser interpretation finds the "purge" in "Satiromastix," which, though not written by Shakespeare, was staged by his company, and therefore with his approval and under his direction as one of the leaders of that company. 

The last years of the reign of Elizabeth thus saw Jonson recognised as a dramatist second only to Shakespeare, and not second even to him as a dramatic satirist. But Jonson now turned his talents to new fields. Plays on subjects derived from classical story and myth had held the stage from the beginning of the drama, so that Shakespeare was making no new departure when he wrote his "Julius Caesar" about 1600. Therefore when Jonson staged "Sejanus," three years later and with Shakespeare's company once more, he was only following in the elder dramatist's footsteps. But Jonson's idea of a play on classical history, on the one hand, and Shakespeare's and the elder popular dramatists, on the other, were very different. Heywood some years before had put five straggling plays on the stage in quick succession, all derived from stories in Ovid and dramatised with little taste or discrimination. Shakespeare had a finer conception of form, but even he was contented to take all his ancient history from North's translation of Plutarch and dramatise his subject without further inquiry. Jonson was a scholar and a classical antiquarian. He reprobated this slipshod amateurishness, and wrote his "Sejanus" like a scholar, reading Tacitus, Suetonius, and other authorities, to be certain of his facts, his setting, and his atmosphere, and somewhat pedantically noting his authorities in the margin when he came to print. "Sejanus" is a tragedy of genuine dramatic power in which is told with discriminating taste the story of the haughty favourite of Tiberius with his tragical overthrow. Our drama presents no truer nor more painstaking representation of ancient Roman life than may be found in Jonson's "Sejanus" and "Catiline his Conspiracy," which followed in 1611. A passage in the address of the former play to the reader, in which Jonson refers to a collaboration in an earlier version, has led to the surmise that Shakespeare may have been that "worthier pen." There is no evidence to determine the matter. 

In 1605, we find Jonson in active collaboration with Chapman and Marston in the admirable comedy of London life entitled "Eastward Hoe." In the previous year, Marston had dedicated his "Malcontent," in terms of fervid admiration, to Jonson; so that the wounds of the war of the theatres must have been long since healed. Between Jonson and Chapman there was the kinship of similar scholarly ideals. The two continued friends throughout life. "Eastward Hoe" achieved the extraordinary popularity represented in a demand for three issues in one year. But this was not due entirely to the merits of the play. In its earliest version a passage which an irritable courtier conceived to be derogatory to his nation, the Scots, sent both Chapman and Jonson to jail; but the matter was soon patched up, for by this time Jonson had influence at court. 

With the accession of King James, Jonson began his long and successful career as a writer of masques. He wrote more masques than all his competitors together, and they are of an extraordinary variety and poetic excellence. Jonson did not invent the masque; for such premeditated devices to set and frame, so to speak, a court ball had been known and practised in varying degrees of elaboration long before his time. But Jonson gave dramatic value to the masque, especially in his invention of the antimasque, a comedy or farcical element of relief, entrusted to professional players or dancers. He enhanced, as well, the beauty and dignity of those portions of the masque in which noble lords and ladies took their parts to create, by their gorgeous costumes and artistic grouping and evolutions, a sumptuous show. On the mechanical and scenic side Jonson had an inventive and ingenious partner in Inigo Jones, the royal architect, who more than any one man raised the standard of stage representation in the England of his day. Jonson continued active in the service of the court in the writing of masques and other entertainments far into the reign of King Charles; but, towards the end, a quarrel with Jones embittered his life, and the two testy old men appear to have become not only a constant irritation to each other, but intolerable bores at court. In "Hymenaei," "The Masque of Queens," "Love Freed from Ignorance," "Lovers made Men," "Pleasure Reconciled to Virtue," and many more will be found Jonson's aptitude, his taste, his poetry and inventiveness in these by-forms of the drama; while in "The Masque of Christmas," and "The Gipsies Metamorphosed" especially, is discoverable that power of broad comedy which, at court as well as in the city, was not the least element of Jonson's contemporary popularity. 

But Jonson had by no means given up the popular stage when he turned to the amusement of King James. In 1605 "Volpone" was produced, "The Silent Woman" in 1609, "The Alchemist" in the following year. These comedies, with "Bartholomew Fair," 1614, represent Jonson at his height, and for constructive cleverness, character successfully conceived in the manner of caricature, wit and brilliancy of dialogue, they stand alone in English drama. "Volpone, or the Fox," is, in a sense, a transition play from the dramatic satires of the war of the theatres to the purer comedy represented in the plays named above. Its subject is a struggle of wit applied to chicanery; for among its dramatis personae, from the villainous Fox himself, his rascally servant Mosca, Voltore (the vulture), Corbaccio and Corvino (the big and the little raven), to Sir Politic Would-be and the rest, there is scarcely a virtuous character in the play. Question has been raised as to whether a story so forbidding can be considered a comedy, for, although the plot ends in the discomfiture and imprisonment of the most vicious, it involves no mortal catastrophe. But Jonson was on sound historical ground, for "Volpone" is conceived far more logically on the lines of the ancients' theory of comedy than was ever the romantic drama of Shakespeare, however repulsive we may find a philosophy of life that facilely divides the world into the rogues and their dupes, and, identifying brains with roguery and innocence with folly, admires the former while inconsistently punishing them. 

"The Silent Woman" is a gigantic farce of the most ingenious construction. The whole comedy hinges on a huge joke, played by a heartless nephew on his misanthropic uncle, who is induced to take to himself a wife, young, fair, and warranted silent, but who, in the end, turns out neither silent nor a woman at all. In "The Alchemist," again, we have the utmost cleverness in construction, the whole fabric building climax on climax, witty, ingenious, and so plausibly presented that we forget its departures from the possibilities of life. In "The Alchemist" Jonson represented, none the less to the life, certain sharpers of the metropolis, revelling in their shrewdness and rascality and in the variety of the stupidity and wickedness of their victims. We may object to the fact that the only person in the play possessed of a scruple of honesty is discomfited, and that the greatest scoundrel of all is approved in the end and rewarded. The comedy is so admirably written and contrived, the personages stand out with such lifelike distinctness in their several kinds, and the whole is animated with such verve and resourcefulness that "The Alchemist" is a new marvel every time it is read. Lastly of this group comes the tremendous comedy, "Bartholomew Fair," less clear cut, less definite, and less structurally worthy of praise than its three predecessors, but full of the keenest and cleverest of satire and inventive to a degree beyond any English comedy save some other of Jonson's own. It is in "Bartholomew Fair" that we are presented to the immortal caricature of the Puritan, Zeal-in-the-Land Busy, and the Littlewits that group about him, and it is in this extraordinary comedy that the humour of Jonson, always open to this danger, loosens into the Rabelaisian mode that so delighted King James in "The Gipsies Metamorphosed." Another comedy of less merit is "The Devil is an Ass," acted in 1616. It was the failure of this play that caused Jonson to give over writing for the public stage for a period of nearly ten years. 

