TERENCE’S ANDRIAN.

TERENCE’S
ANDRIAN,
A Comedy, in Five Acts,
TRANSLATED INTO
ENGLISH PROSE,
WITH
CRITICAL AND EXPLANATORY NOTES,
BY

W. R. GOODLUCK, Jun.

The Athenian and Roman plays were written with such a regard to morality,
that Socrates used to frequent the one, and Cicero the other.

Spectator; No. 446.

LONDON:
PRINTED FOR LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, AND BROWN,
PATERNOSTER-ROW.

1820.

LONDON:
Printed by W. Clowes, Northumberland-court.

PREFACE.

If an apology for the following translation cannot be found in the work itself, it would be to little purpose to insert it in the Preface. I have attempted to present to the public the most celebrated dramatist of ancient Rome, in such a dress as may enable the English reader, learned and unlearned equally, to relish, in his own language, the beauties of this great poet. Though the original is composed in verse, I have employed prose in this translation, because the verse of Terence approaches so very nearly to prose, that in prose only is it possible to adhere faithfully to the words, and particularly to the style of our author; as we have in our language no measure of verse at all corresponding with that used by Terence.

To the learned reader, the number of the subjoined Notes may, perhaps, seem excessive; and the minuteness of description which characterizes many of them, may appear unnecessary; but, though this work was not written professedly for the schools, yet the Notes were not composed entirely without a view to the instruction of the young student; and, as translations are supposed to be made chiefly for the use of the unlearned, who cannot be expected to be much acquainted with the manners and customs of the ancients; I thought it better, if I erred at all, to err on the safe side, and to repeat to some of my readers something that they knew before, rather than run the risk of permitting any one of them to remain unacquainted with it altogether. A French translator of Terence, the learned and indefatigable Madame Dacier, has judged a still greater number of Notes than I have subjoined in this work, necessary to elucidate various passages in her translation of the play of the Andrian, and of Suetonius’s Life of our author. One remark may be added on this subject; it must be considered that many of the explanatory Notes affixed to the play of the Andrian, tend to the general elucidation of the various passages in the remaining five plays of Terence; and I think I may venture to hope, that the Notes in general, will, in many instances, be found useful in the exposition of many passages in the Latin and Greek classics.

I am induced to publish this play singly, with a view of ascertaining whether a translation of Terence’s comedies on this plan may meet with sufficient approbation to encourage the appearance of the remaining five plays: as I propose to give a complete translation of the works of this celebrated author, if the present attempt should be honoured with a favourable reception. I may say, in the words of Terence himself,

“Favete, adeste æquo animo, et rem cognoscite,

Ut pernoscatis, ecquid spei sit reliquum,

Posthac quas faciet de integro comœdias,

Spectandæ, an exigendæ sint vobis priùs.”

And now deign to favour the play with your attention, and give it an impartial hearing, that you may know what is in future to be expected from the poet, and whether the comedies that he may write hereafter, will be worthy to be accepted, or to be rejected by you.—Prologue to the Andrian.

These lines contain very strong presumptive proof that the Andrian was Terence’s first production; and, for that reason, it has been selected for this essay, and not on account of its being supposed to be superior to his other plays: for so great, so steady was the equality of this poet’s genius, that no critic of eminence, ancient or modern, could ever yet venture to assign to any one of his plays a claim of superiority to the rest. The celebrated Scaliger has asserted that there were not more than three faults in the six plays of Terence.

The ancients seem to have been least partial to the Step-mother: Volcatius says,

“Sumetur Hecyra sexta ex his fabula.”

The Step-mother is reckoned the last of the six. This was the only piece written by our author, in which the plot was single; and the want of a double plot, which the Romans then preferred, was, doubtless, the reason of its being postponed to Terence’s other productions.

The force of custom has given authority to an erroneous disposition of these comedies, which are usually printed in the following order:

• The Andrian,
• The Eunuch,
• The Self-tormentor,
• The Brothers,
• The Step-mother,
• The Phormio.

They were written and represented at Rome as follows:

The original cause of the order of these plays being changed by the ancient transcribers is not known; though it is conjectured that they classed them thus, that the four plays taken from Menander might be placed together. This leads me to mention Terence’s close imitation of the Greek dramatists, amounting, in fact, to a partial translation of them; and it is necessary to bear this in mind during a perusal of his writings, lest, under the impression that this author wrote originally in Latin, the reader should forget that the scene is always laid in Greece; that the persons of the drama are not Romans but Greeks; and that, consequently, the manners, customs, names, and things, there mentioned, are almost uniformly Grecian.

Roman literature had emerged from obscurity just previous to the times of Terence: that sun, which was destined to shed its splendour over all future ages, was then scarcely risen from the darkness which shrouded it during the rude infancy of the Roman commonwealth; and even for a long period after Rome assumed the highest rank in the scale of nations. Livius Andronicus, the first poet of eminence, wrote dramatic pieces in the year of Rome 513. He was followed by Nævius, Ennius, Tegula, and Cæcilius; next comes Pacuvius, who excelled in tragedies; then follow Plautus and his cotemporaries Plautius, Aquilius, and Acutius; and, lastly, Terence brought the Latin drama to its highest perfection about the year of Rome 590, eighty years after its first appearance. But, in Greece, dramatic writing had attained the highest pitch of excellence under Menander, more than one hundred years before; and the Latin poets copied most closely from the refined writings of the Greeks. At that time, and for many years after, Greek was almost as much in fashion at Rome, as French has of late years been in fashion in England: it formed a necessary branch of a polite education; and many of the Romans quitted their native city, and resided in Greece a considerable time, for the purpose of perfecting themselves in the Greek language, and enjoying the advantage of associating themselves with the philosophers and other learned men of that country.

