No More Learning

The plot is repulsive, with a flavour of Elizabethan unsoundness.
All the mischief and misery arise from a want of moral courage
shown by Castalio, the passionate, but weak and irresolute hero,
in concealing--partly from a kind of dastardly, rakish, bravado,
and partly from fear of his father's disapproval, as well as a
certain misplaced deference to fraternal affection--his own ardent
and honourable affection for the orphan girl to whom he is secretly
married. The character of Castalio is similar to that of Jaffier,
Carlos, and of Otway himself, judging from what we know of his
relations with Mrs. Barry. Monimia is another Belvidera, though less
powerfully conceived. They are exquisite types of womanhood, own
sisters to Cordelia, Imogen, Desdemona. There is no local colour in
the play, but we miss that in _Don Carlos_ and _Venice Preserved_ more
particularly. Otway's scenes might be in abstract space. The poetry of
the period of Charles II. , William, and Anne, was singularly blind to
the face of external nature, a very serious defect; not even Greek or
Latin poetry was thus blind.

I have drawn a distinction between two kinds of poetry in drama--that
of movement or crisis, and that of repose or contemplation. The
poetry appropriate to the one condition must necessarily be different
from that appropriate to the other, and he is so far a bad poet
who confounds the species. It will be the second kind that can be
transplanted to books of beautiful extracts, and lends itself to
quotation, because that is more germane to many similar circumstances;
whereas the former belongs especially to the particular event or
crisis. In the former species I have allowed that Otway is not rich.
We look in vain for the poetry of Hamlet, of brooding, irresolute,
melancholy; for the poetry of Lorenzo, that of music; or Portia, which
is that of mercy; for any lovely words like those of Perdita, the
very breath and symphony of flowers; for any accents like those of
heart-stricken Aspatia, in her swan-song of desertion; or visionary
anthem of Helen's ideal beauty, as in Marlowe. No Claudio out of
Shakespeare has uttered a final word concerning physical death equal
to this: "To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot"; no Cæsar has fixed
for us the visible tokens of a born conspirator; no Jaques summed for
us the seasons of human life. Nor are these mere "purple patches"; far
from it, they are of the seamless garment's very warp and woof.

But, if we consider, we shall find that much of the poetry we love
best in that earlier drama is the poetry of movement or supreme event;
and this we do find in Otway, as the passages which I have already
quoted, or mentioned, are sufficient to prove. We do find in him poetry
parallel to that of mad Lear's heart-quaking utterance in presence of
Cordelia, which commences--

Pray do not mock me;
I am a very foolish fond old man,

and ends--

Do not laugh at me;
For as I am a man, I think this lady
To be my child Cordelia.

or to her answer--

And so I am, I am!

She has some cause to be angry with him, but her sisters none, he
says; and she answers "No cause! no cause! " That, which is, perhaps,
the finest passage in all literature, has not one metaphor, one trope,
one "precious" phrase; but any old injured madman might speak just so.
When poor, laughable, dissolute old Falstaff, dying, "babbles o' green
fields"; when Lear at the last apostrophises his dead Cordelia--

Thou'lt come no more,
Never, never, never, never, never! * * *
Pray you, undo this button. Thank you, sir! * * *
Do you see this? Look on her--look--her lips--

we can hardly bear to hear them. It is so much finer, because so much
truer to nature than when those ingeniously poetical ladies, entreating
the sepulture of their best beloved, urge that they are "rinsing their
holy begging in their eyes. " But Tourneur's Castiza takes our breath
away when she adjures the trusted and reverenced mother, who has
suffered her own better nature to be warped and darkened, and invites
her daughter to suffer moral degradation, in the words--

Mother, come from that poisonous woman there!

It is a gleam of heavenly light blinding us out of the gloom. And when
the Duchess of Malfi in her last struggle entreats--

I pray thee look thou givest my little boy
Some syrup for his cold; and let the girl
Say her prayers ere she sleep. Now what you please

we are reminded of the equally touching words of Belvidera about her
child, and the last words of dying Monimia:

When I am laid low in the grave, and quite forgotten,
May'st thou be happy in a fairer bride!
But none can ever love thee like Monimia. * * *
I'm here; who calls me? Methought I heard a voice
Sweet as the shepherd's pipe upon the mountains
When all his little flock's at feed before him * * *
How my head swims. 'Tis very dark. Good night.

