56 FORD HIS FAULTS AND MERITS. romantic sweetness of Beaumont and Fletcher; and yet he comes nearer to these qualities than to any of the distinguishing characteristics of Jonson or Shakespeare. He excels most in representing the pride and gallantry, and high-toned honour of youth, and the enchanting softness, or the mild and graceful magnanimity of female character. There is a certain melancholy air about his most striking representations; and, in the tender and afflicting pathetic, he appears to us occasionally to be second only to him who has never yet had an equal. The greater part of every play, however, is bad; and there is not one which does not contain faults sufficient to justify the derision even of those who are incapable of comprehending its contrasted beauties. The diction we think for the most part beautiful, and worthy of the inspired age which produced it. That we may not be suspected of misleading our readers by partial and selected quotations, we shall lay before them the very first sentence of the play which stands first in this collection. The subject is somewhat revolting; though managed with great spirit, and, in the more dangerous parts, with considerable dignity. A brother and sister fall mutually in love with each other; and abandon themselves, with a sort of splendid and perverted devotedness, to their incestuous passion. The sister is afterwards married, and their criminal intercourse detected by her husband,-when the brother, perceiving their destruction inevitable, first kills her, and then throws himself upon the sword of her injured husband. The play opens with his attempting to justify his passion to a holy friar, his tutor-who thus addresses him, "Friar. Dispute no more in this; for know, young man, These are no school points; Nice philosophy May tolerate unlikely arguments, But heaven admits no jest. Wits that presum'd SPECIMENS OF HIS FIRST PLAY. 57 Yet he thou talk'st of is above the sun. No more! I may not hear it. Gentle father, Gio. The life of counsel. Tell me, holy man, What cure shall give me ease in these extremes? With thy unranged, almost, blasphemy. Gio. O do not speak of that, dear confessor. Yet hear my counsel! Friar. Hie to thy father's house; there lock thee fast On both thy knees, and grovel on the ground; Cry to thy heart; wash every word thou utter'st In tears (and if 't be possible) of blood: Beg Heaven to cleanse the leprosy of love Three times a day, and three times every night: For seven days' space do this; then, if thou find'st I'll think on remedy. Pray for thyself At home, whilst I pray for thee here. Away! My blessing with thee! We have need to pray."-vol i. p. 9-12. In a subsequent scene with the sister, the same holy person maintains the dignity of his style. “Friar. I am glad to see this penance; for, believe me, You have unripp'd a soul so foul and guilty, As I must tell you true, I marvel how The earth hath borne you up; but weep, weep on, These tears may do you good; weep faster yet, Whilst I do read a lecture. Friar. Ay, you are wretched, miserably wretched, Almost condemned alive. There is a place, (List, daughter) in a black and hollow vault, Where day is never seen; there shines no sun, 58 STRIKING CATASTROPHE. But flaming horror of consuming fires; - vol. i. p. 63, 64. The most striking scene of the play, however, is that which contains the catastrophe of the lady's fate. Her husband, after shutting her up for some time in gloomy privacy, invites her brother, and all his family, to a solemn banquet; and even introduces him, before it is served up, into her private chamber, where he finds her sitting on her marriage-bed, in splendid attire, but filled with boding terrors and agonising anxiety. He, though equally aware of the fate that was prepared for them, addresses her at first with a kind of wild and desperate gaiety, to which she tries for a while to answer with sober and earnest warnings, and at last exclaims impatiently, These precious hours in vain and useless speech. Alas, these gay attires were not put on But to some end; this sudden solemn feast Was not ordain'd to riot in expense; I that have now been chamber'd here alone, Am not for nothing at an instant freed To fresh access. Be not deceiv'd, my brother; And be prepar'd to welcome it. Gio. Look up, look here; what see you in my face? Gio. Death, and a swift repining wrath! Yet look, Ann. FORD- HIS PATHETIC SCENES. Methinks you weep. Gio. I do indeed. Shed on your grave! These are the funeral tears When first I lov'd and knew not how to woo. The story of my life, we might lose time! Be record, all the spirits of the air, And all things else that are, that day and night, Early and late, the tribute which my heart Hath paid to Annabella's sacred love Hath been these tears, which are her mourners now! Never till now did nature do her best To show a matchless beauty to the world, Which in an instant, ere it scarce was seen, Pray, Annabella, pray! since we must part, Ann. Then I see your drift; Ye blessed angels, guard me! So say I. Gio. Kiss me again;-forgive me! Be dark, bright sun, And make this mid-day night, that thy gilt rays Gio. To save thy fame, and kill thee in a kiss! Gio. [Stabs her. When thou art dead I'll give my reasons for 't; for to dispute 59 60 FORD- - HIS TRAGEDY OF THE BROKEN HEART. Ann. Forgive him, Heaven-and me my sins! Farewell. Gio. She's dead, alas, good soul! This marriage-bed, I have prevented now thy reaching plots, And kill'd a love, for whose each drop of blood I would have pawn'd my heart. Fair Annabella, Triumphing over infamy and hate! Shrink not, courageous hand; stand up, my heart, [Dies. And boldly act my last, and greater part! [Exit with the Body." vol. i. p. 98—101. There are few things finer than this in Shakespeare. It bears an obvious resemblance indeed to the death of Desdemona; and, taking it as a detached scene, we think it rather the more beautiful of the two. The sweetness of the diction-the natural tone of tenderness and passion—the strange perversion of kind and magnanimous natures, and the horrid catastrophe by which their guilt is at once consummated and avenged, have not often been rivalled, in the pages either of the modern or the ancient drama. The play entitled "The Broken Heart," is in our author's best manner; and would supply more beautiful quotations than we have left room for inserting. The story is a little complicated; but the following slight sketch of it will make our extracts sufficiently intelligible. Penthea, a noble lady of Sparta, was betrothed, with her father's approbation and her own full consent, to Orgilus; but being solicited, at the same time, by Bassanes, a person of more splendid fortune, was, after her father's death, in a manner compelled by her brother Ithocles to violate her first engagement, and yield him her hand. In this ill-sorted alliance, though living a life of unimpeachable purity, she was harassed and degraded by the perpetual jealousies of her unworthy husband; and pined away, like her deserted lover, in sad and bitter recollections of the happy promise of their youth. Ithocles, in the meantime, had pursued the course of ambition with a bold and commanding spirit, and had obtained the |