Our author, therefore, complied with the taste of the age, and no man succeeded better in making the Greek poets speak Latin. He copied chiefly from Menander: the four entire plays, the Andrian, the Eunuch, the Self-tormentor, and the Brothers, were taken from the writings of that great poet, as were also some parts of the Step-mother and the Phormio.

Terence’s great rival in dramatic fame was Marcus Accius Plautus, who flourished a few years before him; and has left twenty comedies replete with wit and spirit. To draw a comparison at length, between these great poets, would be an undertaking by no means suited to a Preface; and far more arduous than I should at present feel prepared to enter into: the learned Madame Dacier very happily observes, “Il est certain qu’il n’y a rien de plus difficile que cette espèce de critique qui consiste à juger des hommes, et à faire voir les avantages qu’ils ont les uns sur les autres. Il y a tant d’égards à observer; tant de rapports à unir, tant de différences à peser, que c’est une chose presque infinie; et il semble que pour s’en bien acquitter, il faudroit avoir une esprit supérieur à ceux dont on juge, comme il est nécessaire que la main qui se sert d’une balance soit plus forte que les choses quelle veut peser.”—It is certain, that no species of criticism is more difficult than that which consists of judging generally of an author; and in pointing out those excellencies, in which he is superior to other writers. There are so many points to be considered, so many similarities to be compared with each other, so many differences to be weighed against each other, that the task is almost endless; and appears to require talents superior to those of the person whose productions are to be criticised; as the hand which holds the balance ought to possess a power more than equal to the weight of whatever is to be placed in it.

Most of those critics who have undertaken to compare Terence and Plautus with each other, have, on a general estimate of their merits, decided in favour of Terence; though in one or two particular excellencies they allow Plautus to have surpassed him. They judged Plautus to be chiefly recommended by his humour, by the amusing variety of his incidents, by the liveliness and spirit of his action, and by his rich, agreeable, and witty style. Terence they praise for his delicacy of expression, his unequalled skill in the delineation of characters and of manners, and in the construction and management of his plots, for the well-timed introduction of his incidents, and for the evenness, purity, and chasteness of his style.

Terentio non similem dices quempiam.—Afranius.

Terence stands unrivalled.

One natural defect the critics have charged Terence with, and only one, viz., the want of what the ancients called the vis comica, which is usually interpreted humour: and, in this requisite, they judged him to have fallen short of Plautus. One fault also is objected against him, being no less than a direct breach of the rules of dramatic writing; which is, that he makes the actors directly address the audience in their assumed characters; as in the fourth scene of the first act of the Andrian, and also in the last scene of the last act. Against the latter charge, no defence can be made, except we urge the authority of custom; but the imputation against our author of a want of humour may, in a great measure, be repelled.

The vis comica of the ancients, though we translate it by the word humour, which approaches nearer to its true signification than any other expression in our language, could not have been exactly the same kind of humour with that of our own times; which has been usually considered as peculiar to the English drama, and has not even a name in any other modern language. If we allow the vis comica, or comic force, to be divided into two species, namely, the vis comica of the action, and the vis comica of the dialogue, (and is there not a humour of action, as there is of words?) we must also allow, that Terence’s writings, far from being devoid of the humour of action, are replete with it throughout. The Eunuch, particularly, abounds with this kind of humour, especially in the eighth scene of the fourth act, where Thraso forms his line of battle; and, in the fifth, sixth, and seventh scenes of the last act, between Laches, Pythias, and Parmeno, which are specimens of the vis comica of action, not inferior to many of the witty Plautus’s attempts to exhibit this species of dramatic manners.

I shall conclude by giving the reader some account of the rise and conduct of dramatic entertainments at Rome: which cannot be so conveniently introduced in the Notes. A knowledge of these things is very necessary to a right understanding of Terence’s plays; as his mode of writing could not be reconciled to the modern method of dramatic representation, which differs very materially from the ancient manner.

About an hundred and twenty years before regular plays were first exhibited at Rome, a sort of entertainment called ludi scenici was introduced there by the Etrurians: it consisted merely of dancing to the sound of a pipe. This simple amusement was soon improved upon, and the dancers began also to speak. They spouted a species of rude satirical verses, in which they threw out rough jests, raillery, and repartee against each other: these were called Saturnian verses, or Satires, from their god Saturn: hence this name was afterwards applied to poetry composed for the purpose of lashing vice or folly. The Saturnian verses, set to music, and accompanied by dancing, continued a favourite diversion, till they were superseded by regular plays about the year of Rome 515. The places where they were represented, (called theatra, theatres, from a Greek word signifying to see,) were originally tents, erected in the country, under the shade of some lofty trees: afterwards they performed in temporary buildings formed of wood: one of these is recorded to have been large enough to contain eighty thousand spectators. Pompey the Great erected the first permanent theatre: it was built of stone, and of a size sufficient to accommodate forty thousand persons.