"Volpone" was laid as to scene in Venice. Whether because of the success of "Eastward Hoe" or for other reasons, the other three comedies declare in the words of the prologue to "The Alchemist": 

"Our scene is London, 'cause we would make known No country's mirth is better than our own." 

Indeed Jonson went further when he came to revise his plays for collected publication in his folio of 1616, he transferred the scene of "Every Man in His Humour" from Florence to London also, converting Signior Lorenzo di Pazzi to Old Kno'well, Prospero to Master Welborn, and Hesperida to Dame Kitely "dwelling i' the Old Jewry." 

In his comedies of London life, despite his trend towards caricature, Jonson has shown himself a genuine realist, drawing from the life about him with an experience and insight rare in any generation. A happy comparison has been suggested between Ben Jonson and Charles Dickens. Both were men of the people, lowly born and hardly bred. Each knew the London of his time as few men knew it; and each represented it intimately and in elaborate detail. Both men were at heart moralists, seeking the truth by the exaggerated methods of humour and caricature; perverse, even wrong-headed at times, but possessed of a true pathos and largeness of heart, and when all has been said — though the Elizabethan ran to satire, the Victorian to sentimentality — leaving the world better for the art that they practised in it. 

In 1616, the year of the death of Shakespeare, Jonson collected his plays, his poetry, and his masques for publication in a collective edition. This was an unusual thing at the time and had been attempted by no dramatist before Jonson. This volume published, in a carefully revised text, all the plays thus far mentioned, excepting "The Case is Altered," which Jonson did not acknowledge, "Bartholomew Fair," and "The Devil is an Ass," which was written too late. It included likewise a book of some hundred and thirty odd "Epigrams," in which form of brief and pungent writing Jonson was an acknowledged master; "The Forest," a smaller collection of lyric and occasional verse and some ten "Masques" and "Entertainments." In this same year Jonson was made poet laureate with a pension of one hundred marks a year. This, with his fees and returns from several noblemen, and the small earnings of his plays must have formed the bulk of his income. The poet appears to have done certain literary hack-work for others, as, for example, parts of the Punic Wars contributed to Raleigh's "History of the World." We know from a story, little to the credit of either, that Jonson accompanied Raleigh's son abroad in the capacity of a tutor. In 1618 Jonson was granted the reversion of the office of Master of the Revels, a post for which he was peculiarly fitted; but he did not live to enjoy its perquisites. Jonson was honoured with degrees by both universities, though when and under what circumstances is not known. It has been said that he narrowly escaped the honour of knighthood, which the satirists of the day averred King James was wont to lavish with an indiscriminate hand. Worse men were made knights in his day than worthy Ben Jonson. 

From 1616 to the close of the reign of King James, Jonson produced nothing for the stage. But he "prosecuted" what he calls "his wonted studies" with such assiduity that he became in reality, as by report, one of the most learned men of his time. Jonson's theory of authorship involved a wide acquaintance with books and "an ability," as he put it, "to convert the substance or riches of another poet to his own use." Accordingly Jonson read not only the Greek and Latin classics down to the lesser writers, but he acquainted himself especially with the Latin writings of his learned contemporaries, their prose as well as their poetry, their antiquities and curious lore as well as their more solid learning. Though a poor man, Jonson was an indefatigable collector of books. He told Drummond that "the Earl of Pembroke sent him 20 pounds every first day of the new year to buy new books." Unhappily, in 1623, his library was destroyed by fire, an accident serio-comically described in his witty poem, "An Execration upon Vulcan." Yet even now a book turns up from time to time in which is inscribed, in fair large Italian lettering, the name, Ben Jonson. With respect to Jonson's use of his material, Dryden said memorably of him: "[He] was not only a professed imitator of Horace, but a learned plagiary of all the others; you track him everywhere in their snow....But he has done his robberies so openly that one sees he fears not to be taxed by any law. He invades authors like a monarch, and what would be theft in other poets is only victory in him." And yet it is but fair to say that Jonson prided himself, and justly, on his originality. In "Catiline," he not only uses Sallust's account of the conspiracy, but he models some of the speeches of Cicero on the Roman orator's actual words. In "Poetaster," he lifts a whole satire out of Horace and dramatises it effectively for his purposes. The sophist Libanius suggests the situation of "The Silent Woman"; a Latin comedy of Giordano Bruno, "Il Candelaio," the relation of the dupes and the sharpers in "The Alchemist," the "Mostellaria" of Plautus, its admirable opening scene. But Jonson commonly bettered his sources, and putting the stamp of his sovereignty on whatever bullion he borrowed made it thenceforward to all time current and his own. 

