The last act, which bears the strongest marks of Ford, may have been written at a later period, after the accession of Charles I., as it evidently alludes to the Scotch, and their repugnance to the religious ordinances of the prelacy. As it was not printed till 1657, when it appeared under the auspices of Theophilus Byrde and Andrew Pennycuyke, two actors out of work, obliged, like other distressed tradesmen, to sell off their stock for what they could get, there was time enough for alterations; and it would naturally be printed as it was last acted.

Ford now took a long rest. At least we hear nothing of him till 1628, when he produced the "Lover's Melancholy," acted Nov. 24, and printed the following year. In his dedication he says, "My presumption of coming in print in this kind, has hitherto been irreprovable; this piece being the first that ever courted reader." We may fairly conclude, therefore, that whatever dramatic works he had previously written, alone or in concert, had not been printed. Though himself a member of the Middle Temple, he dedicates "To my worthily respected friends, Nathaniel Finch, John Ford, Esqrs., Mr. Henry Blunt, Mr. Robert Ellice, and all the rest of the noble society of Gray's Inn." This was a compliment to his cousin. Most likely N. Finch and John Ford, who are designated esquires, were benchers, or otherwise distinguished by forensic honours. The title of the piece was seemingly suggested by Burton's "Anatomy of Melancholy," then recently published. Ford borrowed as freely from that delightful book as Sterne-more honestly, for he could have neither hope nor wish of concealment, but not to so good purpose. The play is ushered, as usual, by commendatory verses by George Donne (a regular contributor on these occasions, whose rhymes, occasional as the bellman's or the Laureate's, may be excused if they exhibit the same degree of merit), William Singleton, a relation of Massinger's, Hum. Howorth, whose tribute has all the oracular darkness of no meaning; and ‘O pɩλos, who seems to have estimated his offering at its true worth,―for thus saith he,

'Tis not the language, nor the fore-placed rhymes

Of friends, that shall command to after times

The Lover's Melancholy.

In great men's houses, you must thread your way through a file of menials, who pass your name like a watch-word, till the man of figure finally commits you to the drawing-room. The commendatory verses that throng the entrance of old books would be almost as troublesome, if you could not brush by without heeding them.

Massinger wrote rapidly and incessantly. No wonder. It was his vocation. week's holiday might have thrown him out of employment for a year. Operative authors should keep the Sabbath, but they should make no saint Mondays. They should observe the painter's rule, ne dies sine linea. Like poor hacks on the road, while warm in the harness we jog on, not very happy perhaps, but still with a certain sense of power, hardly conscious of each separate effort, and precipitated by accumulated velocity. But let us once get cold, and our joints stiff, the whole arrear of weariness comes upon us with compound interest, the toil which was hardly felt in the act becomes terrible in the retrospect, and nothing short of the actual cautery of antique Irish posting can set us in motion again. Ford was a professional gentleman. Perhaps

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none.

in his younger days, he did look to the stage for a supplement to a scanty allowance. His share in the price of a play might pay for an extra supper, (not a ten-pound supper, however,) an excursion down the river, or a little extravagant charity. At least, his quality as dramatist gave him a free admission to the theatres, and entitled him to speak of Shakspeare, and Fletcher, and Burbage, and Lowin, as if he belonged to the set. Young templars to this day are proud of knowing actors and dramatic authors. Ford could not pique himself on the smiles of actresses, for in his day there were But when he had outgrown the vanities of his youth, and established himself in business, he ostentatiously disdained all view to profit in his writings, and appeared on the stage or in print only at irregular intervals. He had, and took time, to write up to his own ideal. He disowned all courtship of the vulgar taste; we might therefore suppose that the horrible stories which he has embraced in ""Tis Pity She's a Whore," "The Broken Heart," and "Love's Sacrifice," were his own choice, and his own taste. But it would be unfair from hence to conclude that he delighted in the contemplation of vice and misery, as vice and misery. He delighted in the sensation of intellectual power, he found himself strong in the imagination of crime and of agony; his moral sense was gratified by indignation at the dark possibilities of sin, by compassion for rare extremes of suffering. He abhorred vice-he admired virtue; but ordinary vice or modern virtue were, to him, as light wine to a dram drinker. genius was a telescope, ill-adapted for neighbouring objects, but powerful to bring within the sphere of vision, what nature has wisely placed at an unsociable distance. Passion must be incestuous or adulterous; grief must be something more than martyrdom, before he could make them big enough to be seen. Unquestionably he displayed great power in these horrors, which was all he desired; but had he been "of the first order of poets," he would have found and displayed superior power in "familiar matter of to-day," in failings to which all are liable, virtues which all may practise, and sorrows for which all may be the better.

His

It is in the two former that Ford's

These three tragedies were printed in 1633. tragic fame is founded. "Love's Sacrifice," is a most unsavoury offering, certainly not to Venus Urania, and contains little to atone for a disgusting story, clumsily plotted, and characters essentially vile.

