point of meanness; and in his serious poetry he seems to repose with complacency only on the pedantic and far-fetched, the _ultima Thule_ of his knowledge. He has a conscience of letting nothing escape the reader that he knows. _Aliquando sufflaminandus erat_, is as true of him as it was of Shakspeare, but in a quite different sense. He is doggedly bent upon fatiguing you with a favourite idea; whereas, Shakspeare overpowers and distracts attention by the throng and indiscriminate variety of his. His Sad Shepherd is a beautiful fragment. It was a favourite with the late Mr. Horne Tooke: indeed it is no wonder, for there was a sort of sympathy between the two men. Ben was like the modern wit and philosopher, a grammarian and a hard-headed thinker.—There is an amusing account of Ben Jonson’s private manners in Howel’s Letters, which is not generally known, and which I shall here extract. ‘_From James Howel, Esq. to Sir Thomas Hawk, Kt._ _Westminster, 5th April, 1636._ ‘Sir, ‘I was invited yesternight to a solemn supper by B. J. where you were deeply remembered; there was good company, excellent cheer, choice wines, and jovial welcome: one thing intervened, which almost spoiled the relish of the rest, that B. began to engross all the discourse, to vapour extremely of himself, and, by vilifying others, to magnify his own Muse. T. Ca. (Tom Carew) buzzed me in the ear, that though Ben had barrelled up a great deal of knowledge, yet it seems he had not read the ethics, which, among other precepts of morality, forbid self-commendation, declaring it to be an ill-favoured solecism in good manners. It made me think upon the lady (not very young) who having a good while given her guests neat entertainment, a capon being brought upon the table, instead of a spoon, she took a mouthful of claret, and spouted into the hollow bird: such an accident happened in this entertainment: you know—_Propria laus sordet in ore_: be a man’s breath ever so sweet, yet it makes one’s praise stink, if he makes his own mouth the conduit-pipe of it. But for my part I am content to dispense with the Roman infirmity of Ben, now that time hath snowed upon his pericranium. You know Ovid and (your) Horace were subject to this humour, the first bursting out into— _Jamque opus exegi, quod nec Jovis ira nec ignis, &c._ the other into— _Exegi monumentum ære perennius, &c._ As also Cicero, while he forced himself into this hexameter: _O fortunatam natam, me consule Romam!_ There is another reason that excuseth B. which is, that if one be allowed to love the natural issue of his body, why not that of the brain, which is of a spiritual and more noble extraction?’ The concurring testimony of all his contemporaries agrees with his own candid avowal, as to Ben Jonson’s personal character. He begins, for instance, an epistle to Drayton in these words—