Some critics have objected against Terence, that he is guilty of an impropriety in making one actor speak very frequently without being heard by another; and introducing two or more persons on the stage, who, though they are both of them seen by the spectators, yet do not perceive each other for a considerable space of time. These objections are easily answered when we reflect on the magnificent size of the Roman theatres. An ingenious writer of the last century has given a very clear explanation of this subject: I shall give it in his own words.

“Some make this objection, that in the beginning of many scenes, two actors enter upon the stage, and talk to themselves a considerable time before they see or know one another; which they say is neither probable nor natural. Those that object to this don’t consider the great difference between our little scanty stage and the large magnificent Roman theatres. Their stage was sixty yards wide in the front, their scenes so many streets meeting together, with all by-lanes, rows, and alleys; so that two actors coming down two different streets or lanes, couldn’t be seen by each other, though the spectators might see both; and sometimes, if they did see each other, they couldn’t well distinguish faces at sixty yards’ distance. Besides, upon several accounts, it might well be supposed when an actor enters upon the stage out of some house, he might take a turn or two under the porticoes, cloisters, or the like, (that were usual at that time,) about his door, and take no notice of an actor’s being on the other side of the stage.”

Of course, the extensive size of the Roman theatres made it impossible that the natural voice of the actors should be distinctly heard at the distance they stood from the audience: to remedy this inconvenience, they had recourse to a sort of mask, which covered both the head and the face: it was called persona, from two Latin words, signifying to sound through: the mouth of this mask was made very large, and with thin plates of brass they contrived to swell the sound of the voice, and, at the same time, to vary its tones, so as to accord with the passions they wished to express. Instructions in the use of these masks formed an essential and important branch of the education of a Roman actor.

The plays represented at Rome were divided into two classes: 1. the palliatæ, 2. the togatæ. In the first, the characters of the piece were entirely Grecian: in the latter, they were entirely Roman. The second class, viz., the togatæ, were subdivided into the prætextatæ, when the play was tragedy: the tabernariæ, when the scenes lay in low life: the atellanæ, or farces: and the trabeatæ, when the scene lay in the camp: they had likewise mimes and pantomimes.

The chorus consisted sometimes of one person, though generally of several, who stood on the stage during the representation, at first, without any share in the action of the piece: some suppose that they were there partly in the character of spectators: if this conjecture be correct, Terence may be excused for making the actors address them. Their business seems originally to have been singing between the pauses in the action, and delivering moral reflections on what was represented on the stage: afterwards they were incorporated with the action, as a species of attendants. These theatrical appendages were at last laid aside, because it was thought to appear improbable, that intrigues, which usually are to be kept secret, should be carried on in their presence.

Flutes were played during the whole time of the performance, and the chief musician beating time, directed the actors when they were to raise, and when they were to depress their voices. Sometimes one person recited the words, and another performed the action of the same part. The tibiæ, or flutes, were of various kinds: the best account of the manner in which they were used is given us by Madame Dacier, as follows:

“The performers played on two flutes during the whole of the representation. They stopped the vents of one of them with the right hand: that flute was, therefore, called right handed: the other was stopped with the left, and called a left-handed flute. In the first, there were but a few holes; which occasioned it to give a deep, bass sound: in the other, the holes were very numerous: this flute sounded a sharp shrill note.

“When a comedy was accompanied by two flutes of a different sound, it was said to be played Tibiis imparibus dextris et sinistris, unequal flutes, right and left handed. When the flutes were of the same sound, it was said to be played Tibiis paribus dextris, with equal right-handed flutes, if they were of a deep sound: and Tibiis paribus sinistris, with equal left-handed flutes, when they were of a sharp shrill sound. The right-handed flutes were called Lydian; the left-handed Tyrian; the unequal Phrygian; as were also the crooked flutes.”

The tragic and comic actors were distinguished from each other by the covering of their feet. The tragedians wore a sort of boot, called cothurnus, with a very high heel; which was intended to give them a commanding, majestic appearance. The comedians wore a light shoe, or slipper, called soccus.

The Romans appear to have been very partial to dramatic entertainments. Magistrates were appointed to exhibit them: and the people even devoted to the theatre part of that time which is usually allotted to more weighty concerns: as their plays were usually performed in the day-time. Magnificent theatres were erected at the public expense; and sometimes even by private individuals. A description of one of these buildings is recorded by Pliny. The scenes were divided into three partitions, one above another. The first consisted of one hundred and twenty marble pillars; the second of the same number of pillars, most curiously covered and ornamented with glass: the third of the same number of pillars, covered with gilded tablets. Three thousand brazen statues filled up the spaces between the pillars. This theatre would contain eighty thousand persons. Independently of the ordinary representations, plays were performed on all solemn occasions: at the public feasts and games, and at the funerals of eminent citizens. No opportunity seems to have been neglected to introduce this species of amusement at Rome: no nation, ancient or modern, appears to have cultivated the drama with greater diligence than the Romans; and few have had more success. It is our misfortune, that so few specimens of the excellence of their dramatists have descended to our times. Let us, however, admire and profit by what we have. The writings of Terence and of Plautus present us with an inexhaustible source of pleasure and instruction. As long as virtuous and humane sentiments do not lose their appeal to the heart; as long as purity, delicacy of expression, wit, and spirit, and well-wrought fable continue to satisfy the judgment; so long the names of Terence and of Plautus must remain immortal.

