_Venice Preserved_, Otway's most memorable work, though inferior in mere poetry and unstudied simplicity to _The Orphan_, surpasses it in tragic grandeur, in variety of action, and in intensity of interest. It has the further great advantage that the interest does not entirely arise from the situation, but that at least one of the characters is a skilful piece of painting from the life, and very probably from the author. In Jaffier we have a vivid portrait of the man who is entirely governed by the affections, and who sways from ardent resolution to a weakness hardly distinguishable from treachery, as friendship and love alternately incline him. The little we know of Otway warrants the impression that he was such a man, and assuredly he could not have excited such warm interest in a character so feeble in his offence, so abject in his repentance, and in general so perilously verging on the despicable, without a keen sympathy with the subject of his portrait. _Tout comprendre c'est tout pardonner._ Pierre, though an imposing figure, is much less subtly painted than his friend; and Belvidera, her husband's evil genius, interests only through her sorrows. The 'despicable scenes of low farce' which eke the drama out, are a grievous blot upon it. M. Taine may be right in deeming some comic relief allowable, but such trash is neither relief nor comedy. The language of the serious portion of the play, however, is in general dignified and tragic. Perhaps the best conducted, as it is the best known, is that in which Pierre spurns the remorseful Jaffier: '_Jaff._ I must be heard, I must have leave to speak. Thou hast disgraced me, Pierre, by a vile blow: Had not a dagger done thee nobler justice? But use me as thou wilt, thou canst not wrong me, For I am fallen beneath the basest injuries; Yet look upon me with an eye of mercy, With pity and with charity behold me; Shut not thy heart against a friend's repentance, But, as there dwells a godlike nature in thee, Listen with mildness to my supplications. _Pier._ What whining monk art thou? what holy cheat, That wouldst encroach upon my credulous ears, But cant'st thus vilely? Hence! I know thee not. Dissemble and be nasty: leave me, hypocrite. _Jaff._ Not know me, Pierre? _Pier._ No, know thee not: what art thou? _Jaff._ Jaffier, thy friend, thy once loved, valued friend, Though now deservedly scorned, and used most hardly.