The lyric and especially the occasional poetry of Jonson has a peculiar merit. His theory demanded design and the perfection of literary finish. He was furthest from the rhapsodist and the careless singer of an idle day; and he believed that Apollo could only be worthily served in singing robes and laurel crowned. And yet many of Jonson's lyrics will live as long as the language. Who does not know "Queen and huntress, chaste and fair." "Drink to me only with thine eyes," or "Still to be neat, still to be dressed"? Beautiful in form, deft and graceful in expression, with not a word too much or one that bears not its part in the total effect, there is yet about the lyrics of Jonson a certain stiffness and formality, a suspicion that they were not quite spontaneous and unbidden, but that they were carved, so to speak, with disproportionate labour by a potent man of letters whose habitual thought is on greater things. It is for these reasons that Jonson is even better in the epigram and in occasional verse where rhetorical finish and pointed wit less interfere with the spontaneity and emotion which we usually associate with lyrical poetry. There are no such epitaphs as Ben Jonson's, witness the charming ones on his own children, on Salathiel Pavy, the child-actor, and many more; and this even though the rigid law of mine and thine must now restore to William Browne of Tavistock the famous lines beginning: "Underneath this sable hearse." Jonson is unsurpassed, too, in the difficult poetry of compliment, seldom falling into fulsome praise and disproportionate similitude, yet showing again and again a generous appreciation of worth in others, a discriminating taste and a generous personal regard. There was no man in England of his rank so well known and universally beloved as Ben Jonson. The list of his friends, of those to whom he had written verses, and those who had written verses to him, includes the name of every man of prominence in the England of King James. And the tone of many of these productions discloses an affectionate familiarity that speaks for the amiable personality and sound worth of the laureate. In 1619, growing unwieldy through inactivity, Jonson hit upon the heroic remedy of a journey afoot to Scotland. On his way thither and back he was hospitably received at the houses of many friends and by those to whom his friends had recommended him. When he arrived in Edinburgh, the burgesses met to grant him the freedom of the city, and Drummond, foremost of Scottish poets, was proud to entertain him for weeks as his guest at Hawthornden. Some of the noblest of Jonson's poems were inspired by friendship. Such is the fine "Ode to the memory of Sir Lucius Cary and Sir Henry Moryson," and that admirable piece of critical insight and filial affection, prefixed to the first Shakespeare folio, "To the memory of my beloved master, William Shakespeare, and what he hath left us," to mention only these. Nor can the earlier "Epode," beginning "Not to know vice at all," be matched in stately gravity and gnomic wisdom in its own wise and stately age. 

But if Jonson had deserted the stage after the publication of his folio and up to the end of the reign of King James, he was far from inactive; for year after year his inexhaustible inventiveness continued to contribute to the masquing and entertainment at court. In "The Golden Age Restored," Pallas turns the Iron Age with its attendant evils into statues which sink out of sight; in "Pleasure Reconciled to Virtue," Atlas figures represented as an old man, his shoulders covered with snow, and Comus, "the god of cheer or the belly," is one of the characters, a circumstance which an imaginative boy of ten, named John Milton, was not to forget. "Pan's Anniversary," late in the reign of James, proclaimed that Jonson had not yet forgotten how to write exquisite lyrics, and "The Gipsies Metamorphosed" displayed the old drollery and broad humorous stroke still unimpaired and unmatchable. These, too, and the earlier years of Charles were the days of the Apollo Room of the Devil Tavern where Jonson presided, the absolute monarch of English literary Bohemia. We hear of a room blazoned about with Jonson's own judicious "Leges Convivales" in letters of gold, of a company made up of the choicest spirits of the time, devotedly attached to their veteran dictator, his reminiscences, opinions, affections, and enmities. And we hear, too, of valorous potations; but in the words of Herrick addressed to his master, Jonson, at the Devil Tavern, as at the Dog, the Triple Tun, and at the Mermaid, 

     "We such clusters had
As made us nobly wild, not mad,
And yet each verse of thine
Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine."
 

But the patronage of the court failed in the days of King Charles, though Jonson was not without royal favours; and the old poet returned to the stage, producing, between 1625 and 1633, "The Staple of News," "The New Inn," "The Magnetic Lady," and "The Tale of a Tub," the last doubtless revised from a much earlier comedy. None of these plays met with any marked success, although the scathing generalisation of Dryden that designated them "Jonson's dotages" is unfair to their genuine merits. Thus the idea of an office for the gathering, proper dressing, and promulgation of news (wild flight of the fancy in its time) was an excellent subject for satire on the existing absurdities among newsmongers; although as much can hardly be said for "The Magnetic Lady," who, in her bounty, draws to her personages of differing humours to reconcile them in the end according to the alternative title, or "Humours Reconciled." These last plays of the old dramatist revert to caricature and the hard lines of allegory; the moralist is more than ever present, the satire degenerates into personal lampoon, especially of his sometime friend, Inigo Jones, who appears unworthily to have used his influence at court against the broken-down old poet. And now disease claimed Jonson, and he was bedridden for months. He had succeeded Middleton in 1628 as Chronologer to the City of London, but lost the post for not fulfilling its duties. King Charles befriended him, and even commissioned him to write still for the entertainment of the court; and he was not without the sustaining hand of noble patrons and devoted friends among the younger poets who were proud to be "sealed of the tribe of Ben."
Jonson died, August 6, 1637, and a second folio of his works, which he had been some time gathering, was printed in 1640, bearing in its various parts dates ranging from 1630 to 1642. It included all the plays mentioned in the foregoing paragraphs, excepting "The Case is Altered;" the masques, some fifteen, that date between 1617 and 1630; another collection of lyrics and occasional poetry called "Underwoods", including some further entertainments; a translation of "Horace's Art of Poetry" (also published in a vicesimo quarto in 1640), and certain fragments and ingatherings which the poet would hardly have included himself. These last comprise the fragment (less than seventy lines) of a tragedy called "Mortimer his Fall," and three acts of a pastoral drama of much beauty and poetic spirit, "The Sad Shepherd." There is also the exceedingly interesting "English Grammar" "made by Ben Jonson for the benefit of all strangers out of his observation of the English language now spoken and in use," in Latin and English; and "Timber, or Discoveries" "made upon men and matter as they have flowed out of his daily reading, or had their reflux to his peculiar notion of the times." The "Discoveries," as it is usually called, is a commonplace book such as many literary men have kept, in which their reading was chronicled, passages that took their fancy translated or transcribed, and their passing opinions noted. Many passages of Jonson's "Discoveries" are literal translations from the authors he chanced to be reading, with the reference, noted or not, as the accident of the moment prescribed. At times he follows the line of Macchiavelli's argument as to the nature and conduct of princes; at others he clarifies his own conception of poetry and poets by recourse to Aristotle. He finds a choice paragraph on eloquence in Seneca the elder and applies it to his own recollection of Bacon's power as an orator; and another on facile and ready genius, and translates it, adapting it to his recollection of his fellow-playwright, Shakespeare. To call such passages — which Jonson never intended for publication — plagiarism, is to obscure the significance of words. To disparage his memory by citing them is a preposterous use of scholarship. Jonson's prose, both in his dramas, in the descriptive comments of his masques, and in the "Discoveries," is characterised by clarity and vigorous directness, nor is it wanting in a fine sense of form or in the subtler graces of diction. 

When Jonson died there was a project for a handsome monument to his memory. But the Civil War was at hand, and the project failed. A memorial, not insufficient, was carved on the stone covering his grave in one of the aisles of Westminster Abbey: 

"O rare Ben Jonson." 