THE

LIFE OF TERENCE,

Translated from the Latin
OF
CAIUS SUETONIUS TRANQUILLUS[1].

Publius Terentius[2], born at Carthage, in Africa, was slave to Terentius Lucanus, a Roman senator: who, justly appreciating his great abilities, gave him not only a polite education, but also his liberty in the earlier part of his life. He is supposed by some to have been made a prisoner of war: but Fenestella[3] refutes this opinion; as [4]Terence was born after the conclusion of the second Punic war, and died before the commencement of the third: neither, if he had been made a captive by the [5]Numidians, or Getulians, could he have fallen into the hands of the Romans, as there was no commerce between the Italians and Africans, before the destruction of Carthage.

Terence lived in the closest intimacy with many of the Roman nobility, but particularly with Scipio Africanus[6] and Caius Lælius[7], who were about his own age[8], though Fenestella makes Terence rather older than either of them. Portius[9] commemorates their friendship in the following verses:

Dum lasciviam nobilium; et fucosas laudes petit:

Dum Africani vocem divinam inhiat avidis auribus:

Dum ad Furium se cœnitare et Lælium pulchrum putat:

Dum se amari ab hisce credit, crebro in Albanum rapi

Ob florem ætatis suæ, ipsus sublatis rebus ad summam

Inopiam redactus est.

Itaque e conspectu omnium abiit in Græciam in terram ultimam.

Mortuus est in Stymphalo Arcadiæ oppido: nihil Publius

Scipio profuit, nihil ei Lælius, nihil Furius;

Tres per idem tempus qui agitabant nobiles facillime,

Eorum ille opera ne domum quidem habuit conductitiam,

Saltem ut esset, quo referret obitum domini servulus.

“While Terence joins in the pleasures of the nobles, and seeks their empty praise; while he listens with delight to the divine voice of Africanus; and thinks himself most happy to sup with Lælius and with Furius[10]; while he believes them to be his true friends; while he is frequently carried to the [11]Albanian villa; his property is spent, and he himself reduced to the greatest poverty: on which account he goes, avoiding all mankind, to the most distant parts of Greece, and dies at Stymphalus[12], a town in Arcadia: his three great friends Scipio, Lælius, and Furius, give him no assistance; nor even enable him to hire a house; that there might, at least, be a place where his slave might announce to Rome his master’s death.”

He wrote six comedies: when the first of them, the Andrian, was presented to the Ædiles[13]; he was desired to read it to Cærius[14]; he accordingly repaired to his house, and found him at supper; and, being meanly dressed, was seated on a stool near the couch of Cærius[15], where he commenced the reading of his play; but Cærius had no sooner heard the first few lines than he invited the poet to sup with him; after which, the play was read, to the great admiration of Cærius, who betowed on the author the most unbounded applause. The other five comedies met with equal commendation from the Romans, though Volcatius[16], in his enumeration of them, says,

Sumetur Hecyra sexta ex his fabula.

The Step-mother is reckoned the last of the six.

The Eunuch was acted twice in one day[17]; and the author received for it a higher price than was ever paid for any comedy before that time, viz., eight thousand sesterces[18]: on account of the magnitude of the sum, it is mentioned in the title of that play. Varro[19] even prefers the opening scenes of the Brothers of Terence to the same part in Menander. The report that Terence was indebted to Scipio and Lælius, with whom he was so intimate, for parts of his comedies, is well known; and he himself scarcely seems to have discouraged the assertion, as he never seriously denies it: witness the Prologue to the Brothers:

Nam quod isti dicunt malevoli, homines nobiles

Eum adjutare, assidueque una scribere:

Quod illi maledictum vehemens existimant,

Eam laudem hic ducit maximam, cum illis placet

Qui vobis universis, et populo placent:

Quorum opera in bello, in otio, in negotio

Suo quisque tempore usus est sine superbia.

“And as for what those malicious railers say[20], who assert that certain noble persons assist the poet, and very frequently write with him, what they think a reproach, he considers as the highest praise; that he should be thought to please those who please you, and all Rome; those who have assisted every one in war, and peace, and even in their private affairs, with the greatest services; and yet have been always free from arrogance.” It is likely, that he might wish, in some measure, to encourage this idea, because he knew that it would not be displeasing to Scipio and Lælius: however, the opinion has gained ground, and is strongly entertained even to the present day. Quintus Memmius[21], in an oration in his own defence, says,

Publius Africanus, qui a Terentio personam mutuatus, quæ domi luserat ipse, nomine illius in scenam detulit.——

“Publius Africanus, who borrowed the name of Terence for those plays which he composed at home for his diversion.——”

Cornelius Nepos[22] asserts, that he has it from the very first authority, that Caius Lælius being at his country-house at [23]Puteoli, on the first of March[24], and being called to supper by his wife at an earlier hour than usual, requested that he might not be interrupted; and afterwards coming to table very late, he declared that he had scarcely ever succeeded better in composition than at that time; and, being asked to repeat the verses, he read the following from the Self-tormentor, Act IV, Scene III.

