The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 20, No. 120, October, 1867: A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and PoliticsVarious
General
The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 20, No. 120, October, 1867: A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and Politics
Various
American periodicals
Jonson followed up his success by producing the plays of "Every Man out of
his Humor," and "Cynthia's Revels," dramatic satires on the manners,
follies, affectations, and vices of the city and the court. One good result
of Jonson's egotism was, that it made him afraid of nothing. He openly
appeared among the dramatists of his day as a reformer, and, poor as he
was, refused to pander to popular tastes, whether those tastes took the
direction of ribaldry, or blasphemy, or bombast. He had courage, morality,
earnestness; but then his courage was so blustering, his morality so
irascible, and his devotion to his own ideas of art so exclusive, that he
was constantly defying and insulting the persons he proposed to teach.
Other dramatists said to the audience, "Please to applaud this"; but Ben
said, "Now, you fools, we shall see if you have sense enough to applaud
this!" The stage, to be sure, was to be exalted and improved, but it was to
be done by his own works, and the glory of literature was to be associated
with the glory of Master Benjamin. This conceit, by making him insensible
to Shakespeare's influence, made him next to Shakespeare perhaps the most
original dramatist of the time. He differed from his brother dramatists not
in degree, but in kind. He felt it was not for him to imitate, but to
produce models for imitation; not for him to catch the spirit of the age,
but to originate a better. In short, he felt and taught belief in Ben; and,
high as posterity rates the literature of the age of Elizabeth, it would be
supposed from his prologues and epilogues that he conceived his fat person
to have fallen on evil days.
In "Every Man out of his Humor" and "Cynthia's Revels," he is in a raging
passion throughout. His verse groans with the weight of his wrath. "My
soul," he exclaims,
"Was never ground into such oily colors
To flatter vice and daub iniquity.
But with an arméd and resolvéd hand
I 'll strip the ragged follies of the time
Naked as at their birth,
... and with a whip of steel
Print wounding lashes on their iron ribs."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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