Cambridge, and the same year was sent ambassador to the King of
France; who being pleased with his person and errand, entertained him
very nobly for several days together; and upon his taking leave, gave
him a sword and belt set with Pearls and Diamonds, to the value of
40,000 pistoles. He was afterwards sent to that King at Utrecht in
June 1672, together with Henry earl of Arlington, and George lord
Hallifax. He was one of the cabal at Whitehall, and in the beginning
of the session of Parliament, February 1672, endeavoured to cast the
odium of the Dutch war from himself, upon lord Arlington, another of
the cabal. In June 1674, he resigned the chancellorship of Cambridge.
About this time he became a great favourer of the Nonconformists.
February 16, 1676, his grace, and James earl of Salisbury, Anthony
earl of Shaftsbury, and Philip lord Wharton, were committed to the
Tower by order of the House of Lords, for a contempt, in refusing to
retract what they had said the day before, when the duke, immediately
after his Majesty had ended his speech to both Houses, endeavoured to
shew from law and reason, that the long prorogation was nulled, and
the Parliament was consequently dissolved.
The chief of our author's works is,
The Rehearsal, a Comedy, first acted on December 7, 1671. It is said
that the duke was assisted in writing this play, by his Chaplain Dr.
Thomas Sprat, Martin Clifford, esquire, master of the Charterhouse,
and Mr. Samuel Butler, author of Hudibras. Jacob, in his Lives of the
Poets, observes, 'that he cannot exactly learn when his grace began
this piece; but this much, says he, we may certainly gather from the
plays ridiculed in it, that it was before the end of 1663, and
finished before 1664, because it had been several times rehearsed, the
players were perfect in their parts, and all things in readiness for
its acting, before the great plague in 1665, and that then prevented
it, for what was then intended, was very different from what now
appears. In that he called his poet Bilboa, by which name Sir Robert
Howard was the person pointed at. During this interval, many plays
were published, written in heroic rhime, and on the death of Sir
William Davenant 1669, whom Mr. Dryden succeeded in the laurel, it
became still in greater vogue; this moved the duke to change the name
of his poet, from Bilboa to Bayes.'
This character of Bayes is inimitably drawn; in it the various foibles
of poets (whether good, bad or indifferent) are so excellently blended
as to make the most finished picture of a poetical coxcomb: 'Tis such
a master-piece of true humour as will ever last, while our English
tongue is understood, or the stage affords a good comedian to play it.
How shall I now avoid the imputation of vanity, when I relate, that
this piece, on being revived (when I[2] first appeared in the part of
Bayes) at the Theatre-Royal in Covent-Garden in the year 1739, was, in
that one season (continued to 1740) played upwards of forty nights, to
great audiences, with continued mirthful applause. As this is a truth,
I give it to the candid; and let the relation take its chance, though
it should not be thought by some (who may not abound in good nature)
that I only mean by this, to pay due regard to the merit of the piece,
though it speaks for itself; for, without extraordinary merit in the
writing, it could never have gained such an uncommon run, at the
distance of fourscore years from its being first written, when most of
those pieces were forgot which it particularly satirises; or, if
remembered, they were laughed into fame by the strong mock-parodies
with which this humorous piece of admirable burlesque abounds.
Mr. Dryden, in revenge for the ridicule thrown on him in this piece,
exposed the duke under the name of Zimri in his Absalom and
Achitophel. This character, drawn by Dryden, is reckoned a
masterpiece; it has the first beauty, which is truth; it is a striking
picture, and admirably marked: We need make no apology for inserting
it here; it is too excellent to pass unnoticed.
In the first rank of these did Zimri stand:
A man so various that he seemed to be
Not one, but all mankind's epitome.
Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong;
Was every thing by starts, and nothing long;
But, in the course of one revolving moon,
Was Chymist, fidler, statesman, and buffoon:
Then all for women, painting, rhiming, drinking;
Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking.
Blest madman, who could every hour employ,
In something new to wish, or to enjoy!
Railing, and praising were his usual themes,
And both, to shew his judgment, in extremes;
So over violent, or over civil,
That every man with him was God, or devil.
In squandering wealth was his peculiar art;
Nothing went unrewarded but desert.
Beggar'd by fools, whom still he found too late,
He had his jest, and they had his estate.
He laught himself from court, then sought relief,
By forming parties, but could ne'er be chief.
Thus wicked, but in will, of means bereft,
He left not faction, but of that was left.
It is allowed by the severest enemies of this nobleman, that he had a
great share of vivacity, and quickness of parts, which were
particularly turned to ridicule; but while he has been celebrated as a
wit, all men are silent as to other virtues, for it is no where
recorded, that he ever performed one generous disinterested action in
his whole life; he relieved no distressed merit; he never shared the
blessing of the widow and fatherless, and as he lived a profligate, he
died in misery, a by-word and a jest, unpitied and unmourned.
He died April 16, 1687, Mr. Wood says, at his house in Yorkshire, but
Mr. Pope informs us, that he died at an inn in that county, in very
mean circumstances. In his Epistle to lord Bathurst, he draws the
following affecting picture of this man, who had possessed an estate
of near 50,000 l. per annum, expiring,
In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half hung
The floors of plaister, and the walls of dung,
On once a flock-bed, but repair'd with straw,
With tape-ty'd curtains, never meant to draw,
The George and Garter dangling from that bed,
Where tawdry yellow, strove with dirty red,
Great Villiers lies--alas! how chang'd from him
That life of pleasure, and that foul of whim!
Gallant and gay, in Cliveden's proud alcove,
The bow'r of wanton Shrewsbury[3] and love;
Or just as gay in council, in a ring
Of mimick'd statesmen and their merry king.
No wit to flatter left of all his store!