FELIX E. SCHELLING.
THE COLLEGE,
PHILADELPHIA, U.S.A.




The following is a complete list of his published works: — 

DRAMAS:

     Every Man in his Humour, 4to, 1601;
The Case is Altered, 4to, 1609;
Every Man out of his Humour, 4to, 1600;
Cynthia's Revels, 4to, 1601;
Poetaster, 4to, 1602;
Sejanus, 4to, 1605;
Eastward Ho (with Chapman and Marston), 4to, 1605;
Volpone, 4to, 1607;
Epicoene, or the Silent Woman, 4to, 1609 (?), fol., 1616;
The Alchemist, 4to, 1612;
Catiline, his Conspiracy, 4to, 1611;
Bartholomew Fayre, 4to, 1614 (?), fol., 1631;
The Divell is an Asse, fol., 1631;
The Staple of Newes, fol., 1631;
The New Sun, 8vo, 1631, fol., 1692;
The Magnetic Lady, or Humours Reconcild, fol., 1640;
A Tale of a Tub, fol., 1640;
The Sad Shepherd, or a Tale of Robin Hood, fol., 1641;
Mortimer his Fall (fragment), fol., 1640.
 

To Jonson have also been attributed additions to Kyd's Jeronymo, and collaboration in The Widow with Fletcher and Middleton, and in the Bloody Brother with Fletcher. 

POEMS:    Epigrams, The Forrest, Underwoods, published in fols., 1616, 1640; Selections: Execration against Vulcan, and Epigrams, 1640; G. Hor. Flaccus his art of Poetry, Englished by Ben Jonson, 1640; Leges Convivialis, fol., 1692. Other minor poems first appeared in Gifford's edition of Works. 

PROSE:    Timber, or Discoveries made upon Men and Matter, fol., 1641; The English Grammar, made by Ben Jonson for the benefit of Strangers, fol., 1640.
Masques and Entertainments were published in the early folios. 

WORKS:   

     Fol., 1616, volume. 2, 1640 (1631-41);
fol., 1692, 1716-19, 1729;
edited by P. Whalley, 7 volumes., 1756;
by Gifford (with Memoir), 9 volumes., 1816, 1846;
re-edited by F. Cunningham, 3 volumes., 1871;
in 9 volumes., 1875;
by Barry Cornwall (with Memoir), 1838;
by B. Nicholson (Mermaid Series), with Introduction by
C. H. Herford, 1893, etc.;
Nine Plays, 1904;
ed. H. C. Hart (Standard Library), 1906, etc;
Plays and Poems, with Introduction by H. Morley (Universal
Library), 1885;
Plays (7) and Poems (Newnes), 1905;
Poems, with Memoir by H. Bennett (Carlton Classics), 1907;
Masques and Entertainments, ed. by H. Morley, 1890.
 

SELECTIONS:   

     J. A. Symonds, with Biographical and Critical Essay,
(Canterbury Poets), 1886;
Grosart, Brave Translunary Things, 1895;
Arber, Jonson Anthology, 1901;
Underwoods, Cambridge University Press, 1905;
Lyrics (Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher), the Chap Books,
No. 4, 1906;
Songs (from Plays, Masques, etc.), with earliest known
setting, Eragny Press, 1906.
 

LIFE:   

     See Memoirs affixed to Works;
J. A. Symonds (English Worthies), 1886;
Notes of Ben Jonson Conversations with Drummond of Hawthornden;
Shakespeare Society, 1842;
ed. with Introduction and Notes by P. Sidney, 1906;
Swinburne, A Study of Ben Jonson, 1889.



 
 
 

A photo on Flickr


To the Memory of Shakespeare

El mundo, puro teatro

jueves, 27 de septiembre de 2012

El mundo, puro teatro

En mi nueva asignatura de teatro inglés estoy tomando como Leitmotiv o hilo conductor la analogía entre el mundo y el teatro, o la vida como representación dramática, y lo que sucede cuando el teatro de la vida pasa a representarse en el teatro del teatro. Entre los que han reflexionado sobre estas cuestiones, aparte de Shakespeare, me encuentro a Henry Fielding , que en Tom Jones (libro VII, cap. 1), ofrece una irónica

Comparación entre el mundo y el escenario

El mundo con frecuencia se ha comparado al teatro, y muchos escritores serios, además de los poetas, han considerado la vida humana como un gran drama, semejante casi en todo punto a las representación escénicas que según se dice fueron inventadas por Tespis, y que han sido siempre recibidas con tanta aprobación y deleite en todas los países civilizados.

Esta noción se ha llevado hasta tal extremo, y se ha extendido tanto, que algunas palabras que son propias del teatro, y que se aplicaban al principio al mundo de modo metafórico, ahora se usan indistinta y literalmente para ambos: así, escenario y escena se han hecho tan corrientes y familiares por su uso general, cuando hablamos de la vida en general, como cuando nos limitamos a las representaciones dramáticas; y cuando hablamos de lo que pasa entre bambalinas, es más probable que estemos pensando en St James [el centro de la vida social de la clase alta de Londres] antes que en el teatro de Drury Lane.

Puede parecer bastante sencillo explicar todo esto, si pensamos que la escena teatral no es sino una representación, o, como la llama Aristóteles, una imitación de lo que existe realmente; y de aquí se deriva quizás que podríamos en justicia alabar altamente a quienes por sus escritos o actuaciones han sido tan capaces de imitar la vida de modo tan capaz, que sus imágenes en cierto modo se funden o se confunden con el original.
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Pero, en realidad, no somos tan dados a prodigar alabanzas a estas gentes, a quienes con frecuencia tratamos igual que los niños a los instrumentos de su diversión; y obtenemos tanto placer al abuchearlos y darles bofetadas, como al admirar su excelencia. Hay muchas otras razones que nos han inducido a ver esta analogía entre el mundo y el teatro.

Algunos han contemplado a la mayor parte de la humanidad a la luz de los actores, como si interpretasen personajes que no son más suyos, y sobre los que no tienen de hecho mayor título de propiedad, del que tiene un actor para hacerse pasar seriamente por el rey o el emperador al que está representando. Así, puede decirse que el hipócrita es un actor, y de hecho los griegos los llamaban a los dos con la misma palabra exactamente.

La brevedad de la vida también ha dado lugar a esta comparación. Así el inmortal Shakespear.