It is true that the poet, since he takes the liberty to translate into
verse men's ordinary language, may also interpret and mould his story,
together with the speech it may involve, artistically, according to his
own genius. But then the turn of thought, of feeling and of phraseology
must have verisimilitude, that is to say, must seem related, not only
to the event as it might appear to the poet personally, but as it
ought to appear to him when he has imagined himself into the character
and circumstances represented. Thus the strange figure made use of by
Jaffier in addressing Pierre, who is about to be tortured on the rack,
is felt to be absolutely fitting. For anger, despair, remorse, will
sometimes burst forth in hyperbole. Wisdom is justified of her children.

And now perhaps we may hardly be surprised to hear the consenting voice
of great authorities place Otway very high among the masters of English
tragedy. Dryden, though, when "fearing a rival near the throne," he had
called Otway "a barren illiterate man," said afterwards: "The motions
which are studied are never so natural as those which break out in the
height of a real passion. Mr. Otway possessed this part as thoroughly
as any of the ancients or moderns. " And again:

Charming his face and charming was his verse.

Addison says: "Otway has followed nature in the language of his
tragedy, and therefore shines in the passionate parts more than any of
our English poets. " Goldsmith again: "The English language owes very
little to Otway, though next to Shakespeare the greatest genius England
has ever produced in tragedy. " Then let us remember the beautiful lines
of Collins:

But wherefore need I wander wide
To old Ilissus' distant side,
Deserted stream and mute!
Wild Arun too has heard thy strains,
And echo 'midst my native plains
Been soothed by Pity's lute.
There first the wren thy myrtles shed
On gentlest Otway's infant head,
To him thy cell was shown,
And while he sung the female heart,
With youth's soft notes unspoiled by art,
Thy turtles mixed their own.

And Coleridge, musing upon "mighty poets in their misery dead," in his
"Monody on the death of Chatterton" sang:

Is this the land of song-ennobled line?
Is this the land where genius ne'er in vain
Poured forth his lofty strain?
Ah me, yet Spenser, gentlest bard divine,
Beneath chill disappointment's shade
His weary limbs in lonely anguish laid,
And o'er her darling dead,
Pity, hopeless, hung her head;
While 'mid the pelting of that merciless storm
Sunk to the cold earth Otway's famished form.

Respecting Otway's scenes of passionate affection, Sir Walter Scott
says that they "rival and sometimes excel those of Shakespeare; more
tears have been shed probably for the sorrows of Belvidera and Monimia
than for those of Juliet and Desdemona. "

Thomas Otway[3] was born March 3rd, 1651, at Trotton near Midhurst
in Sussex, and was the only son of the Rev. Humphrey Otway, Rector
of Wolbeding in the same county. He was educated at Wickeham School,
Winchester, and at eighteen was entered a commoner of Christ Church
College, Oxford, early in 1669. He does not display much learning, and
probably did not study very hard, but preferred amusing himself with
his friends, among whom was young Lord Falkland. He had been intended
for the Church; but the death of his father, who, as he tells us, "left
him no other patrimony than his faith and loyalty," probably obliged
him to leave Oxford without taking a degree. In 1671 he went to London
to seek his fortune there. At the theatre in Dorset Garden, Salisbury
Court, all Otway's plays, except the last, were performed by the Duke
of York's company; and here Otway himself made his first and only
appearance as an actor, taking the part of the King in Mrs. Behn's
_Forced Marriage_. This attempt was eminently unsuccessful. He seems
now to have cultivated the society of men of rank and fashion, who
tolerated him as a boon companion for the sake of his agreeable social
qualities, but who, while they helped him to get rid of his money in
many foolish ways, left him in the lurch when he needed them most.
The young Earl of Plymouth, however, a natural son of the king, and a
college friend, did befriend him. His premature death at Tangier, aged
twenty-two, was a serious loss to Otway.

