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
[331] 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.
[332] 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 [333] 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.