Satis pol proterve me Syri promissa huc induxerunt

Decem minas quas mihi dare pollicitus est, quod si is nunc me

Deceperit, sæpe obsecrans me, ut veniam, frustra veniet:

Aut, cum venturam dixero, et constituero, cum is certe

Renunciârit; Clitiphon cum in spe pendebit animi

Decipiam, ac non veniam; Syrus mihi tergo pænas pendet.

“Truly this Syrus has coaxed me hither, impertinently enough, with his fine promises that I should receive ten minæ; but, if he deceives me this time, ’twill be to no purpose to ask me to come again; or, if I promise, and appoint to come, I’ll take good care to disappoint him. Clitipho, who will be full of eager hope to see me, will I deceive, and will not come; and Syrus’ back shall pay the penalty.”

Santra[25] thinks, that if Terence had required any assistance in his comedies; he would not have requested it from Scipio and Lælius, who were then extremely young[26]; but from [27]Caius Sulpicius Gallus, a man of great learning, who also was the first person who procured[28] the representation of comedies at the consular games or from [29]Quintus Fabius Labeo; or from[30] Marcus Popilius Lænas, two eminent poets, and persons[31] of consular dignity: and Terence himself, speaking of those who were reported to have assisted him, does not mention them as young men, but as persons of weight and experience, who had served the Romans in peace, in war, and in private business.

After the publication of his six comedies, he quitted Rome, in the thirty-fifth year of his age, and returned no more. Some suppose that he undertook this journey with a view to silence the reports of his receiving assistance from others in the composition of his plays: others, that he went with a design to inform himself more perfectly of the manners and customs of Greece.

Volcatius speaks of his death as follows:

Sed ut Afer sex populo edidit comœdias

Iter hinc in Asiam fecit: navim cum semel

Conscendit, visus nunquam est. Sic vita vacat.

“Terence, after having written six comedies, embarked for Asia, and was seen no more. He perished at sea.”

Quintus Consentius[32] writes, that he died at sea, as he was returning from Greece, with one hundred and eight plays, translated from Menander[33]. Other writers affirm, that he died at Stymphalus, a town in Arcadia, or in Leucadia[34], in the consulate of[35] Cneus Cornelius Dolabella and Marcus Fulvius Nobilior, and that his end was hastened by extreme grief for the loss of the comedies which he had translated, and some others which he had composed himself, and sent before him in a vessel which was afterwards wrecked.

He is said to have been of a middle stature, well-shaped, and of a dark complexion. He left one daughter, who was afterwards married to [36]a Roman knight, and bequeathed to her a garden of [37]XX jugera, near the Appian Way, and close to the [38]Villa Martis: it is therefore surprising that Portius should write thus:

——nihil Publius

Scipio profuit, nihil ei Lælius, nihil Furius:

Tres per idem tempus qui agitabant nobiles facillime,

Eorum ille opera ne domum quidem habuit conductitiam:

Saltem ut esset, quo referret obitum domini servulus.

“His three great friends, Scipio, Lælius, and Furius, give him no assistance, nor even enable him to hire a house, that there might at least be a place where his slave might announce to Rome his master’s death.”

Afranius[39] prefers Terence to all the comic poets, saying, in his Compitalia[40].

Terentio non similem dices quempiam.
“Terence is without an equal.”

But Volcatius places him not only after [41]Nævius, [42]Plautus, and [43]Cæcilius, but even after [44]Licinius. [45]Cicero, in his ΛΕΙΜΩΝ, writes of Terence thus,

Tu quoque qui solus lecto sermone, Terenti,

Conversum, expressumque Latina voce Menandrum

In medio populi sedatis vocibus effers,

Quicquid come loquens, ac omnia dulcia dicens.

“And thou, also, O Terence, whose pure style alone could make Menander speak the Latin tongue, thou, with the sweetest harmony and grace, hast given him to Rome.”

Also Caius Julius Cæsar[46],

Tu quoque tu in Summis, O dimidiate Menander,

Poneris et merito, puri sermonis amator,

Lenibus atque utinam scriptis adjuncta foret vis

Comica ut æquato virtus polleret honore,

Cum Græcis neque in hac despectus parte jaceres,

Unum hoc maceror, et doleo tibi deesse Terenti.

“And thou, also, O thou half Menander, art justly placed among the most divine poets, for the purity of thy style. O would that humour had kept pace with ease in all thy writings; then thou wouldest not have been compelled to yield even to the Greeks; nor could a single defect have been objected to thee. But, as it is, thou hast this great defect, and this, O Terence, I lament.”

THE ANDRIAN,
A Comedy,
ACTED AT
THE MEGALESIAN GAMES[47];

IN THE [48]CURULE ÆDILATE OF [49]MARCUS FULVIUS AND
MARCUS GLABRIO[50]; BY THE COMPANY[51] OF LUCIUS
AMBIVIUS TURPIO, AND LUCIUS ATTILIUS[52],
OF PRÆNESTE.

Flaccus, the Freedman of Claudius, composed the Music for [53]equal Flutes, right and left handed.

[54]It is taken from the Greek, and was published during the Consulate of Marcus Claudius Marcellus, and Cneus Sulpicius Galba[55].

