JOHN FORD

(1586-?)

HE dramatic genius of the English Renaissance had well-nigh spent itself when the sombre creations of John Ford appeared upon a stage over which the clouds of the Civil War were fast gathering. Little is known of this dramatist, who represents the decadent period which followed the age of Shakespeare. He was born in 1586; entered the Middle Temple in 1602; after 1641 he is swallowed up in the turmoil of the time. The few scattered records of his life add nothing to, nor do they take anything from, the John Ford of 'The Broken Heart' and 'Perkin Warbeck.'

His plays are infected with a spirit alien to the poise and beauty of the best Elizabethan drama. His creations tell of oblique vision; of a disillusioned genius, predisposed to abnormal or exaggerated forms of human experience. He breaks through the moral order, in his love for the eccentricities of passion. He weaves the spell of his genius around strange sins.

The problems of despair which Ford propounds but never solves, form the plot of 'The Broken Heart'; Calantha, Ithocles, Penthea, Orgilus, are wan types of the passive suffering which numbs the soul to death. Charles Lamb has eulogized the final scene of this drama. To many critics, the self-possession of Calantha savors of the theatrical. The scene between Penthea and her brother Ithocles, who had forced her to marry Bassanes though she loved Orgilus, is replete with the tenderness, the sense of subdued anguish, of which Ford was a master. He is the dramatist of broken hearts, whose waste places are unrelieved by a touch of sunlight. His love of "passion at war with circumstance" again finds expression in 'Love's Sacrifice,' a drama of moral confusions. In 'The Lover's Melancholy' sorrow has grown pensive. A quiet beauty rests upon the famous scene in which Parthenophil strives with the nightingale for the prize of music.

The Lady's Trial,' The Fancies Chaste and Noble,' 'The Sun's Darling (written in conjunction with Dekker), are worthy only of passing notice. They leave but a pale impression upon the mind. In 'Perkin Warbeck,' the one historical play of Ford, he exhibits his mastery over straightforward, sinewy verse. 'The Witch of Edmonton,' of which he wrote the first act, gives a signal example of his modern style and spirit.

With the exception of 'Perkin Warbeck,' his dramas are destitute of outlook. This moral contraction heightens the intensity of passion, which in his conception of it has always its ancient significance of suffering. His comic scenes are contemptible. He is at his greatest when dealing with the subtleties of the human heart. Through him we enter into the darker zones of the soul; we apprehend its remoter sufferings. Confusion of spiritual vision, blended with the tyranny of passion, produce his greatest scenes. His are the tragedies of "unfulfilled desire."

The verse of Ford is measured, passionless, polished. There is a subtle music in his lines which haunts the memory.

"Parthenophil is lost, and I would see him;

For he is like to something I remember,

A great while since, a long, long time ago.”

With Ford the sun-born radiance of the noblest Elizabethan drama fades from the stage. An artificial light, thereafter, replaced it.

FROM PERKIN WARBECK'

[Perkin Warbeck and his followers are presented to King Henry VII. by Lord Dawbeny as prisoners.]

Life to the King, and safety fix his throne.

I here present you, royal sir, a shadow

Of Majesty, but in effect a substance
Of pity; a young man, in nothing grown
To ripeness, but th' ambition of your mercy;
Perkin, the Christian world's strange wonder!

King Henry

Dawbeny

We observe no wonder; I behold ('tis true)
An ornament of nature, fine and polished,
A handsome youth, indeed, but not admire him.
How come he to thy hands?

From sanctuary.

Dawbeny,

At Bewley, near Southampton; registered,
With these few followers, for persons privileged.

King Henry

Dawbeny

I must not thank you, sir! you were to blame
To infringe the liberty of houses sacred;

Dare we be irreligious?

Gracious lord!

They voluntarily resigned themselves,

Without compulsion.

King Henry

'Twas very well.

Warbeck

Dawbeny

So? 'twas very well
Turn now thine eyes,

Young man! upon thyself and thy past actions:
What revels in combustion through our kingdom
A frenzy of aspiring youth has danced;

Till wanting breath, thy feet of pride have slipt
To break thy neck.