No fool to laugh at, which he valued more;
There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends,
And fame, this lord of useless thousands ends.
His grace's fate, sage Cutler could foresee,
And well (he thought) advised him, 'live like me.'
As well, his grace replied, 'like you, Sir John!
That I can do, when all I have is gone:'
Besides the celebrated Comedy of the Rehearsal, the duke wrote the
following pieces;
1. An Epitaph on Thomas, Lord Fairfax, which has been often reprinted.
2. A Short Discourse upon the Reasonableness of Men's having a
Religion or Worship of God. This Piece met with many Answers, to
which, the Duke wrote Replies.
3. A Demonstration of the above Duty.
4. Several Poems, particularly, Advice to a Painter to draw my Lord
Arlington. Timon, a Satire on several Plays, in which he was assisted
by the Earl of Rochester; a Consolatory Epistle to Julian Secretary to
the Muses; upon the Monument; upon the Installment of the Duke of
Newcastle; the Rump-Parliament, a Satire; the Mistress; the Lost
Mistress; a Description of Fortune.
5. Several Speeches.
Footnotes:
1. B. vi. vol. ii. p. 347.
2. T.C.
3. The countess of Shrewsbury, a woman abandoned to gallantries. The
earl her husband was killed by the duke of Buckingham; and it has
been said that, during the combat, she held the duke's horses in
the habit of a page.
* * * * *
MATTHEW SMITH, Esquire.
_(The following Account of this Gentleman came to our Hands too late
to be inserted in the Chronological Series.)_
This gentleman was the son of John Smith, an eminent Merchant at
Knaresborough in the county of York, and descended from an ancient
family of that name, seated at West-Herrington and Moreton House in
the county pal. of Durham. Vide Philpot's Visitation of Durham, in the
Heralds Office, page 141.
He was a Barrister at Law, of the Inner-Temple, and appointed one of
the council in the North, the fifteenth of King Charles I. he being a
Loyalist, and in great esteem for his eminence and learning in his
profession; as still further appears by his valuable Annotations on
Littleton's Tenures he left behind him in manuscript. He also wrote
some pieces of poetry, and is the author of two dramatical
performances.
1. The Country Squire, or the Merry Mountebank, a Ballad Opera of one
Act.
2. The Masquerade du Ciel, a Masque, which was published the year that
he died, 1640, by John Smith of Knaresborough, Esq; (eldest son and
heir to this Matthew, by Anne his wife, daughter of Henry Roundell,
esq; who dedicated it to the Queen. He was a person of the greatest
loyalty, and very early addicted to arms, which made him extreamly
zealous and active during the civil wars, in joining with the
Royalists, particularly at the battle of Marston-Moor 1644, when he
personally served under Prince Rupert, for which he and his family
were plundered and sequestered. He also fined twice for Sheriff, to
avoid the oaths in those days.)
* * * * *
THOMAS OTWAY.
This excellent poet was not more remarkable for moving the tender
passions, than for the variety of fortune, to which he was subjected.
We have some where read an observation, that the poets have ever been
the least philosophers, and were always unhappy in a want of firmness
of temper, and steadiness of resolution: of the truth of this remark,
poor Mr. Otway is a lively instance; he never could sufficiently
combat his appetite of extravagance and profusion, to live one year in
a comfortable competence, but was either rioting in luxurious
indulgence, or shivering with want, and exposed to the insolence and
contempt of the world. He was the son of Mr. Humphry Otway, rector of
Wolbeding in Sussex, and was born at Trottin in that county, on March
3, 1651. He received his education at Wickeham school, near
Winchester, and became a commoner of Christ Church in Oxford, in the
beginning of the year 1669. He quitted the university without a
degree, and retired to London, though, in the opinion of some
historians, he went afterwards to Cambridge, which seems very
probable, from a copy of verses of Mr. Duke's to him, between whom
subsisted a sincere friendship till the death of Mr. Otway. When our
poet came to London, the first account we hear of him, is, that he
commenced player, but without success, for he is said to have failed
in want of execution, which is so material to a good player, that a
tolerable execution, with advantage of a good person, will often
supply the place of judgment, in which it is not to be supposed Otway
was deficient.
Though his success as an actor was but indifferent, yet he gained upon
the world by the sprightliness of his conversation, and the acuteness
of his wit, which, it seems, gained him the favour of Charles Fitz
Charles, earl of Plymouth, one of the natural sons of King Charles II.
who procured him a cornet's Pommission in the new raised English
forces designed for Flanders. All who have written of Mr. Otway
observe, that he returned from Flanders in very necessitous
circumstances, but give no account how that reverse of fortune
happened: it is not natural to suppose that it proceeded from actual
cowardice, or that Mr. Otway had drawn down any disgrace upon himself
by misbehaviour in a military station. If this had been the case, he
wanted not enemies who would have improved the circumstance, and
recorded it against him, with a malicious satisfaction; but if it did
not proceed from actual cowardice, yet we have some reason to
conjecture that Mr. Otway felt a strong disinclination to a military
life, perhaps from a consciousness that his heart failed him, and a
dread of misbehaving, should he ever be called to an engagement; and
to avoid the shame of which he was apprehensive in consequence of such
behaviour, he, in all probability, resigned his commission, which
could not but disoblige the earl of Plymouth, and expose himself to
necessity. What pity is it, that he who could put such masculine
strong sentiments into the mouth of such a resolute hero as his own
Pierre, should himself fail in personal courage, but this quality
nature withheld from him, and he exchanged the chance of reaping
laurels in the field of victory, for the equally uncertain, and more
barren laurels of poetry. The earl of Rochester, in his Session of the
Poets, has thus maliciously recorded, and without the least grain of
wit, the deplorable circumstances of 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.