THE ARGUMENT.

There were in Athens two brothers, Chremes and Phania. The former making a voyage to Asia, left his infant daughter, named Pasibula, under the protection of Phania; who, to avoid the dangers of a war which shortly after convulsed the Grecian States, quitted Athens, and embarked also for Asia with the infant Pasibula, designing to rejoin his brother Chremes. His vessel being wrecked off Andros, he was received and hospitably entertained by an inhabitant of the island, where he died, bequeathing his niece to his host, who generously educated her with his own daughter Chrysis; changing her name from Pasibula to Glycera. After some years he also died, and his daughter Chrysis, finding herself reduced to poverty, and avoided by her relations, removed to Athens, accompanied by her adopted sister Glycera, or Pasibula. Here, supported by her industry, she lived for some months in a virtuous seclusion; but after that period became acquainted with several young Athenians of good family, whose visits she admitted, hoping perhaps to accomplish an advantageous marriage either for Glycera or for herself. She was seduced by pleasure, and her conduct from that time became very far from irreproachable. Meanwhile a young man, named Pamphilus, is accidently introduced at her house, sees Glycera, is enamoured of her; she returns his affections, and they are privately betrothed; a short time previous to the death of Chrysis, which happens about three years after her removal to Athens. Chremes, whom we left in Asia, returned to Athens, and became the father of another daughter, who was called Philumena; he had long before formed a friendship with Simo, the father of Pamphilus. Pamphilus being a youth of great worth and high reputation, Chremes wishes to bestow on him the hand of his daughter Philumena. Here the play opens. A report of the connexion between Pamphilus and Glycera reaching the ears of Chremes, he breaks off the marriage. Simo conceals this, and to try the truth of the rumour, proposes Philumena again to his son, and desires him to wed her instantly. Apprized by his servant Davus of his father’s artful stratagem, Pamphilus professes his willingness to marry, thinking by this measure to disappoint it; but he defeats himself, for from his ready consent, Chremes concludes the rumour false, and renews the treaty to the great embarrassment of Pamphilus, which, with the artifices Davus employs to extricate him, form the most diverting scenes of the play. However, when the affairs of Pamphilus and Davus are reduced to extremity, and a breach between father and son appears inevitable on account of the marriage with Glycera, and the refusal to accept Philumena, a stranger called Crito, most opportunely arrives from Andros, and discovers Glycera to be Pasibula, the daughter of Chremes, who willingly confirms her the wife of Pamphilus, and bestows Philumena, his other daughter, on Charinus, a friend of Pamphilus, to the great satisfaction of all parties.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

• Simo, an old man, the father of Pamphilus.
• Sosia, the freedman of Simo.
• Pamphilus, the son of Simo.
• Davus, servant to Pamphilus.
• Charinus, a young man, the friend of Pamphilus.
• Byrrhia, servant to Charinus.
• Chremes, an old man, the friend of Simo.
• Crito, a stranger, from the island of Andros.
• Dromo, a servant.
• Glycera, the Andrian.
• Mysis, her maid.
• Lesbia, a midwife.

MUTES.

• Archillis, Glycera’s nurse.
• Servants belonging to Simo.

The Scene lies in Athens, in a street between the
houses of Simo and Glycera.

The Time is about nine hours.

PROLOGUE.

PROLOGUE[56].

Our poet, when first he bent his mind to write, thought that he undertook no more than to compose Comedies which should please the people. But he finds himself not a little deceived; and is compelled to waste his time in making Prologues; not to narrate the plot of his play, but to answer the snarling malice of an older poet[57]. And now, I pray you, Sirs, observe what they object against our Author: Menander wrote the [58]Andrian and Perinthian: he who knows one of them knows both, their plots are so very similar; but they are different in dialogue, and in style. He confesses that whatever seemed suitable to the Andrian, he borrowed from the Perinthian, and used as his own: and this, forsooth, these railers carp at, and argue against him that Comedies thus mixed are good for nothing. But, in attempting to shew their wit, they prove their folly: since, in censuring him, they censure Nævius, Plautus[59], Ennius, who have given our author a precedent for what he has done: and whose careless ease he would much rather imitate than their obscure correctness. But henceforth let them be silent, and cease to rail; or I give them warning, they shall hear their own faults published. And now deign to favour the play with your attention; and give it an impartial hearing, that you may know what is in future to be expected from the poet, and whether the Comedies that he may write hereafter, will be worthy to be accepted, or to be rejected by you.

THE ANDRIAN.

ACT I.

Scene I.

Simo, Sosia, and Slaves, carrying Provisions.

Simo. [60]Carry in those things, directly. (Exeunt Slaves.) Do you come hither Sosia; I have something to say to you.

Sosia. You mean, I suppose, that I should take care that these provisions are properly drest.

Simo. No; it’s quite another matter.

Sosia. In what else can my skill be of any service?

Simo. There is no need of your skill in the management of the affair I am now engaged in; all that I require of you is faithfulness and secrecy; qualities I know you to possess.

Sosia. I long to hear your commands.

Simo. You well know, Sosia, that from the time when I first bought you as my slave;[61] even from your childhood until the present moment; I have been a just and gentle master: you served me with a free spirit; and I gave you freedom; [62]as the greatest reward in my power to bestow.