—La vida es un mal actor
que atruena su hora y la pavonea por el escenario,
y luego ya no se oye más de él.
 


Cita muy sobada, por lo que compensaré al lector con otra muy noble, que creo que pocos han leído. Viene de un poema llamado La Deidad, publicado hace unos nueve años y enterrado en el olvido hace ya tiempo. Prueba de que los buenos no siempre viven más que los malos, ni entre los hombres ni entre los libros:

¡De tí [de la Deidad] viene la fuente de toda acción humana,
los imperios que se alzan, y la caída de los reyes!
!Ved cómo se muestra el vasto teatro del tiempo,
mientras un héroe tras otro va pisando el escenario!
¡Con pompa se suceden las deslumbrantes imágenes,
qué líderes triunfan, y qué monarcas se desangran!
Interpretan los papeles asignados por tu Providencia,
sus orgullos y sus pasiones tendentes son a tus fines:
un tiempo relucen a la luz del día,
y luego, con un gesto tuyo, desaparecen como fantasmas;
¡no queda ni rastro de todo el ajetreo de la escena,
a no ser el recuerdo, que dice que tales cosas han sido!
 


En todos estos, sin embargo, y en cualquier otra analogía entre la vida y el teatro, el parecido siempre se ha referido al escenario. Nadie, que yo recuerde, ha tomado en consideración el público de este gran drama.

Pero como la naturaleza a menudo exhibe algunas de sus mejores representaciones ante un teatro muy lleno, el comportamiento de los espectadores no menos que el de los actores se presta a la mencionada comparación. En este vasto teatro del tiempo están sentados el amigo y el crítico; hay aquí aplausos y gritos, abucheos y gruñidos de queja; en breve, todo lo que se haya podido ver u oír en el Teatro Real.

Examinemos esto con un caso: por ejemplo, en el comportamiento del gran público frente a la escena que la naturaleza se complació en mostrar en el capítulo 12 del Libro anterior a éste, cuando presentó a Jorge el Negro escapándose con las 500 libras de su amigo y benefactor.

Quienes estaban sentados en la galería superior del mundo [—los asientos más baratos—] trataron dicho incidente, estoy bien seguro, con sus vociferaciones habituales; y probablemente se dio suelta en dicha ocasión a todo tipo de vocabulario malsonante para reprobarlo.

Si hubiésemos descendido al siguiente orden de espectadores, habríamos encontrado un grado igual de aborrecimiento, aunque menor de ruido y malsonancia; y aun así las buenas mujeres le encomendaban a Jorge el Negro al diablo, y muchas esperaban que de un momento a otro vendría el caballero del pie hendido a buscar a quien le pertenecía por derecho propio.

La platea, como de costumbre, estaba sin duda dividida,: los que se complacen con la virtud heroica y el carácter perfecto pusieron objeciones a que se presentase semejante género de villanía sin darle un severo castigo por dar ejemplo. Algunos de los amigos del autor exclamaron—"Miren, caballeros, ese hombre es un canalla, pero es que la naturaleza es así". Y todos los jóvenes críticos del momento, los escribientes, aprendices, etc., lo llamaron de mal gusto, y se quedaron refunfuñando.

En cuanto a los palcos [—los asientos más caros, entonces y ahora—], se comportaron con su cortesía habitual. La mayoría estaban atendiendo a algún otro asunto. Algunos de los pocos que prestaron alguna atención a la escena declararon que era un hombre de mala clase; mientras que otros se negaron a dar su opinión hasta haber oído antes la de los mejores jueces.

Ahora bien, nosotros, que tenemos derecho a pasar entre las bambalinas de este gran teatro de la naturaleza (y ningún autor debería escribir otra cosa que diccionarios y libros de ortografía a menos que tenga este privilegio) podemos censurar la acción, sin por ello pasar a detestar absolutamente a la persona, a quien quizá la naturaleza no tenía pensado asignar un papel malo en sus dramas: porque en este caso la vída es igual punto por punto al escenario, ya que a menudo es la misma persona la que representa al villano y al héroe, y quien hoy se gana vuestra admiración, probablemente atraerá vuestro desprecio mañana. Al igual que Garrick, a quien considero en que en la tragedia es el mayor genio que haya dado jamás el mundo, a veces se aviene a hacer el papel de tonto; igual hicieron Escipión el Grande y Lelio el Sabio, según Horacio, hace muchos años: es más, Cicerón asegura que eran "increíblemente infantiles". —Éstos, ciertamente, hacían el tonto, como mi amigo Garrick, sólo en broma; pero varios eminentes personajes, en casos sin número de sus vidas, han hecho el tonto de modo egregio completamente en serio; hasta el punto de producir alguna duda sobre si predominaba en ellos la sabiduría o la estupidez; o si merecían más el aplauso o la censura, la admiración o el desprecio, el amor o el odio de la humanidad.

De hecho las personas que hayan pasado algún tiempo en las traseras del escenario de este gran teatro, y conozcan a fondo no sólo los diversos disfraces que allí se ponen, sino también el comportamiento fantasioso y caprichoso de las pasiones, que son los empresarios y directores de este teatro, (porque en lo tocante a la Razón, el titular del teatro, se sabe que es un individuo muy vago y que rara vez se esfuerza)—esas personas seguramente habrán aprendido a interpretar el famoso nil admirari de Horacio, o, dicho con la expresión inglesa, no mirar fijamente a nada (o no sorprenderse de nada).

Una única mala acción no hace a un villano en la vida, como no lo hace un único papel malo en el escenario. Las pasiones, como los empresarios de un teatro, a menudo les imponen los papeles a los hombres, sin consultar su criterio y a veces sin considerar para nada sus talentos. Así, el hombre, al igual que el actor, puede condenar aquello en lo que él mismo está actuando; aún más, es frecuente ver al vicio asentado en algunos hombres de modo tan postizo como lo estaría el carácter de Yago en el rostro honrado del sr. William Mills.

En conjunto, pues, el hombre sincero y con buen entendimiento nunca se apresura a condenar. Puede censurar una imperfección, o incluso un vicio, sin rabia hacia el culpable. En una palabra, son igualmente necios, igualmente infantiles, igualmente mal educados, e igualmente mal intencionados, los que levantan clamores y escándalos tanto en la vida como en el escenario. Los peores de los hombres normalmente tienen las palabras villano y canalla en la boca, igual que los sujetos más bajos son los primeros que gritan malo en la platea.

