by Thomas Otway
Tom Otway came next, Tom Shadwell’s dear Zany,
And swears for heroics he writes best of any;
Don Carlos his pockets so amply had filled,
That his mange was quite cured, and his lice were all killed.
But Apollo had seen his face on the stage,
And prudently did not think fit to engage
The scum of a playhouse, for the prop of an age.
Mr. Otway translated out of French into English, the History of the Triumvirate; the First Part of Julius Cæsar, Pompey and Crassus, the Second Part of Augustus, Anthony and Lepidus, being a faithful collection from the best historians, and other authors, concerning the revolution of the Roman government, which happened under their authority, London 1686 in 8vo. Our author finding his necessities press, had recourse to writing for the stage, which he did with various success: his comedy has been blamed for having too much libertinism mixed with it; but in tragedy he made it his business, for the most part, to observe the decorum of the stage. He has certainly followed nature in the language of his tragedy, and therefore shines in the passionate parts more than any of our English poets. As there is something familiar and domestic in the fable of his tragedy, he has little pomp, but great energy in his expressions; for which reason, though he has admirably succeeded in the tender and melting parts of his tragedies, he sometimes falls into too great a familiarity of phrase in those, which, by Aristotle’s rule, ought to have been raised and supported by the dignity of expression. It has been observed by the critics, that the poet has founded his tragedy of Venice Preservcd, on so wrong a plot, that the greatest characters in it are those of rebels and traitors. Had the hero of this play discovered the same good qualities in defence of his country, that he shewed for his ruin and subversion, the audience could not enough pity and admire him; but as he is now represented, we can only say of him, what the Roman historian says of Catiline, that his fall would have been glorious (si pro Patria sic concidisset) had he so fallen, in the service of his country.
Mr. Charles Gildon, in his Laws of Poetry, stiles Mr. Otway a Poet of the first Magnitude, and tells us, and with great justice, that he was perfect master of the tragic passions, and draws them every where with a delicate and natural simplicity, and therefore never fails to raise strong emotions in the soul. I don’t know of a stronger instance of this force, than in the play of the Orphan; the tragedy is composed of persons whose fortunes do not exceed the quality of such as we ordinarily call people of condition, and without the advantage of having the scene heightened by the importance of the characters; his inimitable skill in representing the workings of the heart, and its affection, is such that the circumstances are great from the art of the poet, rather than from the figure of the persons represented. The whole drama is admirably wrought, and the mixture of passions raised from affinity, gratitude, love, and misunderstanding between brethren, ill usage from persons obliged slowly returned by the benefactors, keeps the mind in a continual anxiety and contrition. The sentiments of the unhappy Monimia are delicate and natural, she is miserable without guilt, but incapable of living with a consciousness of having committed an ill act, though her inclination had no part in it. Mrs. Barry, the celebrated actress, used to say, that in her part of Monimia in the Orphan, she never spoke these words, Ah! poor Castalio, without tears; upon which occasion Mr. Gildon observes, that all the pathetic force had been lost, if any more words had been added, and the poet would have endeavoured, in vain, to have heightened them, by the addition of figures of speech, since the beauty of those three plain simple words is so great by the force of nature, that they must have been weakened and obscured by ‘the finest flowers of rhetoric.
The tragedy of the Orphan is not without great blemishes, which the writer of a criticism on it, published in the Gentleman’s Magazine, has very judiciously and candidly shewn. The impetuous passion of Polydore breaks out sometimes in a language not sufficiently delicate, particularly in that celebrated passage where he talks of rushing upon her in a storm of love. The simile of the bull is very offensive to chaste ears, but poor Otway lived in dissolute times, and his necessity obliged him to fan the harlot-face of loose desire, in compliance to the general corruption. Monimia staying to converse with Polydor, after he vauntingly discovers his success in deceiving her, is shocking; had she left him abruptly, with a wildness of horror, that might have thrown him under the necessity of seeking an explanation from Castalio, the scene would have ended better, would have kept the audience more in suspence, and been an improvement of the consequential scene between the brothers; but this remark is submitted to superior judges.