Sosia. Believe me, Sir, I have not forgotten it.

Simo. Nor have you given me any cause to repent that I did so.[63]

Sosia. I am very glad, Simo, that my past, and present conduct has been pleasing to you; and I am grateful for your goodness in receiving my poor services so favourably: but it pains me to be thus reminded of the benefits you have conferred upon me, as it seems to upbraid me with having forgotten them.[64] Pray, Sir, let me request to know your will at once.

Simo. You shall; but first I must inform you that my son’s marriage, which you expect to take place, is only a feigned marriage.

Sosia. But why do you make use of this deceit?

Simo. [65]You shall hear every thing from the beginning; by which means you will learn my son’s course of life, my intentions, and the part I wish you to take in this affair. When my son, Pamphilus, arrived at man’s estate,[66] of course he was able to live more according to his own inclination: for, until a man has attained that age, his disposition does not discover itself, being kept in check either by his tutor, or by bashfulness, or by his tender years.

Sosia. That is very true.

Simo. Most young men attach themselves chiefly to one particular pursuit; such, for instance, as breeding horses, keeping hounds, or frequenting the schools of the philosophers.[67] He did not devote himself entirely to any one of these: but employed a moderate portion of his time in each; and I was much pleased to see it.

Sosia. As well you might, for I think that every man, in the conduct of his life, should adhere to this precept, “Avoid excess.”

Simo. This was his way of life; he bore patiently with every one, accommodated himself to the tempers of his associates; and fell in with them in their pursuits; avoided quarrels; and never arrogantly preferred himself before his companions. Conduct like this will ensure a man praise without envy, and gain many friends.

Sosia. This was indeed a wise course of life; for in these times[68], flattery makes friends; truth, foes.

Simo. Meantime, about three years ago, a certain woman, exceedingly beautiful, and in the flower of her age, removed into this neighbourhood; she came from the Island of Andros[69]; being compelled to quit it by her poverty and the neglect of her relations[70].

Sosia. I augur no good from this woman of Andros.

Simo. At first she lived chastely, and penuriously, and laboured hard, managing with difficulty to gain a livelihood[71] with the distaff and the loom: but soon afterwards several lovers made their addresses to her[72]; promising to repay her favours with rich presents; and as we all are naturally prone to pleasure, and averse to labour, she was induced to accept their offers; and at last admitted all her lovers without scruple. It happened that some of them with much persuasion prevailed on my son to accompany them to her house. Aha! thought I, he is caught[73]: he is certainly in love with her. In the morning I watched their pages going to her house and returning; I called one of them; Hark ye, boy, prithee tell me who was the favourite of Chrysis, yesterday? For this was the Andrian’s name.

Sosia. I understand you, Sir.

Simo. I was answered that it was Phædrus, or Clinia, or Niceratus; for all these were her lovers at that time: well, said I, and what did Pamphilus there! oh! he paid[74] his share and supped with the rest. Another day I inquired and received the same answer; and I was extremely rejoiced that I could learn nothing to attach any blame to my son. Then I thought that I had proved him sufficiently; and that he was a miracle of chastity:—for he who has to contend against the example of men of such vicious inclinations, and can preserve his mind from its pernicious influence, may very safely be trusted with the regulation of his own conduct. To increase my satisfaction, every body joined as if with one voice in the praise of Pamphilus, every one extolled his virtues, and my happiness, in possessing a son endued with so excellent a disposition. In short, this his high reputation induced my friend Chremes to come to me of his own accord, and offer to give his daughter to Pamphilus with a large dowry[75]. I contracted [76]my son, as I was much pleased with the match, which was to have taken place on this very day.

Sosia. And what has happened to prevent it?

Simo. You shall hear: within a few days of this time our neighbour Chrysis died.

Sosia. O happy news! I was still fearful of some mischief from this Andrian.

Simo. Upon this occasion my son was continually at the house with the lovers of Chrysis, and joined with them in the care of her funeral; meantime he was sad, and sometimes would even weep. Still I was pleased with all this; if, thought I, he is so much concerned at the death of so slight an acquaintance, how would he be afflicted at the loss of one whom he himself loved, or at my death. I attributed every thing to his humane and affectionate disposition; in short, I myself, for his sake, attended the funeral, even yet suspecting nothing.

Sosia. Ah! what has happened then?

Simo. I will tell you. The corpse is carried out; we follow: in the mean time, among the women who were there[77], I saw one young girl, with a form so——

Sosia. Lovely, without doubt.

Simo. And with a face, Sosia, so modest, and so charming, that nothing can surpass it; and as she appeared more afflicted than the others who were there, and so pre-eminently beautiful[78], and of so noble a carriage, I approach the women who were following the body[79], and inquire who she is: they answer, The sister of the deceased. Instantly the whole truth burst upon me at once: hence then, thought I, proceed those tears; this sister it is, who is the cause of all his affliction.

Sosia. How I dread to hear the end of all this!

