_, could not have been
written by any one but himself, and, had they not been written, would have
left a gap in English which nothing from any other literature could supply.
If his attitude had been a little less virtuous and a little more
sarcastic, Jonson would in these three plays have anticipated Swift. Of the
three, I prefer the first and the last--the last being the best of all.
_Epicene_ or the _Silent Woman_ was specially liked by the next generation
because of its regularity, and of the skill with which the various humours
are all wrought into the main plot. Both these things are undeniable, and
many of the humours are in themselves amusing enough. But still there is
something wanting, which is supplied in _Volpone_ and _The Alchemist_. It
has been asked whether that disregard of probability, which is one of
Jonson's greatest faults, does not appear in the recklessness with which
"The Fox" exposes himself to utter ruin, not so much to gratify any sensual
desire or obtain any material advantage, as simply to indulge his combined
hypocrisy and cynicism to the very utmost. The answer to this question will
very much depend on each reader's taste and experience. It is undeniable
that there have been examples of perverse indulgence in wickedness for
wickedness' sake, which, rare as they are, go far to justify the creation
of Volpone. But the unredeemed villany of the hero, with whom it is
impossible in any way to sympathise, and the sheer brutality of the
fortune-hunting dupes who surround him, make it easier to admire than to
like the play. I have little doubt that Jonson was to some extent sensible
of this, for the comic episode or underplot of Sir Politick and Lady
Would-be is very much more loosely connected with the centre interest (it
is only by courtesy that it can be said to be connected at all), than is
usual with him, and this is an argument in favour of its having been
introduced as a makeweight.

From the drawbacks of both these pieces _The Alchemist_ is wholly free.
Jonson here escaped his usual pitfall of the unsympathetic, for the vices
and follies he satirises are not loathsome, only contemptible at worst, and
not always that. He found an opportunity of exercising his extraordinary
faculty of concentration as he nowhere else did, and has given us in Sir
Epicure Mammon a really magnificent picture of concupiscence, of sensual
appetite generally, sublimed by heat of imagination into something really
poet