6 August: Boreham on Ben Jonson

A Rough-Cut Diamond
The return of the sixth of August reminds us that it was on that day that Ben Jonson died, being buried a few days later in the most remarkable tomb in Westminster Abbey. The story goes that the poet had passionately coveted Abbey burial, but that, when the time came, the authorities were inclined to prefer his room to his company. They compromised, however, by offering a tiny section two feet square. Here Jonson was perpendicularly interred. On the small stone that sealed the strange sepulchre an admirer inscribed the four words: "O Rare Ben Jonson!" Stone and inscription have been renewed in the course of the centuries, but the original slab still stands against the wall nearby, and its brief and striking apostrophe is regarded as one of the most eloquent epitaphs in that pantheon of Empire.

When, in 1573, Jonson was born at Westminster, then a secluded suburb, Queen Elizabeth, a fearsome termagant of 40, had been for 15 years upon the throne; London, her capital, was about the size of a modern provincial town; whilst a small boy of nine, William Shakespeare by name, was busily engaged in rifling the nests of the wrens and finches in the Warwickshire Woods.

Crude Quarry Man May Provide Noble Statue
A detailed scrutiny of the life of Ben Jonson would scarcely furnish an ideal study for a young ladies' seminary. Everything about it is abominally coarse. The man himself looks coarse. His face is hideously pock marked; his hair is aggressively, defiantly red; his eyes bulge horribly; his frame is heavy and corpulent; he boasted at one stage of his career that he could turn the scales at 20 stone. His gait is shambling and ungainly; his voice is blustering and throaty; we grow weary of his everlasting swagger and clamour, his brag and boast and brawl. He was reared in a school of hard knocks. His father died a few weeks before he himself was born; his mother married a bricklayer a year or two later, and her new husband felt that the easiest way of disposing of his stepson was to teach him his own trade. But the boy soon tired of toil that gave no promise of romance or adventure, and, seeking some employment more exciting, came perilously near to death on the battlefields of Flanders.

On another occasion he narrowly escaped the gallows. An actor named Shoreditch twitted him with having carried a hod and mixed mortar. Chancing to have with him a rapier, which he had just purchased for a shilling or two, Jonson struck his tormentor a mortal blow. He was arrested and thrown into prison, confidently expecting to be hanged. For some reason, however, the death sentence was waived, and he was told that the law would be satisfied with the slitting of his ears and nose. However, the authorities reviewed their decision, and Jonson, having submitted to the confiscation of his property, and to the branding of his body with a hot iron, was set at liberty. He married, but his domestic life was not an unqualified success. The lady, being his wife, considered herself entitled to some small fraction of his time and attention. This, of course, was out of the question, for Ben Jonson, dreaming of dramatic triumphs, felt it his duty to devote to his manuscripts the hours in which he could tear himself from the Mermaid Tavern and his boon companions there. As a result, unhappy differences arose between the pair, and they sometimes lived apart for years at a stretch. Jonson was not altogether destitute of natural affection, however, and those who have made a close study of his works will remember that he makes several tender references to his children, writes elegies on those whom he has buried, and, on at least one occasion, pays a tribute to his wife's downright goodness of heart.

Chequered Day Ends With Perfect Sunset
This was characteristic of him. Beneath much that was sordid and revolting and gross, Jonson concealed a rich vein of intellectual and poetic treasure. The men who caroused with him at the Apollo and the Mermaid laughed at his brazen egotism, at his ridiculous pedantry, at his insensate jealousy, and at his outbursts of ungovernable savagery. But they admired at the same time his sprightly humour, his delicate fancy, and his kindlings of exalted inspiration. His work stands as the best testimony to his real excellence, Shakespeare, as an actor, delighted in a role in one of Jonson's plays. Nobody can listen to the strains of the lovely song that he rescued from the dust of antiquity and recast in a setting that has enchanted English ears—"Drink To Me Only With Thine Eyes"—without becoming conscious of a wealth of pure emotion in the breast of the man who could turn lines of such feeling and charm. It is generally recognised that he gave us four of the most brilliant comedies ever written, one of which, "The Alchemist," has just been revived and played in London to crowded houses.[1]

In spite of his uncouth frame, his sordid upbringing and his meagre education, he became, by sheer concentration and intense application, a classical scholar of wide range and deep penetration. There was, within him, a strain of chivalry. Although it was dinned into his ears with tiresome iteration that his own plays, despite their superb artistry and exquisite finish, were tedious as compared with Shakespeare's, he joined with obvious sincerity in the universal acclaim of the Stratford bard and wept bitterly on hearing of the death of his rival. Moreover, the most beautiful eulogy offered by any of Shakespeare's contemporaries came from Jonson's flawless pen. He was at his best at the last. He left an uncompleted manuscript entitled "The Sad Shepherd"; in its stanzas Jonson attained a sweetness, a daintiness, and a purity that he had never previously approached. Today, and whenever the sixth of August comes round, many minds will turn to that grotesque tomb in Westminster Abbey and will offer to the memory of Ben Jonson the tribute of their grateful admiration.

F W Boreham

Image: Ben Jonson

[1] This editorial appears in the Hobart Mercury on August 6, 1949.