El mundo todo es máscaras
 

Life as a Waking Dream

sábado, 22 de septiembre de 2012

Life as a waking dream

Clotaldo medita sobre Segismundo, en  Life Is a Dream,  la traducción de La vida es sueño por Edward Fitzgerald:

    So sleep; sleep fast: and sleep away those two
     Night-potions, and the waking dream between
     Which dream thou must believe; and, if to see
     Again, poor Segismund! that dream must be.—
     And yet, and yet, in these our ghostly lives,
     Half night, half day, half sleeping, half awake,
     How if our waking life, like that of sleep,
     Be all a dream in that eternal life
     To which we wake not till we sleep in death?
bed
     How if, I say, the senses we now trust
     For date of sensible comparison,—
     Ay, ev'n the Reason's self that dates with them,
     Should be in essence or intensity
     Hereafter so transcended, and awake
     To a perceptive subtlety so keen
     As to confess themselves befool'd before,
     In all that now they will avouch for most?
     One man—like this—but only so much longer
     As life is longer than a summer's day,
     Believed himself a king upon his throne,
     And play'd at hazard with his fellows' lives,
     Who cheaply dream'd away their lives to him.
     The sailor dream'd of tossing on the flood:
     The soldier of his laurels grown in blood:
     The lover of the beauty that he knew
     Must yet dissolve to dusty residue:
     The merchant and the miser of his bags
     Of finger'd gold; the beggar of his rags:
     And all this stage of earth on which we seem
     Such busy actors, and the parts we play'd,
     Substantial as the shadow of a shade,
     And Dreaming but a dream within a dream!



A Dream within a Dream
 


An Actor's Epitaph

viernes, 21 de septiembre de 2012

An actor's epitaph

An epitaph for an player or mime, Vitalis (8th-9th c.), translated from the Latin by Richard Axton:

I used to mimic the face, manner, and words of those talking,
So that you would think many people spoke from one mouth.
The subject, presented with a twin image of himself before his eyes,
Would tremble to see a more real self existing in my faces.
Oh, how often a lady saw herself in my performance,
And blushed for shame, horribly embarrassed.
Thus, as many human forms as were seen in my body
Were snatched away with me by the dismal day of death.


Vaya drama


(Simon Trussler, The Cambridge Illustrated History of British Theatre, 6).
Acting strange

Drama and Theatre

jueves, 20 de septiembre de 2012

Drama and Theatre

Beginning my course on English drama....

Literature is by and large a discursive phenomenon, a collection of texts, a set of linguistic practices. Literary works are made of words. Now, if literature is defined by its medium, written or printed discourse, drama is multimedia. Of course there is also "oral literature" (—a contradiction?) which is linked to live performance, and may therefore have a theatrical quality. But a book, a written text, is a well-defined medium. Drama may be written or printed—and read, just like any other poem or novel. In that sense we may speak of drama as part of literature, as a literary genre. But drama is also composed to be staged, and there it is multimedia: the words of the literary text interact with the presence and body of the actors, with gestures, acting, with staging conventions. In that sense, drama is literary, but theatre is multimedia. This ambivalence will be found everywhere; we may stress the literary aspect of drama, or its theatrical potential; we may read a play, or we may watch a performance, and we shall be experiencing drama in different ways. Some theories of drama emphasize its literary side, others emphasize spectacle and performance. Some dramatists are more literary, some are more theatrical. And some dramatic companies, too, are more literary and attentive to the text, while others emphasize theatricality, spectacle and acting. So the issue of mediality has to be acknowledged every time we encounter drama and theatre.

Here we shall use both terms interchangeably in many contexts, but when we need to emphasize live performance we will speak of "theatre" and when we emphasize the linguistic or literary aspect we will speak of "drama".

The twentieth century saw a certain reaction against "wordy" theatre or literary drama—although it was an age of powerful and innovative literary drama. But many directors and actors (and dramatists themselves) emphasized acting, spectacle, visual symbolism, creative staging and nonverbal communication; other semiotic dimensions apart from language are discovered and emphasized: lights, gesture, music, objects, space…

In studying a play, therefore, we may focus on the text or on the text in a specific performance—or a kind of performance, for instance, on the typical performance in a given theatrical tradition. That is, we may focus on the drama as literature, or on the theatrical aspect of the play. From a semiotic viewpoint, we may also speak in this case of the theatrical text, only we use here text in an extended sense, meaning not words but other kinds of signs.

Some aspects of the written play point to the theatrical text: these are called the stage directions. They may be missing in some authors or traditions; sometimes they are supplied by editors, not by the playwright. In many modern dramatists, such as Valle Inclán, Beckett or Tennessee Williams, the stage directiosn may be quite elaborate, showing that the author wants to control not only the text, but also the way it is performed; not suprisingly, sometimes such modern dramatists direct their own plays, or express annoyance when a company keeps the text but disregards the stage directions—part of the theatrical text as the dramatist understands it.

The main text in drama consists in the direct presentation of characters' words (and their actions, in the case of theatre). The author is silent, present like an invisible God in the world, but letting his characters speak and act without his intervention. Of course there may be exceptions: in "epic" drama (epic in the sense of narrative) there may be a narrator, a kind of author-figure whose discourse mediates the world of the stage and the world of the audience.  Sometimes a non-dramatic work may be adapted to the stage (e.g. Don Quijote) and then many options are open: the character's words may be preserved, or expanded and supplied where they are missing; the narrator's discourse may be suppressed or kept usually in a more marginal position as an epic or voice-over narrator.

In narrative the narrator's voice acts as a mediator between the authorial creation and the characters' world. For instance, sometimes the narrator is a kind of author, reading the characters' minds, but still he is "in the middle" in the sense that he presents the world of the characters as fact and not fiction—Although there are many possibilities and variations. In drama, such mediating figures may appear, too, between the world of the interacting characters and the world of the audience. Sometimes a chorus or narrator will address the audience; Shakespeare uses this device in some of his plays.

It is only to be expected that the most "literary" dramas will be those which work best as literature. Theatrical spectacles which rely on acting, situation, gesture or music rather than drama will belong to the history of the stage, or to the history of music, but not to literary history. For instance, opera combines music, song, story, text and acting, but operatic librettos are rarely considered significant works of literary art. The same goes for pantomimes or music-hall spectacles. The works which we study in this course are important literary texts which were also theatrically successful., for the most part (exceptions like Milton's Samson Agonistes).  Milton's text is an instance of closet drama, drama written to be read, not performed, although of course nothing prevents its being performed. Seneca's plays in the Roman period were influential instances of closet drama, much studied and imitated by the Elizabethan dramatists for their own theatrical plays.