But not my heart; my heart
Will mount till every drop of blood be frozen
By death's perpetual winter. If the sun
Of Majesty be darkened, let the sun
Of life be hid from me, in an eclipse
Lasting and universal. Sir, remember

There was a shooting in of light when Richmond
(Not aiming at the crown) retired, and gladly,
For comfort to the Duke of Bretagne's court.
Richard, who swayed the sceptre, was reputed
A tyrant then; yet then, a dawning glimmer'd
To some few wand'ring remnants, promising day
When first they ventur'd on a frightful shore
At Milford Haven.

Whither speeds his boldness?
Check his rude tongue, great sir.

King Henry

Warbeck

Oh, let him range:

The player's on the stage still; 'tis his part:
He does but act. What followed?

Bosworth Field:

Where at an instant, to the world's amazement,
A morn to Richmond and a night to Richard
Appear'd at once. The tale is soon applied:
Fate which crowned these attempts, when least assured,
Might have befriended others, like resolved.

King Henry

Warbeck

A pretty gallant! thus your aunt of Burgundy,
Your duchess aunt, informed her nephew: so

The lesson, prompted, and well conned, was molded

Into familiar dialogue, oft rehearsed,

Till, learnt by heart, 'tis now received for truth.
Truth in her pure simplicity wants art

To put a feigned blush on; scorn wears only

Such fashion as commends to gazers' eyes

Sad ulcerated novelty, far beneath; in such a court
Wisdom and gravity are proper robes

By which the sovereign is best distinguished
From zanies to his greatness.

King Henry

Sirrah, shift

Warbeck

Your antic pageantry, and now appear

In your own nature; or you'll taste the danger
Of fooling out of season.

I expect

No less than what severity calls justice,

And politicians safety; let such beg

As feed on alms: but if there can be mercy

In a protested enemy, then may it

Descend to these poor creatures whose engagements

To the bettering of their fortunes have incurred

A loss of all to them, if any charity

Flow from some noble orator; in death

I owe the fee of thankfulness.

King Henry

Warbeck

What a bold knave is this!
We trifle time with follies.

So brave?

Urswick, command the Dukeling and these fellows
To Digby, the Lieutenant of the Tower.

Meet freedom in captivity: the Tower,
Our childhood's dreadful nursery!

King Henry

Noble thoughts

Was ever so much impudence in forgery?
The custom, sure, of being styled a king
Hath fastened in his thought that he is such.

PENTHEA'S DYING SONG

From The Broken Heart'

H, NO more, no more,- too late;

Sighs are spent; the burning tapers
Of a life as chaste as fate,
Pure as are unwritten papers,
Are burnt out; no heat, no light
Now remains; 'tis ever night.
Love is dead; let lovers' eyes

Locked in endless dreams,
Th' extremes of all extremes,
Ope no more, for now Love dies;
Now Love dies - implying

Love's martyrs must be ever, ever dying.

ENAPHON

FROM THE LOVER'S MELANCHOLY›

AMETHUS AND MENAPHON

Passing from Italy to Greece, the tales

M Which poets of an elder time have feigned

Amethus

To glorify their Temple, bred in me
Desire of visiting that paradise.

To Thessaly I came; and living private

Without acquaintance of more sweet companions
Than the old inmates to my love, my thoughts,
I day by day frequented silent groves
And solitary walks. One morning early
This accident encountered me: I heard
The sweetest and most ravishing contention
That art and nature ever were at strife in.

I cannot yet conceive what you infer
By art and nature.

Menaphon

Amethus

I shall soon resolve ye.
A sound of music touched my ears, or rather
Indeed entranced my soul. As I stole nearer,
Invited by the melody, I saw

This youth, this fair-faced youth, upon his lute,
With strains of strange variety and harmony,
Proclaiming, as it seemed, so bold a challenge
To the clear quiristers of the woods, the birds,
That, as they flocked about him, all stood silent,
Wondering at what they heard: I wondered too.

And so do I: good, on!

Menaphon

Amethus

A nightingale,

Nature's best skilled musician, undertakes

The challenge, and for every several strain

The well-shaped youth could touch, she sung her own;

He could not run division with more art

Upon his quaking instrument than she,

The nightingale, did with her various notes
Reply to: for a voice and for a sound,

Amethus, 'tis much easier to believe

That such they were than hope to hear again.

How did the rivals part?