City Women

On Thursday, we'll spend some time getting our bearings in seventeenth-century London--learning what the city looked and sounded like, who lived and/or worked where, and so on. As you read through Epicoene, pay attention to where the play's action takes place -- which parts of the city do these characters move through and talk about? Try to get a feel for Jonson's London. It's as much a character in this play as Truewit, Morose, or Mistress Otter.

For further reading (if you have time), you might want to turn to Karen Newman's "City Talk: Women and Commodification in Jonson's Epicoene," ELH 56 (1989): 503-18. The article is available through JSTOR, which you can access via the library's website here.

On an unrelated note: K, I found a collection of scholarly essays on chick-lit edited by Suzanne Ferriss and Mallory Young. We have a copy here at Frost (PS374.W6 C48 2006). I haven't looked at it yet, but it may provide useful fodder for thinking through the connections you drew last week between Shakespearean comedy, chick-lit, and generic expectations.

A Short Post on Epicoene

Already my favorite part of the play is Act II, scene ii where Truewit assaults Morose with a verbal waterfall, an unending description of "friends'" elaborate concerns about Morose's impending marriage. Morose's pain is inexplicably funny - possibly because I can't personally identify much with the cause of his agony.

Truly, Ben Jonson had something going for him.

First thoughts, all problematical

With what cruel purpose scripts this Duke his play?
It's quick he knows the truth, and yet he sits;
Adds his own falsehoods, one upon the next,
And only takes offense when he's blasphemed.

It's bad enough to lie yourself so oft;
It's worse, to urge a friend to the same crime;
The premise of the play's a lie concocted,
And all ends well - perhaps - but 'fore that time
Half this play's lies. Can he for them account?
His reckless words and cold, callous behavior
Would seem to profit little, harming much.

What profits it to let offenses lie -
ignore a wife much wronged, and let her weep;
drive maid to mourn a living brother's death -
when but the show of his own power's needed
to end all, fix the matter, and have done?

This monk's no monk - he only wears the habit,
and vows are more than cowls - yet he'll feign
Confessor to the damned, a falser witness
Than Lucio to he: this duke to men.

I'd call him coward, like the lingering juror,
Who dares not speak 'til assent's guaranteed;
T'would be a virtue in him to be dreadful,
But no, it seems this Duke's a useless weed
Best suited to be servant, not a leader,
Or else Angelo's right: and this man's mad.

...

You've likely guessed that I can't stand the Duke.

Giving a Voice to Mariana's Tenor...

I've found a version of Measure for Measure's "Take, O Take Those Lips Away" performed by the Amherst College Concert Choir a few years back. It's different than John Wilson's version (which is the one in the back of my book), but listening to it brings to mind what it might have been like to actually hear these plays performed.

I've tried uploading the sound files as movie files to blogspot, but it appears that I'm unable to do so. However, I thought it was an interesting point simply that Shakespeare could add different shades of melancholy to Mariana's opening scene (4.1). After all, it's in the following dialogue that Mariana and the Duke note, respectively, that "my [Mariana's] mirth it much displeased, but much pleased my woe" and, conversely, that "music oft hath such a charm to make bad good, and good provoke to harm."

I also thought it was interesting how the lyrics somewhat foreshadowed the action that had was to come, and had already been planned out by Isabella and the Duke/Friar. My favorite part of it is porbably "And those eyes, the break of day,/Lights that do mislead the morn" because, if it refers originally to Mariana's betrayal by the curiously-named Angelo, they also serve well as a depiction of how Mariana deceives Angelo in turn.

"Inviting a Friend to Supper," by Ben Jonson (1616)