A performance may complete or supplement the words of the dramatic text into significant action and gesture. Sometimes the acting and staging are so significant and prominent that they not only illustrate or "translate" the dramatic text—they may also interpret it, complete it or add to it, sometimes enter into a complex relationship with it, perhaps adding to the performance a number of meanings which are not to be found in the dramatic text as originally written by the author. A dramatic work may be written by one person, although sometimes we collaborate with others without even knowing it. But a theatrical performance is like a film, it is not the work of one person but of a whole team: author, adaptor, translator, director, manager, actors and the rest of the team behind the scenes—makeup, music, sound, light, stage hands, etc.

El mundo todo es máscaras 
 


The Wanderer

martes, 18 de septiembre de 2012

The Wanderer


Un trozo de playa





 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"El viajero errante". Un poema anónimo de hace más de mil años, que me gusta incluir en mis clases de literatura anglosajona; esta traducción inglesa viene del Project Gutenberg eBook of Old English Poems, aunque cambio algún detalle. Aquí hay una traducción española. Contiene una de las visiones más memorables del fin del mundo y de la extinción de la raza humana; no tiene nada que envidiar, desde luego, al Last Man de Mary Shelley o a Darkness de Lord Byron—o a La peste escarlata de Jack London. Combina de modo quizá ilógico pero poéticamente efectivo la vejez de un hombre y el fin del mundo; la ruina y muerte de una civilización entera, con el exilio y la nostalgia del último superviviente de un tiempo pasado, que viaja por un mundo inhóspito que ya nada le ofrece, quedando sólo el consuelo del recuerdo y la ilusión del más allá. Aunque no puedo librarme de la sospecha de que el toque de esperanza celestial que cierra el poema es un añadido cristianizante a un poema todavía más pesimista y desengañado, un auténtico viajero de otros tiempos, el poema mismo, que viene realmente de un mundo ya moribundo y sin esperanza de volver a la vida plena. Es especialmente llamativa la manera en que, en un poema dentro del poema, el viajero errante se imagina a sí mismo como everyman, meditando como lo hará todo superviviente sobre la desaparición de todo lo que conocía, y sobre la faz que ahora ve claramente de un mundo hostil a las esperanzas y las empresas humanas.



Often the lonely one longs for honors,
The grace of the Lord, though, grieved in his soul,
Over the waste of the waters far and wide he shall
Row with his hands through the rime-cold sea,
Travel the exile tracks: full determined is fate!
So the wanderer spake, his woes remembering,
His misfortunes in fighting and the fall of his kinsmen:

“Often alone at early dawn
I make my moan! Not a man now lives
To whom I can speak forth my heart and soul
And tell of its trials. In truth I know well
That there belongs to a lord an illustrious trait,
To fetter his feelings fast in his breast,
To keep his own counsel though cares oppress him.
The weary in heart against Wyrd has no help
Nor may the troubled in thought attempt to get aid.
Therefore the thane who is thinking of glory
Binds in his breast his bitterest thoughts.
So I fasten with fetters, confine in my breast
My sorrows of soul, though sick oft at heart,
In a foreign country far from my kinsmen.
I long ago laid my loyal patron
In sorrow under the sod; since then I have gone
Weary with winter-care over the wave’s foamy track,
In sadness have sought a solace to find
In the home and the hall of a host and ring-giver,
Who, mindful of mercy in the mead-hall free,
In kindness would comfort and care for me friendless,
Would treat me with tenderness. The tried man knows
How stern is sorrow, how distressing a comrade
For him who has few of friends and loved ones:
He trails the track of the exile; no treasure he has,
But heart-chilling frost— no fame upon earth.
He recalls his comrades and the costly hall-gifts
Of his gracious gold-friend, which he gave him in youth
To expend as he pleased: his pleasure has vanished!
He who lacks for long his lord’s advice,
ballena
His love and his wisdom, learns full well
How sorrow and slumber soothe together
The way-worn wanderer to welcome peace.
He seems in his sleep to see his lord;
He kisses and clasps him, and inclines on his knee
His hands and his head as in happier days
When he experienced the pleasure of his prince’s favors.
From his sleep then awakens the sorrowful wanderer;
He sees full before him the fallow waves,
The sea-birds bathing and beating their wings,
Frost and snow falling with freezing hail.
Then heavier grows the grief of his heart,
Sad after his dream; he sorrows anew.
His kinsmen’s memory he calls to his mind,
And eagerly greets it; in gladness he sees
His valiant comrades. Then they vanish away.
In the soul of a sailor no songs burst forth,
No familiar refrains. Fresh is his care
Who sends his soul o’er the sea full oft,
Over the welling waves his wearied heart.
Hence I may not marvel, when I am mindful of life,
That my sorrowing soul grows sick and dark,
When I look at the lives of lords and earls,
How they are suddenly snatched from the seats of their power,
In their princely pride. So passes this world,
And droops and dies each day and hour;
And no man is sage who knows not his share
Of winter in the world. The wise man is patient,
Not too hot in his heart, nor too hasty in words,
Nor too weak in war, nor unwise in his rashness,
Nor too forward nor fain, nor fearful of death,
Nor too eager and arrogant till he equal his boasting.
The wise man will wait with his words of boasting
Till, restraining his thoughts, he thoroughly knows
Where his vain words of vaunting eventually will lead him.
The sage man perceives how sorrowful it is
When all the wealth of the world lies wasted and scattered.
So now over the earth in every land
Stormed on by winds the walls are standing
Rimy with hoar-frost, and the roofs of the houses;
The wine-halls are wasted; far away are the rulers,
Deprived of their pleasure. All the proud ones have fallen,
 
The warriors by the wall: some war has borne off,
In its bloody embrace; some birds have carried
Over the high seas; to some the hoar wolf
Has dealt their death; some with dreary faces
By earls have been exiled in earth-caves to dwell:
So has wasted this world through the wisdom of God,
Till the proud one’s pleasure has perished utterly,
And the old work of the giants stands worthless and joyless.
He who the waste of this wall-stead wisely considers,
apocalypse
And looks down deep at the darkness of life,
Mournful in mind, remembers of old
Much struggle and spoil and speaks these words:
   

‘Where are the horses? Where are the heroes?
Where are the high treasure-givers?
Where are the proud pleasure-seekers? Where are the palace and its joys?
Alas the bright wine-cup! Alas the burnie-warriors!
Alas the prince’s pride! How passes the time
Under the shadow of night as it never had been!
Over the trusty troop now towers full high
A wall adorned with wondrous dragons.
 