Venice Preferred is still a greater proof of his influence over our passions, and the faculty of mingling good and bad characters, and involving their fortunes, seems to be the distinguished excellence of this writer. He very well knew that nothing but distressed virtue can strongly touch us with pity, and therefore, in this play, that we may have a greater regard for the conspirators, he makes Pierre talk of redressing wrongs, and repeat all the common place of male contents.
To see the sufferings of my fellow-creatures,
And own myself a man: to see our senators
Cheat the deluded people with a shew
Of Liberty, which yet they ne’er must taste of!
They say by them our hands are free from fetters,
Yet whom they please they lay in basest bonds;
Bring whom they please to infamy and sorrow;
Drive us like wrecks down the rough tide of power
Whilst no hold’s left, to save us from destruction:
All that bear this are villains, and I one,
Not to rouse up at the great call of nature,
And check the growth of these domestic spoilers,
Who make us slaves, and tell us ’tis our charter.
Jaffier’s wants and distresses, make him prone enough to any desperate resolution, yet says he in the language of genuine tenderness,
But when I think what Belvidera feels,
The bitterness her tender spirit tastes of,
I own myself a coward: bear my weakness,
If throwing thus my arms about thy neck,
I play the boy, and blubber in thy bosom.
Jaffier’s expostulation afterwards, is the picture of all who are partial to their own merit, and generally think a relish of the advantages of life is pretence enough to enjoy them.
Tell me, why good Heaven
Thou mad’st me what I am, with all the spirit,
Aspiring thoughts, and elegant desires
That fill the happiest man? ah rather why
Didst thou not form me, sordid as my fate,
Base minded, dull, and fit to carry burdens.
How dreadful is Jaffier’s soliloquy, after he is engaged in the conspiracy.
I’m here; and thus the shades of night surround me,
I look as if all hell were in my heart,
And I in hell. Nay surely ’tis so with me;
For every step I tread, methinks some fiend
Knocks at my breast, and bids it not be quiet.
I’ve heard how desperate wretches like myself
Have wandered out at this dead time of night
To meet the foe of mankind in his walk:
Sure I’m so curst, that though of Heaven forsaken,
No minister of darkness, cares to tempt me.
Hell, hell! why sleep’st thou?
The above is the most awful picture of a man plunged in despair, that ever was drawn by a poet; we cannot read it without terror: and when it is uttered as we have heard it, from the late justly celebrated Booth, or those heart-affecting actors Garrick, and Barry, the flesh creeps, and the blood is chilled with horror.
In this play Otway catches our hearts, by introducing the episode of Belvidera. Private and public calamities alternately claim our concern; sometimes we could wish to see a whole State sacrificed for the weeping Belvidera, whose character and distress are so
drawn as to melt every heart; at other times we recover again, in behalf of a whole people in danger. There is not a virtuous character in the play, but that of Belvidera, and yet so amazing is the force of the author’s skill in blending private and public concerns, that the ruffian on the wheel, is as much the object of pity, as if he had been brought to that unhappy fate by some honourable action.
Though Mr. Otway possessed this astonishing talent of moving the passions, and writing to the heart, yet he was held in great contempt by some cotemporary poets, and was several times unsuccessful in his dramatic pieces. The merits of an author are seldom justly estimated, till the next age after his decease; while a man lives in the world, he has passion, prejudice, private and public malevolence to combat; his enemies are industrious to obscure his fame, by drawing into light his private follies; and personal malice is up in arms against every man of genius.