The dramatist's earliest play was _Alcibiades_, first printed in
1675. It is a poor production, though there are scenes in it of
distinct promise. _Don Carlos_ appeared in the year after, and won
extraordinary favour, partly owing to the patronage of Rochester, who
dropped an author as soon as he acquired, by merit or popularity, some
independent standing, fancying that his own literary dictatorship might
be thereby imperilled. Thus he had dropped Dryden, taken up Elkanah
Settle, the "City poet," dropped him, and elevated Crowne. But Crowne's
_Calisto_ becoming too popular for the malignant wit, he transferred
his patronage to Otway. In 1677 Otway produced two translations from
the French, _Titus and Berenice_, from Racine, and _The Cheats of_
_Scapin_, from Molière. All these were rhyming, so-called "heroic"
plays, our playwrights herein following the French example. But Dryden,
in the Prologue to _Aurungzebe_, having announced that he would
henceforth abandon the use of rhyme in tragedy, other writers soon
followed his lead. The success of _Don Carlos_ was the occasion of a
coolness between Otway and Dryden, who, with the proverbial amiability
of literary rivals, said some sharp things about one another; but we
have seen how generously Dryden afterwards gave Otway his due meed of
praise. To this period, says Thornton, we may probably assign a duel
between Otway and Settle ("Doeg"), in which Settle is said to have
misbehaved.

With the fine actress, Mrs. Barry, a daughter of Colonel Barry, who
had sacrificed his fortune in the service of Charles I. , Otway fell
desperately in love. She had taken a part in his _Alcibiades_, and
became famous by her representations of Belvidera and Monimia. To
this affection, with all the depth of his character, Otway remained
constant; but Mrs. Barry did not return it; at any rate, she deemed
the attractions of Lord Rochester superior. Possibly Mr. Gosse may be
right in thinking that she was a cold and calculating woman, who would
reject a penniless lover, yet keep him dangling attendance upon her if
he wrote parts that suited her as an actress. In this case, however,
it seems odd that such parts should have suited her; and it would be
touching to note how Otway must have idealized his lady in writing
them for her. But she may honestly have preferred the witty and 5 peer
to the tragic and penniless poet--though Otway was a goodlooking man
with very fine eyes, and Rochester, according to Otway (a prejudiced
witness), looked like an owl. Yet, judging by Rochester's portraits,
he was distinguished, though rather feminine in appearance. However,
Rochester was as sincerely attached to Mrs. Barry as such a rake could
be, and she really owed him much, for he personally educated her in
the duties of her profession. Otway loved "not wisely, but too well,"
as we know from the remarkable love letters, reprinted in the appendix
to the present volume. With characteristic hotheadedness and weakness
combined he could not resolve to renounce her, even though he knew she
was Rochester's mistress. Hence the insolent bitterness of Rochester's
attack upon him in his "Session of the Poets," in which he alludes to
Otway's pitiable condition on his return from Flanders. [4] For even
Otway's human nature had to yield at last, and he could no longer bear
to hang about the Duke's Theatre, as had been his wont, in order to get
a glimpse of his lady. He therefore obtained from the Earl of Plymouth
a cornet's commission in a new regiment of horse, which was sent out
at this time (1678) to join the army under Monmouth in Flanders--not,
surely, as Mr. Gosse says, in the service of France, but, on the
contrary, to relieve Mons in the Dutch interest. Very shortly after,
however, the troops were disbanded and recalled, while the money voted
by the Commons for their payment was shamefully misappropriated, they
being paid only by debentures, the credit of which was so low that they
were hardly saleable. This is why the poet came home in so miserable a
plight, and not on account of any want of courage.

