Thomas Otway. Thomas Otway
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exulted over the accession of James. His praises of Charles were probably not much more sincere than those which he, and other writers of the day, lavished upon people of rank in their dedications for the sake of a few guineas. More guineas are to be had now-a-days by flattering the whims and tastes of that "many-headed" monarch, under whose reign we have the honour to live. In the so-called Augustan age, literary merit was systematically neglected. Witness Butler and Cowley. Yet Otway was the son of a loyalist, and ever faithful to the Court. Nor was Charles incapable of appreciating talent. But Otway, to use his own words, only got the "pension of a prince's praise"; and a gracious command to lampoon the greatest statesman of the time, which he did accordingly. Praise of one who cannot be a rival is an inexpensive form of present. It appears, however, that two of the royal mistresses were more generous—Nell Gwynne and the Duchess of Portsmouth, whose bounty, "extended to him in his last extremity," he extols in the dedication of Venice Preserved.
Otway had withdrawn from the importunate clamour of creditors to an obscure public-house, the sign of the Bull, on Tower Hill; and here, on the 14th of April, 1685, at the premature age of thirty-four, he died. His body was conveyed thence to the Church of St. Clement Danes, and there deposited in a vault. About the circumstances of his death there is a conflict of evidence. The story that has gained currency is probably not the true one; only one early biographer is our authority for it. He states that, having long been insufficiently fed, Otway one day sallied forth in a starving state, and begged a shilling from a gentleman in a coffee house, saying, "I am the[Pg xlviii] poet Otway." This person, surprised and distressed, gave him a guinea. With it he bought a roll of bread, and began to devour it with the rage of hunger; but, incapable of swallowing from long abstinence, he was choked with the first mouthful. Other writers make no mention of this incident, and Wood is not only silent on the subject, but states that in his "sickness" (implying gradual decay) he composed a congratulatory poem on the inauguration of James II. Spence, moreover, who had the anecdote from Dennis the critic, tells quite a different story. He relates that Otway had an intimate friend named Blakiston, who was murdered in the street, and that, to revenge the deed, Otway pursued the assassin on foot as far as Dover, where he was seized with a fever, occasioned by fatigue, privation, and excitement. On his return to London, being heated, he drank water, which was the immediate occasion of his death. Yet undoubtedly insufficient nourishment must have accelerated his end. It is quite possible, therefore, that the anecdote about the guinea and the roll may be substantially true, although this circumstance may not have been the actual cause of death.
The ardour and constancy of Otway's personal attachments are very notable all through his career—witness his friendship with Shadwell (though Mr. Gosse strangely calls Shadwell his enemy), with an unknown person whom he names Senander, and especially with Duke, whose expressions of fondness for him were very warm. And it now appears that he fell a victim to this devoted comradeship, which he has so forcibly delineated in his tragedy. "Whom the gods love die young." Otway is with Shelley, Keats and Byron, with Marlowe and with Chatterton.
Roden Noel.
⁂ Otway made some translations from Ovid and Horace. He also wrote prologues to Lee's Constantine and Mrs. Behn's City Heiress, with an epistle to Creech on his translation of Lucretius, besides a few miscellaneous poems, prologues, and epilogues. A translation from the French, the History of Triumvirates, was published a year after his decease. Moreover, it was reported that he had been engaged on an original tragedy at the time of his death; Betterton, the actor and manager, advertised for this play, but it was never found. All authorities, except Mr. Gosse, agree in rejecting as a forgery the play named Heroic Friendship, which a bookseller long afterwards (in 1719) attempted to palm off upon the public as the lost tragedy of Otway. While destitute of all external evidence for genuineness, it is usually regarded as a contemptible production, equally destitute of internal evidence. Mr. Gosse indeed urges a similarity in the principal character to the heroes of Otway. But of course to produce such a similarity would be the obvious resort of any forger. It was printed, though never acted. Gildon relates that Otway was very fond of punch, and that the last thing he wrote was a song in praise of it.
William Oldys, in his famous annotated copy of Langbaine's Dramatic Poets, in the British Museum, thus writes of Otway: "There is an excellent and beautiful picture of Mr. Otway, who was a fine, portly, graceful man, now among the poetical collection of Lord Chesterfield (I think it was painted by John Ryley), in a full bottom wig, and nothing like that quakerish figure which Knapton has impost upon the world." Interlined is the following: "He was of middle size, about 5 ft. 7 in., inclinable to corpulency, had thoughtful, yet lively, and, as it were, speaking eyes."
I am indebted to Dr. Grosart for the foregoing quotation, and have to express my thanks to Mr. S. W. Orson for numerous textual suggestions and emendations.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] In Mr. Saintsbury's admirable monograph on Dryden (English Men of Letters) we have, for the first time, the truth told about the origins of the so-called "heroic" drama in England—a semi-operatic creation of Sir W. Davenant under the Protectorate. But though the rhyme may have come from France, it seems to me that for the rant our Restoration playwrights need not have looked so far as the Scudéry romance, or the Spanish poetry; they had examples nearer home, which is equally true of the "conceits." Dryden is the father of modern prose, and the father of didactic verse, even, one may say, of modern satire also. Now, if a man achieve a reputation for eminence in one department, his eminence in another, however indisputable, is sure to be disputed. It has seemed evident to critics (and consequently to bookmakers) that since he was a critic he could not be a poet. Yet he was certainly both. He is more than what Matthew Arnold names him, a "classic of our prose."
[2] Shall we find such things in the modern creations of Scott, George Sand, Thackeray, Charlotte Brontë (possibly we may in Emily Brontë), Thomas Hardy, or Tolstoi?
[3] Respecting Otway's life, my chief authority is Thornton, who has prefixed the best sketch I know of to the best edition of the poet's works; but I have also consulted other authorities, and read Mr. Gosse's interesting essay in his "Seventeenth Century Studies," &c. Thornton's text has been usually followed in the present volume; with, however, numerous emendations, the result of collation with the early editions.
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.
Wood mentions that it was reported the poet came back from Flanders "mangy, and covered with vermin."
DON CARLOS, PRINCE OF SPAIN.
Principibus placuisse viris non ultima laus est.—
Hor., Ep. 17, Lib. I.[5]