Otway was exposed to powerful enemies, who could not bear that he should acquire fame, amongst whom Dryden is the foremost. The enmity between Dryden and Otway could not proceed from jealousy, for what were Otway’s, when put in the ballance with the amazing powers of Dryden? like a drop to the ocean: and yet we find Dryden declared himself his open enemy; for which, the best reason that can be assigned is, that Otway was a retainer to Shadwell, who was Dryden’s aversion. Dryden was often heard to say, that Otway was a barren illiterate man, but ‘I confess, says he, he has a power which I have not;’ and when it was asked him, what power that was? he answered, ‘moving the passions.’ This truth was, no doubt, extorted from Dryden, for he seems not to be very ready in acknowledging the merits of his cotemporaries. In his preface to Du Fresnoy’s Art of Painting, which he translated, he mentions Otway with respect, but not till after he was dead; and even then he speaks but coldly of him. The passage is as follows, ‘To express the passions which are seated on the heart by outward signs, is one great precept of the painters, and very difficult to perform. In poetry the very same passions, and motions of the mind are to be expressed, and in this consists the principal difficulty, as well as the excellency of that art. This (says my author) is the gift of Jupiter, and to speak in the same Heathen language, is the gift of our Apollo, not to be obtained by pains or study, if we are not born to it; for the motions which are studied, are never so natural, as those which break out in the heighth of a real passion. Mr. Otway possessed this part as thoroughly as any of either the ancients or moderns. I will not defend every thing in his Venice Preserved, but I must bear this testimony to his memory, that the passions are truly touched in it, though, perhaps, there is somewhat to be desired, both in the grounds of them, and the heighth and elegance of expression; but nature is there, which is the greatest beauty.’ Notwithstanding our admiration of Dryden, we cannot, without some indignation, observe, how sparing he is in the praises of Otway, who, considered as a tragic writer, was surely superior to himself. Dryden enchants us indeed with flow’ry descriptions, and charms us with (what is called) the magic of poetry; but he has seldom drawn a tear, and millions of radiant eyes have been witnesses for Otway, by those drops of pity which they have shed. Otway might be no scholar, but that, methinks, does not detract from the merit of a dramatist, nor much assist him in succeeding. For the truth of this we may appeal to experience. No poets in our language, who were what we call scholars, have ever written plays which delight or affect the audience. Shakespear, Otway and Southern were no scholars; Ben Johnson, Dryden and Addison were: and while few audiences admire the plays of the latter, those of the former are the supports of the stage.
After suffering many eclipses of fortune, and being exposed to the most cruel necessities, poor Otway died of want, in a public house on Tower-hill, in the 33rd year of his age, 1685. He had, no doubt, been driven to that part of the town, to avoid the persecution of his creditors and as he durst not appear much abroad to sollicit assistance, and having no means of getting money in his obscure retreat, he perished. It has been reported, that Mr. Otway, whom delicacy had long deterred from borrowing small sums, driven at last to the most grievous necessity ventured out of his lurking place, almost naked and shivering, and went into a coffee-house on Tower-hill, where he saw a gentleman, of whom he had some knowledge, and of whom he sollicited the loan of a shilling. The gentleman was quite shocked, to see the author of Venice Preserved begging bread, and compassionately put into his hand a guinea.
Mr. Otway having thanked his benefactor, retired, and changed the guinea to purchase a roll; as his stomach was full of wind by excess of fasting, the first mouthful choaked him, and instantaneously put a period to his days.
Who can consider the fate of this gentleman, without being moved to pity? we can forgive his acts of imprudence, since they brought him to so miserable an end; and we cannot but regret, that he who was endowed by nature with such distinguished talents, as to make the bosom bleed with salutary sorrow, should himself be so extremely wretched, as to excite the same sensations for him, which by the power of his eloquence and poetry, he had raised for imaginary heroes. We know, indeed, of no guilty part of Otway’s life, other than those fashionable faults, which usually recommend to the conversation of men in courts, but which serve for excuses for their patrons, when they have not a mind to provide for them. From the example of Mr. Otway, succeeding poets should learn not to place any confidence in the promises of patrons; it discovers a higher spirit, and reflects more honour on a man to struggle nobly for independance, by the means of industry, than servilely to wait at a great man’s gate, or to sit at his table, meerly to afford him diversion: Competence and independence have surely more substantial charms, than the smiles of a courtier, which are too frequently fallacious. But who can read Mr Otway’s story, without indignation at those idols of greatness, who demand worship from men of genius, and yet can suffer them to live miserably, and die neglected?