It was like Rochester to reproach him on this score--the man who showed
the white feather to Lord Mulgrave, and made lackeys cudgel Dryden
in Rose Alley. But Otway gave him as good as he got in the "Poet's
Complaint. " The matter is explained in the Epilogue to _Caius Marius_,
which he produced in 1680, having written most of it in camp abroad. It
is a barefaced, and indeed avowed plagiarism from _Romeo and Juliet_,
though one or two scenes are his own, and have some merit. Marius, at
all events, was a rather more dignified representative of Shaftesbury
than old Antonio in _Venice Preserved_. This play occupied the place
of _Romeo and Juliet_ on our stage for seventy years. With a more
avowed party motive he likewise published in the same year "The Poet's
Complaint of his Muse. " When we think of "Absalom and Achitophel,"
the contrast is woeful indeed. All Otway's poems are bad, except the
Epistle to Duke, his friend. The blunted insipidity of his conventional
diction is worthy of Pope's followers. Before leaving England he had
written his first comedy, _Friendship in Fashion_, which appeared in
1678.

In the year 1680 Otway's second great play, _The Orphan_, appeared.
Voltaire attacked it furiously, and will allow no merit to _le tendre_
_Otway_. Tenderness anywhere was not likely to find favour with the
_tigre-singe_, whose fascinating wit was of an icy brilliance. But
Jeremy Collier also attacked the play on other grounds, in his "Short
View of the Immorality and Profaneness of the English Stage. " Mrs.
Barry has recorded that in the character of Monimia she could never
pronounce the words "Poor Castalio! " without tears. May she not have
been thinking of another Castalio? Let us believe it! Ah! if only Mrs.
Barry had been the Belvidera of her poet's dream, she might have saved
him from his evil genius, from his selfish patrons, and from himself.

In 1681 Otway produced _The Soldier's Fortune_, a comedy which contains
allusions to his own adventures abroad, and is the only contemporary
play not dedicated to a person of quality, being dedicated to Bentley,
the publisher. Depressed by his hopeless passion, "alternately elevated
with promises and dejected by scorn and neglect, caressed for his wit,
despised for his poverty, and exposed to all those attendant ills,
which a generous spirit feels more acutely than actual privation,
neglect, wrongs real and imaginary, the altered eye of friends," we
can hardly wonder at the gloomy tone which he assumed in the Epilogue
to this play. Can we not picture him with those large, limpid, wistful
eyes looking for the face he most wanted among the crowds, preoccupied
or listless, that passed in the gathering twilight of that afternoon,
which he mentions in the last of those letters to Mrs. Barry, lingering
among strange faces of promenaders under the trees of the gay Mall,
looking long for her who never came, never fulfilled her promise to
meet him? This seems to have been the turning point in Otway's career.
Failing in this last attempt to win his lady's love, and sinking under
accumulated debt, he, like how many others, surrendered himself to
those habits of inebriety, which insidiously promised him consolation.
And yet his creative powers were maturing daily, for his greatest work,
_Venice Preserved_, was brought upon the stage in 1682.

Since Otway's plays were well received, it may seem strange that
he should have remained so poor. But, in the first place, he was
evidently one of those generous, reckless good fellows like "Goldy,"
and Sheridan, who spend all they have, and more too. And, in the
second place, the profits of the playhouse were very small. Theatrical
amusements were not the general resort of the people--a serious
disadvantage, as Scott observes, to the art, as well as to the purse,
of the playwright. Religious scruples still withheld many, as in
Commonwealth days; and others were kept away by the indecency then
in vogue. The most popular play did not remain long on the boards.
In Otway's time, moreover, an author had only one benefit from the
representation, which was on the third night. Southerne was the first
to have two benefits, and it was not until 1729 that the profits of
three representations became the right of the author. Gildon says that
Otway got a hundred pounds a piece for _The Orphan_ and _Venice
Preserved_, while old Jacob Tonson bought the copyright of _Venice
Preserved_ for fifteen pounds. The poet was sometimes in such straits
that he had to pawn his third day for fifty pounds. He could not have
made much by his few prologues and occasional poems.

Otway's last play was a comedy called _The Atheist_, a continuation
of _The Soldier's Fortune_, represented in 1683, or the following year,
at the Theatre Royal by the united companies, who had amalgamated in
1682, and removed to Drury Lane. Charles II. died in February, 1685,
and Otway thereupon published a poem called "Windsor Castle," in which
he praised the late king, and 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 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.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

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.

