This incident is a capital answer to the charge that great men, notably literary men, depend upon circumstances for their fame. Nothing can buoy up fame but the filling of the veins with a personality through genius. At some stages circumstances aid, friends are serviceable, but it is the inherent qualities that survive in the tempestuous waves of public opinion and criticism. Daniel won the title of voluntary laureate by serving from Spenser to Ben Jonson without stated financial reward, though he was benefited financially and otherwise. Samuel Daniel was born 1562, near Taunton. His father was a music teacher, and the son studied at Oxford, but did not take his degree. He published poems at twenty-three. He was tutor to Lady Anne Clifford, afterward Countess of Pembroke, and became historian and poet under Earl of Pembroke’s patronage. His admiration for the Italian verse influenced his original stanzas, and led him to devote much time to translations. His most extensive work was the poetic history of the civil wars between the houses of Lancaster and York.
Ben Jonson, who succeeded Daniel, is a curiosity in literature. Physically, mentally, morally, he was unquestionably the most unique character among English “Men of Letters.” In build heavy and uncouth, face broad and long, with square jaw and large cheeks, disfigured by scurvy, with a “mountain bellie and ungracious gait.” He was the son of a clergyman who died before he was born. His mother married shortly after for her second husband a bricklayer, whom the child royally disliked. The coarsely framed, energetic lad was, in the eyes of the step-father, only fitted for manual labor, and consequently he was taken from school as soon as he could handle a trowel, and placed at brick laying. In this action two elements in the boy’s nature were overlooked; combativeness and pride; and it was not long after this summary parental authority assigned him menial employment that the impetuous lad unceremoniously withdrew from home associations to parts unknown. The army was his retreat, and he was not long in making a record for personal bravery by meeting a man in single combat, at the age of seventeen, in the presence of both armies, Spanish and English, killing his opponent single handed.
At the age of eighteen he retired from the army, and for a brief period resumed his studies, from which he early retreated and sought a livelihood with his pen at drama writing, and to assure their success and increase his income he attempted to act them in the theater, but pride and combativeness led to a violent quarrel with an associate actor, and in the duel which followed he killed his opponent with the sword. Arrest and imprisonment followed, and execution was inevitable but for the gracious interference of a priest, whose interposition secured his release before the sentence was passed upon him.
When at twenty years of age he came out of prison his hands were stained with the blood of two fellow-beings; his first act was to secure himself a wife, though he had not a penny in the world, and no visible means of support. This apparently rash act was the wisest movement of his life, as it necessitated a vigorous wrestling with poverty for four stern years, which balanced his temper and disposition and intensified his mental powers. During these years of galling poverty be produced under its stimulus the greatest work of his life, “Every man in his Humor.” His works all show learning of the highest order. Hume said that he had the learning Shakspere lacked, but lacked his genius. But when and how did he acquire it? Largely by unparalleled reading in these four years when his poverty goaded him to acquire the skill to earn money with his pen.
He was a scathing critic, lashing play writers, actors and theater-goers with unmerciful sarcasm in the prefaces of his plays, until he became the best hated man in England, actors frequently denouncing him in unmeasured censure before their audiences, which only goaded him to the public declaration that he had no fear of “strumpet’s drugs or ruffian’s stab.”
When James VI. of Scotland ascended the throne as James I. of England, there appeared a comedy styled, “Eastward Hoe,” written by Jonson’s most intimate friends, Marston and Chapman. The work reflected sarcastically upon certain Scotch traits, exasperating the newly crowned king so greatly that he caused the joint authors to be thrown into prison, and it was currently reported that they were to lose their noses and ears.
When Jonson, who was in high favor with the court and people, heard this report he was exasperated, as he had written certain passages of the book for them, and he promptly surrendered himself as a fellow-author, and took his place defiantly in prison, which placed the king in a most uncomfortable position, as he had neither the desire nor the courage to mutilate the face of the most popular writer of the day. The three were in consequence released, and Jonson gave a great feast in honor of the event, at which his mother displayed a phial of violent poison, saying that had he been mutilated she would first have drank from the deadly phial and then have given him to drink. He was universally recognized as one of the most jovial characters of the day, and spent much of his time with literary companions at the “Mermaid Club,” a socio-literary association of brilliant men, among whom were Shakspere, Beaumont, and Fletcher.
When he was appointed laureate he was granted at first a hundred marks, or about sixty-five pounds, which was soon advanced to a hundred pounds, which with his literary income would have sufficed had he the gift of using money wisely, which he had not, and as life advanced he was continually annoyed from want of funds. Then it was that his sarcastic habits of speech bore fruit. When young and vigorous he rejoiced in his enemies, but as he aged his skill to make enemies increased, while his youthful powers to ward off their thrusts was waning. The time came, as it must always come to men in years, when he had nothing new to say, no vitality for originating thought, or freshly stating truth, and unfortunately he was forced to attempt to write for a living, and writing poorly, his enemies attacked him savagely, setting his words before the public in absurd relations, saddening the closing years of life. Misfortunes never come singly, and his mental chagrin was augmented by the humiliation of being a paralytic to such an extent that he could not walk, and dropsy and scurvy intensified his suffering. His wife and children had died and his only servant and companion was an uncomfortable old woman. The king withdrew his royal patronage, and he lived at last only by soliciting favors from his friends. In Westminster Abbey, where his remains lie among the famous poets, is a plain, square block of stone, marking the resting place of this erratic youth, brilliant man, suffering and neglected senior, with this inscription:
“O Rare Ben Jonson.”