to have discovered that one of the nameless charms of Shakspeare's diction consisted in the skill with which he has occasionally vivified it, by converting his substantives into verbs; and to have aspired to imitate him. He cannot, however, be fairly complimented on his success. Ford's grammatical experiments take from the simplicity of his diction, while they afford no strength whatever to his descriptions.

With this slight exception, which, after all, may be purely visionary, the style of Ford is altogether original, and his own. Without the majestic march which distinguishes the poetry of Massinger, and with little or none of that light and playful humour which characterises the dialogue of Fletcher, or even of Shirley, he is yet elegant, and easy, and harmonious; and, though rarely sublime, yet sufficiently elevated for the most pathetic tones of that passion on whose romantic energies he chiefly delighted to dwell. It has

(as has been observed) its inherent beauties and defects: among the latter of which may be set down a pedantic affectation of novelty, at one time exhibited in the composition of uncouth phrases, at another (and this is Ford's principal failure) in perplexity of language; frequently, too, after perversely labouring with a remote idea till he has confused his meaning, instead of throwing it aside, he obtrudes it upon the reader involved in inextricable obscurity.

Its excellencies, however, far outweigh its defects; but they are rather felt than understood. Few things, indeed, will be found more difficult to account for than the deep and lasting impres

sion made by the more tragic portions of Ford's poetry. Whence does it derive that resistless power which all confess, of afflicting, it might almost be said of harassing, the better feelings? It is not from any peculiar beauty of languagefor in this he is equalled by his contemporaries, and, by some of them, surpassed; nor is it from any classical or mythological allusions happily recollected and skilfully applied, for of these he seldom avails himself. It is not from any picturesque views presented to the mind; for of imaginative poetry he has little or nothing: he cannot conjure up a succession of images, whether grave or gay, to flit across the fancy, or play in the eye; yet it is hardly possible to peruse his passionate scenes without the most painful interest, the most heart-thrilling delight. This can only arise at least, nothing else seems adequate to the excitement of such sensations—from the overwhelming efficacy of intense thought devoted to the embodying of conceptions adapted to the awful situations in which he has, imperceptibly and with matchless felicity, placed his principal cha

racters.

Mr. Campbell observes that Ford interests us in no other passion than that of love; " in which he displays a peculiar depth and delicacy of romantic feeling." Comparatively speaking, this may be admitted; but, in justice to the poet, it should be added that he was not insensible to the power of friendship, and, in more than one of his dramas, has delineated it with a master-hand. Had the critic forgotten the noble Dalyell? the generous and devoted Malfato?-Nor can it justly be inferred

(even setting aside the romantic feelings here alluded to) that the female characters of his secondrate pieces fail to interest us, and occasionally in a high degree, in affections and passions very distinct from those of love. Mr. Campbell, however, terms him "one of the ornaments of our ancient poetry."

In the construction of Ford's plots, or rather perhaps in the selection of his fables, it may suffice to observe here, that there is usually much to commend: like Kent, indeed, he possessed the faculty of marring a plain tale in the telling; but this is only saying, in other words, that he planned better than he executed. His besetting error was an unfortunate persuasion, that he was gifted with a certain degree of pleasantry with which it behoved him occasionally to favour the stage; and to this we are indebted for the intrusion of those ill-timed underplots, and those prurient snatches of language, which debase and pollute several of his best dramas. It is not pleasant to dwell on these defects; though justice requires that they should be noticed. Time has long since avenged them: for it can scarcely be doubted that somewhat of the obscurity into which the poet has fallen should be laid to their charge. But Ford is not all alone unhappy. In his day, there was, in fact, no model to work after. The elements of composition, as far as regards taste and judgment, far from being established, were not even arranged; and, with the exception of Sir Philip Sidney's Essay, nothing can be more jejune and unsatisfactory than the few attempts at poetic criticism then before the public. Add to this, that

the scale of ethic as well as of poetic fitness seems to have had few gradations marked on it, and those at remote and uncertain distances; hence the writers suddenly drop from all that is pure in taste and exquisite in feeling, to whining imbecility; and from high-toned sentiment and ennobling action, to all that is mean and vicious, apparently unconscious of the vast interval through which they have passed, and the depth to which they have fallen. In other respects, they all seem to have acquiesced in the humble station in which prejudice had placed them,* and instead of attempting to correct the age, to have sought little more than to interest and amuse with the materials so richly provided for them by the extraordinary times on which they were cast. One man, indeed, there was, one eminent man, who sought from early life to enlist the stage on the side of learning and virtue, and called on the people to view the scene in its genuine light,

"Attired in the majesty of art,

Set high in spirit with the precious taste
Of sweet philosophy, and, which is most,
Crown'd with the rich traditions of a soul
That hates to have her dignity profaned
With any relish of an earthly thought!"

—but Ben Jonson (for to him we allude,) found few supporters, and no followers; and the stage went on as before; attended, but not honouredpopular, but not influential.

It is not a little mortifying to reflect, that while dramatic poetry towered in its pride of place, * See p. 11.

and long sustained itself at an elevation which it will never reach again, the writers themselves possessed no sway whatever over the feelings of the people; while, at a subsequent period, when the power of the stage for good and evil was understood, it was turned wholly to the purposes of the latter; and the greatest men of the age formed themselves into factions, for trash that would not now be heard, and names that cannot be pronounced without scorn and shame, that depravity of every kind might be transmittedfrom the court to the stage,-from the stage to the people, and none escape the contagion.

It has been generally assumed that our poet died almost immediately after the appearance of the Lady's Trial, but for what cause, except that he ceased to write, I have never, (says Mr. Gifford,) been able to conjecture. Faint traditions in the neighbourhood of his birthplace lead rather to the supposition that, having from his legal pursuits acquired a sufficient fortune, he retired to his home, to pass the remainder of his days among the youthful connections whom time had yet spared him.

Nor were there wanting powerful motives for the retirement of one of Ford's lonely and contemplative mood, who watched the signs of the times. Deep and solemn notes of preparation for a tragedy far more terrible than aught the stage could show were audible in the distance; and hollow mutterings, which could not be mistaken, told that the tempest was gathering round the metropolis with fearful acceleration. It is possible that he may have foreseen the approaching