[4]

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]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Besides the writers mentioned in my Introduction, Campistron, a pupil
of Racine, founded a play called _Andronic_ on this same history of
_Don Carlos_. Some Spanish historians, in the interest of Philip,
have tried to blacken the character of his son. But the Abbé de San
Real (who has been called the French Sallust) seems to have estimated
him rightly, while the dramatists have, on the whole, adopted the
Frenchman's conception, which was apparently derived from reliable
Spanish sources. The motto prefixed from Horace is in allusion to
the fact that this play received the approbation of the King and the
Duke of York. It had a long success at the theatre, and we may agree
with those who called it, as Otway tells us in the preface, the best
"heroic" play of the time--containing, as it does, far less of rant and
confusion, but more of nature and passion, than the "heroic" plays of
Dryden--though _Aurungzebe_ may not be far behind it. Booth, the actor,
was informed by Betterton that _Don Carlos_ continued for several years
to attract larger audiences than _The Orphan_ or _Venice Preserved_. It
was first represented at the Duke's Theatre in the year 1676, and was
published in the same year.

Philip II. , son of the Emperor Charles V. , became King of Naples and
Sicily in 1554 on his father's abdication, and King Consort of England
by his marriage with Mary two years after he ascended the Spanish
throne. In 1557 he gained the victory of St. Quentin, which might have
made him master of France, but he did not follow it up, being, it
is said, so elated and yet terrified that he vowed: first, never to
engage in another fight, and secondly, to found a monastery in honour
of St. Lawrence at Escorial. Later came the great rebellion of the Low
Countries, which, in spite of Alva's ability, sanguinary cruelty, and
persecutions, resulted in the independence of "the United Provinces,"
and the triumph of the reformed faith. Philip subdued Portugal, and
sent the huge Spanish Armada to conquer England, the illustrious
heretic Elizabeth having succeeded to Mary. But the storms and the
English together were too much for him. He showed resignation and
dignity, however, when the admiral in command announced this misfortune
to him. He married Elizabeth of Valois after Mary's death.

It is probable that Don Carlos inherited the personal pride and hauteur
of his race, and he is said to have treated Alva with rudeness on a
public occasion, only because the Duke was a little late in paying his
respects to him. Alva, as a noble, had his share of pride, and being,
moreover, malignant, never forgave this.

But the rivalry of these two personages in desiring the government
of the revolted Netherlands is a more probable cause of the affront,
for it seems to have been just before the Duke proceeded thither as
Governor, when he went to take leave of Carlos, that it occurred.
Philip had refused the post to his son, and given it to Alva. Carlos is
even said by some to have threatened the Duke with his sword; but, if
so, it seems likely that something in the words or triumphant demeanour
of the latter provoked the hotheaded youth beyond endurance. This
spirited and aspiring Prince was evidently far more liberal in religion
and politics than his father, a disposition likely to be intensified
by the fact that his father persistently kept him in tutelage, and
forbade him all participation in the management of public affairs,
which he so ardently coveted. That he entered into correspondence with
the gallant men striving for liberty of conscience and nationality in
the Low Countries seems certain. This was a pretext and motive for his
arrest, imprisonment, and murder. But jealous suspicion that the Queen,
promised and betrothed by Philip himself to his own son, cared too much
for that son, and more than suspicion that Carlos cared too much for
her, afforded a motive yet more powerful. Elizabeth of France (daughter
of Henry II. ) was put to death about the same time, and the Prince of
Orange openly accused Philip of these murders, alleging that they were
committed in order that he might be free to marry his own niece, Anne
of Austria. Carlos is variously reported to have been killed by poison,
strangulation, or opening his veins in a bath. Philip died in 1598. His
character has been well suggested and outlined in a recent play, Lord
Tennyson's "Queen Mary. "

[Illustration]


TO HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE DUKE. [6]