The strength of the spear has destroyed the earls,
War-greedy weapons, Wyrd inexorable;
And the storms strike down on the stony cliffs;
The snows descend and seize all the earth
In the dread of winter; then darkness comes
And dusky night-shade. Down from the north
The hated hail-storms beat on heroes with fury.
All on earth is irksome to man;
Oft changes the work of the fates, the world under the firmament.
Here treasure is fleeting; here true friends are fleeting;
Here comrades are fleeting; here kinsmen are fleeting.
All idle and empty the earth has become.’

So says the sage one in mind, as he sits and secretly ponders.
Good is the man who is true to his trust; never should he betray anger,
Divulge the rage of his heart till the remedy he knows
That quickly will quiet his spirit. The quest of honor is a noble pursuit;
Glory be to God on high, who grants us our salvation!”

 



Wayfaring Stranger (3)

El mundo como teatro

lunes, 17 de septiembre de 2012

El mundo como teatro

Platón, Filebo:

"Sócrates: El razonamiento nos indica, pues, que en los duelos y en las tragedias y comedias, no sólo en el teatro sino también en toda la tragedia y comedia de la vida, los dolores están mezclados con los placeres, y también en otras muchísimas ocasiones." (50).

—oOo—
 


Epicteto, Manual, §17 (siglo I):

"Recuerda que eres actor de un drama, con el papel que quiera el director: si quiere uno corto, corto; si uno largo, largo; si quiere que representes a un pobre, represéntalo con nobleza: como a un cojo, un gobernante, un particular. Eso es lo tuyo: representar bien el papel que te han dado; pero elegirlo es cosa de otro."

—oOo—
 




Francisco de Quevedo, Epicteto y Phocílides en español con consonantes (Madrid, 1635):

No olvides que es comedia nuestra vida
y teatro de farsa el mundo todo
que muda el aparato por instantes
y que todos en él somos farsantes;
acuérdate que Dios, de esta comedia
de argumento tan grande y tan difuso,
es autor que la hizo y la compuso.
Al que dio papel breve,
solo le tocó hacerle como debe;
y al que se le dio largo,
solo el hacerle bien dejó a su cargo.
Si te mandó que hicieses
la persona de un pobre o un esclavo,
de un rey o de un tullido,
haz el papel que Dios te ha repartido;
pues solo está a tu cuenta
hacer con perfección el personaje,
en obras, en acciones, en lenguaje;
que al repartir los dichos y papeles,
la representación o mucha o poca
solo al autor de la comedia toca.


—oOo—
 



Calderón, El Gran Teatro del Mundo, (1655):

 El personaje del Autor (Dios) habla al Mundo:
Pues soy tu Autor, y tú mi hechura eres,
hoy, de un concepto mío
la ejecución a tus aplausos fío.
Una fiesta hacer quiero
a mi mismo poder, si considero
que solo a ostentación de mi grandeza
fiestas hará la gran naturaleza;
y como siempre ha sido
lo que más ha alegrado y divertido
la representación bien aplaudida,
y es representación la humana vida,
una comedia sea
la que hoy el cielo en tu teatro vea.
Si soy Autor y si la fiesta es mía,
por fuerza la ha de hacer mi compañía.
Y pues que yo escogí de los primeros
los hombres , y ellos son mis compañeros,
ellos, en el Teatro
del mundo, que contiene partes cuatro,
con estilo oportuno
han de representar. Yo a cada uno
el papel le daré que le convenga,
y porque en fiesta igual su parte tenga
el hermoso aparato
de apariencias, de trajes el ornato,
hoy prevenido quiero
que, alegre, liberal y lisonjero,
fabriques apariencias
que de dudas se pasen a evidencias.
Seremos, yo el Autor, en un instante,
tú el teatro, y el hombre el recitante.
                                                 (36-66)


(el Autor responde a un pobre que se queja de su papel:)

En la representación
igualmente satisface
el que bien al pobre hace
con afecto, alma y acción
como el que hace al rey, y son
iguales este y aquel
en acabando el papel.
Haz tú bien el tuyo y piensa
que para la recompensa
yo te igualaré con él.
No porque pena te sobre,
siendo pobre, es en mi ley
mejor papel el del rey
si hace bien el suyo el pobre;
uno y otro de mí cobre
todo el salario después
que haya merecido, pues
con cualquier papel se gana,
que toda la vida humana
representaciones es.
Y la comedia acabada
ha de cenar a mi lado
el que haya representado,
sin haber errado en nada,
su parte más acertada;
allí igualaré a los dos. (409-34)

—oOo—


Shakespeare, Soneto 15:

When I consider every thing that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheered and cheque'd even by the self-same sky,
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave state out of memory;
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay,
To change your day of youth to sullied night;
And all in war with Time for love of you,
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.


—oOo—

As You Like It  (II.7):


DUKE SENIOR

    Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy:
    This wide and universal theatre
    Presents more woeful pageants than the scene
    Wherein we play in.

JAQUES

    All the world's a stage,
    And all the men and women merely players:
    They have their exits and their entrances;
    And one man in his time plays many parts,
    His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
    Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
    And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
    And shining morning face, creeping like snail
    Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
    Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
    Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
    Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
    Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
    Seeking the bubble reputation
    Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
    In fair round belly with good capon lined,
    With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
    Full of wise saws and modern instances;
    And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
    Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
    With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
    His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
    For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
    Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
    And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
    That ends this strange eventful history,
    Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
    Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

—oOo—

Sir Walter Ralegh, "On the life of man":

What is our life? a play of passion;
Our mirth, the music of division:
Our mothers’ wombs the tiring houses be,
Where we are dressed for this short comedy;
Heaven the judicious sharp spectator is,
That sits and marks still who doth act amiss;
Our graves that hide us from the searching sun
Are like drawn curtains when the play is done:
Thus march we playing to our latest rest;
Only we die in earnest, that’s no jest.


—oOo—

 




Hegel: La comedia y la vida como metadrama