TO-NIGHT, grave sir, both my poore house, and I
Doe equally desire your companie :
Not that we thinke us worthy such a guest,
But that your worth will dignifie our feast,
With those that come ; whose grace may make that seeme
Something, which, else, could hope for no esteeme.
It is the faire acceptance, Sir, creates
The entertaynment perfect : not the cates.
Yet shall you have, to rectifie your palate,
An olive, capers, or some better sallad
Ushring the mutton ; with a short-leg'd hen,
If we can get her, full of eggs, and then,
Limons, and wine for sauce : to these, a coney
Is not to be despair'd of, for our money ;
And, though fowle, now, be scarce, yet there are clerkes,
The skie not falling, thinke we may have larkes.
I'll tell you of more, and lye, so you will come :
Of partrich, pheasant, wood-cock, of which some
May yet be there ; and godwit, if we can :
Knat, raile, and ruffe too. How so e'er, my man
Shall reade a piece of VIRGIL, TACITUS,
LIVIE, or of some better booke to us,
Of which wee'll speake our minds, amidst our meate ;
And I'll professe no verses to repeate :
To this, if ought appeare, which I know not of,
That will the pastrie, not my paper, show of.
Digestive cheese, and fruit there sure will bee;
But that, which most doth take my Muse, and mee,
Is a pure cup of rich Canary-wine,
Which is the Mermaids, now, but shall be mine :
Of which had HORACE, or ANACREON tasted,
Their lives, as doe their lines, till now had lasted.
Tabacco, Nectar, or the Thespian spring,
Are all but LUTHERS beere, to this I sing.
Of this we will sup free, but moderately,
And we will have no Pooly, or Parrot by ;
Nor shall our cups make any guiltie men :
But, at our parting, we will be, as when
We innocently met. No simple word
That shall be utter'd at our mirthfull board
Shall make us sad next morning : or affright
The libertie, that wee'll enjoy to-night.


The Oxford Book of Seventeenth Century Verse.
H. J. C. Grierson and G. Bullough, eds.
Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1934. 155-156.

One link, a comment, and a game

Hello all,

I've been paging through Bruce Smith's Twelfth Night: Texts and Contexts, which is - tragically! - not in the library. It is, however, partially excerpted on Google Books, and it makes a great virtual page-through. Highlights are additional excerpts from Manningham's diary and a lot of primary sources on clothing laws: not for cross-dressing, but to regulate social class. I've linked to the clothing section (the sumptuary laws particularly single out "excess in apparel," which I find an interesting phrase).

It's a neat collection, but one of Smith's suggestions bothered me: the idea that both Viola and Sebastian "marry up" in their respective pairings with the Orsino and Olivia. He argued that the first audience of this play was made up of "gentlemen" but not Dukes, and that they would have seen the twins' ascension as an embodiment of their own hopes of social mobility. I'm not sure I agree - I'd always assumed that the twins were also children of some lord or other, and since Sebastian declares 'I know you've heard of' his father in Messaline, I think it's fair to assume the twins aren't social climbers. On the other hand, they're almost certainly stepping up in income, especially since a lot of their wealth has presumably just gone down with the shipwreck.

If Viola/Sebastian are the acceptable side of social aspirations, then Malvolio is (more obviously) the reverse, but it's interesting to compare "Cesario's" thwarted attraction to "his" master with Malvolio's desire for his mistress. What's the crucial ingredient that makes Viola the resourceful heroine and Malvolio the cruelly unfortunate fool? Is it because he's a servant? Too prideful? A hypocrite? A Puritan? Even Phebe gets her (appropriate) sweetheart in the end, but Malvolio not only doesn't get a sweetheart; he doesn't get a happy ending.

On an unrelated note, there's a joke recorded in Manningham's diary that's too good not to share:

"Upon a time when Burbage played Richard III there was a citizen grew so far in liking with him that before she went from the play she appointed him to come that night unto her by the name of "Richard III." Shakespeare, overhearing their conclusion, went before, was entertained, and at his game ere Burbage came. Then message being brought that "Richard III" was at the door, Shakespeare caused return to be made that "William the Conquerer" was before "Richard III."

Cross-dressing

Much has been written about theatrical cross-dressing in early modern England, particularly in the last decade or so. Some of this work is excerpted in the Signet edition of Twelfth Night, to which the subject is so obviously relevant.

For contemporary (seventeenth-century) writing about cross-dressing, onstage and off, you might want to take a look at the Hic Mulier/Haec Vir pamphlets--keep in mind, though, that these weren't printed until roughly two decades after Twelfth Night was first performed. (The Wikipedia entry on Haec Vir provides a good introduction to both pamphlets.) A much earlier example is the antitheatricalist (and ex-playwright) Stephen Gosson's late sixteenth-century harangue, a page of which I've pulled from Early English Books Online (EEBO) and will paste below.

And finally, here is a link to a New York Times theater review of a relatively recent Twelfth Night with an all-male cast.

Comedy: Some Background

An excellent introduction to early modern stage comedy, including an overview of the traditions on which it draws, can be found in Richard Dutton and Jean Howard's A Companion to Shakespeare's Works: The Comedies. The book is the third volume in a series published by Blackwell, and it is available in Frost (PR2976 .C572 2003). Here is a link to the book's table of contents.