Sir,

'Tis an approved opinion, there is not so unhappy a creature in the
world as the man that wants ambition; for certainly he lives to very
little use that only toils in the same round, and because he knows
where he is, though in a dirty road, dares not venture on a smoother
path for fear of being lost. That I am not the wretch I condemn,
your Royal Highness may be sufficiently convinced, in that I durst
presume to put this poem under your patronage. My motives to it were
not ordinary: for besides my own propensity to take an opportunity
of publishing the extreme devotion I owe your Royal Highness, the
mighty encouragement I received from your approbation of it when
presented on the stage was hint enough to let me know at whose feet
it ought to be laid. Yet, whilst I do this, I am sensible the curious
world will expect some panegyric on those heroic virtues which are
throughout it so much admired. But, as they are a theme too great for
my undertaking, so only to endeavour at the truth of them must, in the
distance between my obscurity and their height, savour of a flattery,
which in your Royal Highness's esteem I would not be thought guilty
of; though in that part of them which relates to myself (viz. , your
favours showered on a thing so mean as I am) I know not how to be
silent. For you were not only so indulgent as to bestow your praise on
this, but even (beyond my hopes) to declare in favour of my first essay
of this nature, and add yet the encouragement of your commands to go
forward, when I had the honour to kiss your Royal Highness's hand, in
token of your permission to make a dedication to you of the second. I
must confess, and boast I am very proud of it; and it were enough to
make me more, were I not sensible how far I am undeserving. Yet when
I consider you never give your favours precipitately, but that it is
a certain sign of some desert when you vouchsafe to promote, I, who
have terminated my best hopes in it, should do wrong to your goodness,
should I not let the world know my mind, as well as my condition,
is raised by it. I am certain none that know your Royal Highness
will disapprove my aspiring to the service of so great and so good a
master; one who (as is apparent to all those who have the honour to be
near you and know you by that title) never raised without merit, or
discountenanced without justice. It is that, indeed, obliging severity
which has in all men created an awful love and respect towards you;
since in the firmness of your resolution the brave and good man is sure
of you, whilst the ill-minded and malignant fears you. This I could not
pass over; and I hope your Royal Highness will pardon it, since it is
unaffectedly my zeal to you, who am in nothing so unfortunate, as that
I have not a better opportunity to let you and the world know how much
I am,

Your Royal Highness's
Most humble, most faithful, and most obedient Servant,
THO. OTWAY.

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PREFACE. ]

Reader,

'Tis not that I have any great affection to scribbling, that I pester
thee with a preface; for, amongst friends, 'tis almost as poor a trade
with poets, as it is with those that write hackney under attorneys;
it will hardly keep us in ale and cheese. Honest Ariosto began to be
sensible of it in his time, who makes his complaint to this purpose:

I pity those who in these latter days
Do write, when bounty hath shut up her gate:
Where day and night in vain good writers knock,
And for their labour oft have but a mock.

Thus I find it according to Sir John Harington's translation; had I
understood Italian, I would have given it thee in the original, but
that is not my talent; therefore to proceed: this Play was the second
that ever I writ, or thought of writing. I must confess, I had often
a titillation to poetry, but never durst venture on my muse, till I
got her into a corner in the country; and then, like a bashful young
lover, when I had her in private, I had courage to fumble, but never
thought she would have produced anything; till at last, I know not
how, ere I was aware, I found myself father of a dramatic birth, which
I called _Alcibiades_; but I might, without offence to any person in
the play, as well have called it _Nebuchadnezzar_; for my hero, to
do him right, was none of that squeamish gentleman I make him, but
would as little have boggled at the obliging the passion of a young
and beautiful lady as I should myself, had I the same opportunities
which I have given him. This I publish to antedate the objections some
people may make against that play, who have been (and much good may it
do them! ) very severe, as they think, upon this. Whoever they are, I
am sure I never disobliged them: nor have they (thank my good fortune)
much injured me. In the meanwhile I forgive them, and, since I am out
of the reach on't, leave them to chew the cud on their own venom. I
am well satisfied I had the greatest party of men of wit and sense on
my side; amongst which I can never enough acknowledge the unspeakable
obligations I received from the Earl of R. ,[7] who, far above what I am
ever able to deserve from him, seemed almost to make it his business to
establish it in the good opinion of the King and his Royal Highness;
from both of whom I have since received confirmation of their good
liking of it, and encouragement to proceed. And it is to him, I must
in all gratitude confess, I owe the greatest part of my good success
in this, and on whose indulgency I extremely build my hopes of a next.
I dare not presume to take to myself what a great many, and those (I
am sure) of good judgment too, have been so kind to afford me--viz. ,
that it is the best heroic play that has been written of late; for, I
thank Heaven, I am not yet so vain. But this I may modestly boast of,
which the author[8] of the French _Berenice_ has done before me, in his
preface to that play, that it never failed to draw tears from the eyes
of the auditors; I mean, those whose hearts were capable of so noble
a pleasure: for it was not my business to take such as only come to a
playhouse to see farce-fools, and laugh at their own deformed pictures.
Though a certain writer that shall be nameless[9] (but you shall guess
at him by what follows), being asked his opinion of this play, very
gravely cocked, and cried, "I'gad, he knew not a line in it he would be
author of. "[10] But he is a fine facetious witty person, as my friend
Sir Formal has it; and to be even with him, I know a comedy of his,
that has not so much as a quibble in it that I would be author of. And
so, Reader, I bid him and thee Farewell.

