THOMAS OTWAY was the son of the Reverend Humphrey Otway, rector of Woolbeding, and was born at Trotting, in Sussex, on the third of March, 1651. He received his early education at Winchester school, and thence entered a commoner of Christ Church College, Oxford; but he left the university without a degree. In 1672 he made his appearance as an actor on the London stage. To this profession his talents were not adapted, and the result, therefore, was an entire failure. His connection with the stage was, however, attended with this advantage-that he thus acquired a knowledge of the dramatic art, which proved of great service to him when he began to write for the theatre. Otway produced, in rapid succession, three tragedies, Alcibiades, Titus and Berenice, and Don Carlos, all of which were successfully performed; but the proceeds from them were not sufficient to meet the demands of his extravagant habits, or shield him from poverty. In 1677, the Earl of Plymouth procured for him an appointment as cornet of dragoons, and Otway went with his regiment to Flanders. He was, however, soon cashiered for his irregular conduct, and returning to London, resumed dramatic authorship. In 1680 he produced two tragedies, Caius Marcius, and the Orphan; and in the following year the Soldier's Fortune, a comedy. In 1682 he brought out his last and greatest drama, Venice Preserved. Together with the dramas we have mentioned, Otway wrote a number of poems, and translated from the French the 'History of the Triumvirate,' and this immense literary labor was all performed before he was thirty-four years of age. His death occurred on the fourteenth of April, 1685, and in a manner too painful to relate. Having been compelled by his necessities to contract debts, and hunted, as is supposed, by the terriers of the law, he retired to a public-house on Tower-hill, where he died of want; or, according to one of his biographers, by swallowing, after a long fast, a piece of bread which charity had supplied. 'After long concealment he left his retreat in the rage of hunger, and almost naked; and finding a gentleman in a neighboring coffee-house, he asked him for a shilling. The gentleman gave him a guinea; and Otway going away bought a roll, and was choked with the first mouthful.' Poverty and its attendants, sorrow and despondency, pressed hard upon poor Otway in life, and his grave closed a career of almost unparalleled wretchedness. The dramatic fame of Otway rests almost entirely on his two tragedies, the 'Orphan,' and 'Venice Preserved;' but on these it is immovably fixed. 'His scenes of passionate affection,' says Sir Walter Scott, 'rival, at least, and sometimes excel, those of Shakspeare: more tears have been shed, probably, for the sorrows of Belvidera and Monimia, than for those of Juliet and Desdemona.' The plot of the 'Orphan,' from its inherent indelicacy and painful associations, has driven this play from the stage; but 'Venice Preserved' is still one of the most popular and effective tragedies in the language. The stern plotting character of Pierre is well contrasted with the irresolute, sensitive, and affectionate nature of Jaffier; and the harsh, unnatural cruelty of Priuli serves as a dark shade, to set off the bright purity and tenderness of his daughter. The pathetic and harrowing plot is well managed, and deepens toward the close; and the genius of Otway particularly shines in his delineation of the passions of the heart, the ardor of love, and the excess of misery and despair. The versification of these dramas is sometimes rugged and irregular, and there are occasional redundancies and inflated expressions, which, had the author's life been longer spared, he would doubtless have corrected. From Venice Preserved' we select the following scene: Scene.-St. Marks. [Enter Priuli and Jaffier.] Priuli. No more! I'll hear no more! begone and leave me! Jaffier. Not hear me! by my sufferings but you shall! My lord-my lord! I'm not that abject wretch You think me. Patience! where's the distance throws Me back so far, but I may boldly speak In right, though proud oppression will not hear me? Jaf. Could my nature e'er Have brook'd injustice, or the doing wrongs, I need not now thus low have bent myself To gain a hearing from a cruel father. Pri. Yes, wrong'd me! in the nicest point, Jaf. 'Tis to me you owe her: Childless had you been else, and in the grave When instantly I plung'd into the sea, Pri. You stole her from me; like a thief you stole her, At dead of night! that cursed hour you chose To rifle me of all my heart held dear. May all your joys in her prove false, like mine! A sterile fortune and a barren bed Attend you both continual discord make Jaf. Half of your curse you have bestow'd in vain. With a young boy, sweet as his mother's beauty: Pri. Rather live To bait thee for his bread, and din your ears Jaf. Would I were in my grave! Pri. And she, too, with thee; For, living here, you 're but my curs'd remembrancers Jaf. You use me thus, because you know my soul My life feeds on her, therefore thus you treat me. As you upbraid me with, what hinders me But I might send her back to you with contumely, Jaf. Indeed, my lord, I dare not. My heart, that awes me, is too much my master: Three years have past since first our vows were plighted, During which time the world must bear me witness I've treated Belvidera like your daughter, The daughter of a senator of Venice: Distinction, place, attendance, and observance, Due to her birth, she always has commanded: Out of my little fortune I've done this; Because (though hopeless e'er to win your nature,) The world might see I lov'd her for herself; Pri. No more. Jaf. Yes, all, and then adieu forever. There's not a wretch that lives on common charity, But 's happier than me; for I have known Yet now must fall, like a full ear of corn, Whose blossom 'scaped, yet 's wither'd in the ripening. Those pageants of thy folly: Reduce the glittering trappings of thy wife To humble weeds, fit for thy little state: Drudge to feed loathsome life; get brats and starve. Jaf. Yes, if my heart would let me This proud, this swelling heart; home I would go, And we will bear our wayward fate together, [Exil. [Enter Belvidera.] Bel. My lord, my love, my refuge! Happy my eyes when they behold thy face! My heavy heart will leave its doleful beating At sight of thee, and bound with sprighly joys. Oh, smile, as when our loves were in their spring, And cheer my fainting soul! Jaf. As when our loves Were in their spring! Has, then, my fortune chang'd thee? Art thou not, Belvidera, still the same, Kind, good, and tender, as my arms first found thee? If thou art alter'd, where shall I have harbour? Bel. Does this appear like change, or love decaying, I joy more in thee Than did thy mother, when she hugg'd thee first, And bless'd the gods for all her travail past. Jaf. Can there in woman be such glorious faith? Oh, woman! lovely woman! Nature made thee There's in you all that we believe of Heav'n; Eternal joy and everlasting love! Bel. If love be treasure, we'll be wondrous rich; Undone by fortune, and in debt to thee. Canst thou bear cold and hunger? Can these limbs, Endure the bitter gripes of smarting poverty? (As suddenly we shall be.) to seek out In some far climate, where our names are strangers, When in a bed of straw we shrink together, And the bleak winds shall whistle round our heads; Bel. Oh! I will love, even in madness love thee! I'll make this arm a pillow for thine head; And, as thou sighing liest, and swelled with sorrow, Creep to thy bosom, pour the balm of love Into thy soul, and kiss thee to thy rest; Then praise our God, and watch thee 'till the morning. Jaf. Hear this, you Heav'ns, and wonder how you made her! Reign, reign ye monarchs, that divide the world; Busy rebellion ne'er will let you know Tranquillity and happiness like mine; Like gaudy ships, the obsequious billows fall, And rise again, to lift you in your pride; They wait but for a storm, and then devour you! I, in my private bark already wreck'd, Like a poor merchant, driven to unknown land, That had, by chance, pack'd up his choicest treasure In one dear casket, and sav'd only that: Since I must wander farther on the shore, [Excunt.] NATHANIEL LEE, another tragic poet of this period, and also the son of a clergyman, was born in Hertfordshire in 1651. He was instructed in classical learning at Westminster school, and thence passed to Trinity College, CamVOL. II.-F |