His next work was of a more pleasing description. It is indeed the best specimen of the historic drama to be found out of Shakspeare; and, as a compact consecutive representation of a portion of English history, excels King John or the two Parts of Henry IV. It has as much unity as the dramatic history admits or requires; a clearly defined catastrophe, to which every incident contributes, and every scene advances. Ford showed great judgment in selecting a manageable episode of history, instead of a reign or a "life and death," which no one but Shakspeare could ever make practicable. With still finer tact, he represents Perkin Warbeck as a thorough believer in his own royalty. It is not necessary to suppose that he anticipated Horace Walpole or Malcolm Laing. Most likely he never asked himself who was the real Perkin Warbeck, but what sort of a Perkin was best suited for dramatic effect. A poet or dramatist is not required to settle historic doubts. When Burns and Wordsworth

tuned the complaints of the captive Mary, they did not consider whether the woman living in the 16th century, deserved captivity. "Perkin Warbeck " was printed 1634. If we may judge from the unusual number of Commendatory Verses (among which the name of the perpetual George Donne and John Ford of Gray's Inn, are conspicuous) it must have excited much attention. We may regret that Ford did not pursue the vein so prosperously opened, or repose under his laurels; for his comedy, "The Fancies, Chaste and Noble," adds little to his reputation. And his tragi-comedy “The Lady's Trial,” though not ill conceived, and in some parts, beautifully written, is abrupt in its conclusion, and unsatisfactory as a whole. The former was printed in 1638; the latter in 1639.

From this time, we hear no more of Ford. Two years elapsed and the dramatist's 'occupation was gone." Some suppose that our author died shortly after the appearance of "The Lady's Trial;" but inquiries, too late to arrive at certainty, have scented a faint tradition, that he withdrew to his native place, married, became a father, lived respected, and died at a good old age. It has even been asserted that Sir Henry Ford, secretary for Ireland in the reign of Charles II. (at whose death, in 1684, the line of Fords terminated,) was the poet's son or grandson. All this appears to me very dubious. John Fords were confessedly numerous in the neighbourhood. Curious people who ask for information from country folks, will seldom be altogether disappointed. Some years ago, at least, there was in most villages a hoary chronicle, a dealer in recollections, who, like the host of the village inn, made it a rule never to be out of anything that was called for. Yet there is little wonder if Ford be not remembered in Devonshire, like his contemporary and countryman Herrick. Herrick was, till Burns appeared, the most rural of poets. There is a singular contrast between his avowed partiality for town, and the rusticity of his muse. He sung the employment, the festivals, the superstitions of the peasantry, the flowers that adorned their may-poles and hock carts, the ale that made their hearts merry, the yew and rosemary that made their funerals fragrant; and he had pious moods beside, in which he breathed hymns which some aged rustics still mutter among their nightly prayers. It is not likely that the lads or lasses of Ilsington got Ford's plays by heart. Besides, the parishioners of Dean Bourne might be proud to have had a poet for their parson; but how could it interest the yeomanry of Devon, that a retired lawyer, perhaps a man of cold and harsh demeanour, had written plays at which London playgoers had

Almost the only contemporary notice that occurs of Ford does not indicate a popular character.

Deep in a dump John Ford was alone got,

With folded arms and melancholy hat.

So quotes Gifford from the "Times' Poets," a piece of which I never heard elsewhere. Probably it was a precursor of the Dunciad, Pursuits of Literature, English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, &c. recording the names of many scribblers that would else have been forgotten; but affording no information about the names we should wish to remember. Whether the cited couplet had any other foundation than the gloom of Ford's plots, or perhaps the title of his "Lover's Melancholy," I cannot tell. Melancholy was the fashion of that age. It is the natural excess of a thoughtful generation. The "melancholy hat" is extremely graphic. Our present tiles are ill adapted to the expression, but the large beavers of the seventeenth century (Ford hardly wore the puritanical high-crown) could be cocked to fierceness or slouched to despondence at pleasure. I am

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shuddered. Devonshire was a loyal county, or perhaps a retired dramatist might have found it prudent to say as little of his stage-triumphs, as a retired slave-trader in a philanthropic suburb, of the sale of his cargoes. Could it be proved that Ford enjoyed the fruits of his labours on his native ground, and lived contented and happy, an undistinguished country-gentleman, he might serve to "point a moral," though hardly to "adorn a tale." Massinger lived and died in poverty, and his burial was the burial of a stranger. He was a mere author. Ford, by adhering to a regular profession, held his head high in the world; addressed his dedicatees as men on whom he was conferring honour; laid aside both gown and pen when the first grey hair gave warning, and, free from care and ambition, had "leisure to be good" ere he was called away : and yet achieved the fame which so many seek by the sacrifice of health, fortune, and heart's ease, at those spare hours which every economist of time may make out of minutes wisely saved. Pity that so excellent a lesson should rest on an obscure tradition.

inclined to conjecture from these lines, and from the general hauteur of his dedications, that Ford kept much aloof from authors and actors by trade. Yet if we are to trust Old Heywood, he did not escape that familiar corruption of his name, which in his case had not even the plea of brevity—

Mellifluous Shakspeare, whose inchanting quill
Commanded mirth or passion, was but Will,
And famous Jonson, though his learned pen
Be dipt in Castaly, is still but Ben.
Fletcher and Webster, of that learned pack
None of the meanest, neither was but Jack,
Decker but Tom, nor May, nor Middleton,
And he's but now Jack Ford, that once was John.

Hierarchy of Angels.

A LIST

MASSINGER'S PLAYS.