FOOTNOTES:

[5]

To gain by honourable ways
A great man's favour is no vulgar praise. --_Conington. _



[6] James, Duke of York, afterwards James II.

[7] Rochester, whose motive in patronising Otway at this time was
solely a desire to mortify Dryden.

[8] Racine.

[9] Dryden.

[10] It will be remembered that _I'gad_ is an expression frequently
used by Bayes in the _Rehearsal_; a character written in ridicule of
Davenant, Dryden, the Howards, &c, by the Duke of Buckingham (Dryden's
Zimri), Butler, and others.

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_PROLOGUE_]


When first our author took this play in hand,
He doubted much, and long was at a stand.
He knew the fame and memory of kings
Were to be treated of as sacred things,
Not as they're represented in this age,
Where they appear the lumber of the stage;
Used only just for reconciling tools,
Or what is worse, made villains all, or fools.
Besides, the characters he shows to-night,
He found were very difficult to write:
He found the fame of France and Spain at stake,
Therefore long paused, and feared which part to take;
Till this his judgment safest understood,
To make them both heroic as he could.
But now the greatest stop was yet unpassed;
He found himself, alas! confined too fast.
He is a man of pleasure, sirs, like you,
And therefore hardly could to business bow;
Till at the last he did this conquest get,
To make his pleasure whetstone to his wit;
So sometimes for variety he writ.
But as those blockheads, who discourse by rote,
Sometimes speak sense, although they rarely know't;
So he scarce knew to what his work would grow,
But 'twas a play, because it would be so:
Yet well he knows this is a weak pretence,
For idleness is the worst want of sense.
Let him not now of carelessness be taxed,
He'll write in earnest, when he writes the next:
Meanwhile,--
Prune his superfluous branches, never spare;
Yet do it kindly, be not too severe:
He may bear better fruit another year.

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_DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. _]


PHILIP II. , King of Spain.
DON CARLOS, his Son.
DON JOHN of Austria.
Marquis of POSA, the Prince's Confidant.
RUY-GOMEZ.
Officer of the Guards.

QUEEN OF SPAIN.
Duchess of EBOLI, Wife of Ruy-Gomez.
HENRIETTA.
GARCIA.

SCENE--THE COURT OF SPAIN.

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[Illustration]

_DON CARLOS, PRINCE OF SPAIN. _




ACT THE FIRST.


SCENE I. --_An Apartment in the Palace. _

KING _and_ QUEEN, Don CARLOS, _the_ Marquis of POSA,
RUY-GOMEZ, _the_ Duchess of EBOLI, HENRIETTA,
GARCIA, Attendants, _and_ Guards _discovered_.

King. Happy the monarch, on whose brow no cares
Add weight to the bright diadem he wears;
Like me, in all that he can wish for, blest.
Renown and love, the gentlest calms of rest,
And peace, adorn my brow, enrich my breast.
To me great nations tributary are;
Though, whilst my vast dominions spread so far,
Where most I reign, I must pay homage, here. [_To the_ QUEEN.