The dramatic works of Mr. Otway are,
1. Alcibiades, a Tragedy, acted at the Duke of York’s Theatre, 1675, dedicated to Charles, Earl of Middlesex. The story of this play is taken from Cor. Nepos, and Plutarch’s Life of Alcibiades.
2. Titus and Berenice, a Tragedy, acted at the Duke’s Theatre, 1677, dedicated to John, Earl of Rochester. This play consists of but three Acts, and is a translation from M. Racine into heroic verse; for the story see Suetonius, Dionysius, Josephus; to which is added the Cheats of Scapin, a Farce, acted the same year. This is a translation from Moliere, and is originally Terence’s Phormio.
3. Friendship in Fashion, a Comedy, acted at the Duke’s Theatre, 1678, dedicated to the Earl of Dorset and Middlesex. This play was revived at the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane, 1749, and was damned by the audience, on account of the immorality of the design, and the obscenity of the dialogue.
4. Don Carlos, Prince of Spain, a Tragedy, acted at the Duke of York’s Theatre, 1679. This play, which was the second production of our author, written in heroic verse, was acted with very great applause, and had a run of thirty nights; the plot from the Novel called Don Carlos.
5. The Orphan, or the Unhappy Marriage, a Tragedy, acted at the Duke of York’s Theatre, 1680, dedicated to her Royal Highness the Duchess. It is founded on the History of Brandon, and a Novel called the English Adventurer. Scene Bohemia.
6. The History and Fall of Caius Marius, a Tragedy, acted at the Duke’s Theatre, 1680, dedicated to Lord Viscount Falkland. The characters of Marius Junior and Lavinia, are borrowed literally from Shakespear’s Romeo and Juliet, which Otway has acknowledged in his Prologue.
7. The Soldier’s Fortune, a Comedy, acted at the Duke’s Theatre, 1681. This play is dedicated to Mr. Bentley his Bookseller; for the copy money, as he tells us himself, see Boccace’s Novels, Scarron’s Romances.
8. The Atheist, or the Second Part of the Soldier’s Fortune, a Comedy, acted at the Duke of York’s Theatre, 1684, dedicated to Lord Eland, the eldest son to the Marquis of Hallifax.
9. Venice Preserved, or a Plot Discovered, a Tragedy, acted at the Duke’s Theatre, 1685, dedicat
ed to the Duchess of Portsmouth. Of this we have already given some account, and it is so frequently acted, that any enlargement would be impertinent. It is certainly one of the most moving plays upon the English stage; the plot from a little book, giving an account of the Conspiracy of the Spaniards against Venice.
Besides his plays, he wrote several poems, viz.
The Poet’s Complaint to his Muse, or a Satire against Libels, London; 1680, in 4to.
Windsor Castle, or a Monument to King Charles the Second.
Miscellany Poems, containing a New Translation of Virgil’s Eclogues, Ovid’s Elegies, Odes of Horace, London 1864. He translated likewise the Epistle of Phædra to Hyppolitus, printed in the Translation of Ovid’s Epistles, by several hands. He wrote the Prologue to Mrs. Bhon’s City Heiress. Prefixed to Creechis Lucretius, there is a copy of verses written by Mr. Otway, in praise of that translation.
Otway by Samuel Johnson
From ‘The Lives of the Most Eminent English Poets’ (1794)
OTWAY.
OF THOMAS OTWAY, one of the first names in the English drama, little is known; nor is there any part of that little which his biographer can take pleasure in relating.
He was born at Trottin in Sussex, March 3, 1651, the son of Mr. Humphry Otway, rector of Woolbeding. From Winchester-school, where he was educated, he was entered, in 1669, a commoner of Christ-church; but left the university without a degree, whether for want of money, or from impatience of academical restraint, or mere eagerness to mingle with the world, is not known.
