By MICHAEL CAINES
Brother, dear brother, know what I have been,
And know that now there's but a dining-time
'Twixt us and our confusion . . .
For William Hazlitt, there was little to admire in the plays of John Ford. “I do not find much other power in the author . . . than that of playing with edged tools, and knowing the use of poisoned weapons”, he announced in the course of a lecture on English dramatists. “Except the last scene of the Broken Heart . . . they are merely exercises of style and effusions of wire-drawn sentiment.”
Even the great critics nod, I suppose . . . .