Approach, bright mistress of my purest vows:
Now show me him that more religion owes
To Heaven, or to its altars more devoutly bows.

_Don Car. _ So merchants, cast upon some savage coast,
Are forced to see their dearest treasures lost.
Curse! what's obedience? a false notion made
By priests, who when they found old cheats decayed,
By such new arts kept up declining trade. [_Aside. _
A father! Oh!

_King. _ Why does my Carlos shroud
His joy, and when all's sunshine wear a cloud?
My son, thus for thy glory I provide;
From this fair charmer, and our royal bride,
Shall such a noble race of heroes spring,
As may adorn the court when thou art king.

_Don Car. _ A greater glory I can never know
Than what already I enjoy in you.
The brightest ornaments of crowns and powers
I only can admire, as they are yours.

_King. _ Heaven! how he stands unmoved! not the least show
Of transport.

_Don Car. _ Not admire your happiness? I do
As much admire it as I reverence you.
Let me express the mighty joy I feel:
Thus, sir, I pay my duty when I kneel. [_Kneels to the_ QUEEN.

_Queen. _ How hard it is his passion to confine!
I'm sure 'tis so, if I may judge by mine. [_Aside. _
Alas! my lord, you're too obsequious now. [_To_ Don CARLOS.

_Don Car. _ Oh! might I but enjoy this pleasure still,
Here would I worship, and for ever kneel.

_Queen. _ 'Fore Heaven, my lord! you know not what you do.

_King. _ Still there appears disturbance on his brow;
And in his looks an earnestness I read,
Which from no common causes can proceed. [_Aside. _
I'll probe him deep. When, when, my dearest joy,
[_To the_ QUEEN.
Shall I the mighty debt of love defray?
Hence to love's secret temple let's retire,
There on his altars kindle the amorous fire,
Then, phoenix-like, each in the flame expire. --
Still he is fixed. [_Looking on_ Don CARLOS. ] Gomez, observe
the prince. --
Yet smile on me, my charming excellence.
[_To the_ QUEEN.
Virgins should only fears and blushes show;
But you must lay aside that title now.
The doctrine which I preach, by Heaven, is good:--
Oh, the impetuous sallies of my blood!

_Queen. _ To what unwelcome joys I'm forced to yield?
Now fate her utmost malice has fulfilled.
Carlos, farewell; for since I must submit--

_King. _ Now, winged with rapture, let us fly, my sweet.
My son, all troubles from thy breast resign,
And let thy father's happiness be thine.

[_Exeunt_ KING _and_ QUEEN,
RUY-GOMEZ, Duchess of EBOLI,
HENRIETTA, GARCIA, _and_ Attendants.

_Don Car. _ What king, what god would not his power forego,
To enjoy so much divinity below!
Didst thou behold her, Posa?

_M. of Posa. _ Sir, I did.

_Don Car. _ And is she not a sweet one? Such a bride!
O Posa, once she was decreed for mine:
Once I had hopes of bliss. Hadst thou but seen
How blest, how proud I was if I could get
But leave to lie a prostrate at her feet!
Even with a look I could my pains beguile;
Nay, she in pity too would sometimes smile;
Till at the last my vows successful proved,
And one day, sighing, she confessed she loved.
Oh! then I found no limits to our joy,
With eyes thus languishing we looked all day;
So vigorous and strong we darted beams,
Our meeting glances kindled into flames;
Nothing we found that promised not delight:
For when rude shades deprived us of the light,
As we had gazed all day, we dreamt all night.
But, after all these labours undergone,
A cruel father thus destroys his son;
In their full height my choicest hopes beguiles,
And robs me of the fruit of all my toils.
My dearest Posa, thou wert ever kind;
Bring thy best counsel, and direct my mind.

_Re-enter_ RUY-GOMEZ.

_Ruy-Gom. _ Still he is here. My lord!

_Don Car. _ Your business now?

_Ruy-Gom. _ I've with concern beheld your clouded brow.