Simo. In the mean time the procession advances; we follow, and arrive at the tomb[80]: the corpse is placed on the pile[81], and quickly enveloped in flames; they weep; while the sister I was speaking of, rushed forward in an agony of grief toward the fire; and her imprudence exposed her to great danger. Then, then it was, that Pamphilus, half dead with terror, publicly betrayed the love he had hitherto so well concealed: he flew to the spot, and throwing his arms around her with all the tenderness imaginable; my dearest Glycera, cried he, what are you about to do? Why do you rush upon destruction? Upon which she threw herself weeping upon his bosom in so affectionate a manner, that it was easy enough to perceive their mutual love.

Sosia. How! is this possible!

Simo. I returned home, scarcely able to contain my anger; but yet I had not sufficient cause to chide Pamphilus openly; as he might have replied to me, What have I done amiss, my father? or how have I offended you? of what am I guilty? I have preserved the life of one who was going to throw herself into the flames: I prevented her: this would have been a plausible excuse.

Sosia. You consider this rightly, Sir; for if he who has helped to save a life is to be blamed for it; what must be done to him who is guilty of violence and injustice?

Simo. The next day Chremes came to me, and complained of being shamefully used, as he had discovered for a certainty that Pamphilus had actually married this strange woman[82]. I positively denied that this was the case, and he as obstinately insisted on the truth of it: at last I left him, as he was absolutely resolved to break off the match.

Sosia. Did you not then rebuke Pamphilus?

Simo. No: there was nothing yet so flagrant as to justify my rebuke.

Sosia. How so, Sir, pray explain?

Simo. He might have answered me thus: you yourself, my father, have fixed the time when this liberty must cease; and the period is at hand when I must conform myself to the pleasure of another: permit me then, I beseech you, for the short space that remains to me, to live as my own will prompts me.

Sosia. True. What cause of complaint can you then find against him?

Simo. If he is induced by his love for this stranger, to refuse to marry Philumena in obedience to my commands, that offence will lay him open to my anger; and I am now endeavouring by means of this feigned marriage, to find a just cause of complaint against him: and, at the same time, if that rogue Davus has any subtle scheme on foot, this will induce him to bring it forward now, when it can do no harm; as I believe that rascal will leave no stone unturned in the affair; though more for the sake of tormenting me, than with a view to serve or gratify my son.

Sosia. Why do you suspect that?

Simo. Why? because of a wicked mind one can expect nothing but wicked intentions[83]. But if I catch him at his tricks—However, ’tis in vain to say more: if it appear, as I trust it will, that my son makes no objection to the marriage, I have only to gain Chremes, whom I must prevail upon by entreaty; and I have great hopes that I shall accomplish it. What I wish you to do is, to assist me in giving out this marriage for truth, to terrify Davus, and to watch the conduct of my son, what he does; and what course he and his hopeful servant resolve upon.

Sosia. It is enough, Sir; I will take care to obey you. Now, I suppose, we may go in.

Simo. Go, I will follow presently[84].

[Exit Sosia.

Scene II.

Scene II.

Simo, Davus.

Simo. My son, I have no doubt, will refuse to marry; for I observed that Davus seemed terribly perplexed just now, when he heard that the match was to take place: but here he comes[85].

Davus. (not seeing Simo.) I wondered that this affair seemed likely to pass off so easily! and always mistrusted the drift of my old master’s extraordinary patience and gentleness; who, though he was refused the wife he wished for, for his son, never mentioned a word of it to us, or seemed to take any thing amiss.

Simo. (aside.) But now he will, as you shall feel, rascal.

Davus. His design was to entrap us while we were indulging in an ill-founded joy, and fancied ourselves quite secure. He wished to take advantage of our heedlessness, and make up the match before we could prevent him: what a crafty old fellow!

Simo. How this rascal prates[86]!

Davus. Here is my master! he has overheard me! I never saw him!

Simo. Davus.

Davus. Who calls Davus?

Simo. Come hither, sirrah.

Davus. (aside.) What can he want with me?

Simo. What were you saying?

Davus. About what, Sir?

Simo. About what, Sir? The world says that my son has an intrigue.

Davus. Oh! Sir, the world cares a great deal about that, no doubt.

Simo. Are you attending to this, Sir?

Davus. Yes, Sir, certainly.

Simo. It does not become me to inquire too strictly into the truth of these reports. I shall not concern myself in what he has done hitherto; for as long as circumstances allowed of it, I left him to himself: but it is now high time that he should alter and lead a new life. Therefore, Davus, I command, and even entreat, that you will prevail on him to amend his conduct.

Davus. What is the meaning of all this discourse?

Simo. Those who have love intrigues on their hands are generally very averse to marriage.

Davus. So I have heard.

Simo. And if any of them manage such an affair after the counsel of a knave, ’tis a hundred to one but the rogue will take advantage of their weakness, and lead them a step further, from being love-sick to some still greater scrape or imprudence.

Davus. Truly, Sir, I don’t understand what you said last.

Simo. No! not understand it!

Davus. No. I am not Œdipus[87] but Davus.

Simo. Then you wish that what I have to say should be explained openly and without reserve.

Davus. Certainly I do.

Simo. Then, sirrah, if I discover that you endeavour to prevent my son’s marriage by any of your crafty tricks; or interfere in this business to show your cunning; you may rely on receiving a few scores of lashes, and a situation in the grinding-house[88] for life: upon this token, moreover, that when I liberate you from thence, I will grind in your stead. Is this plain enough for you, or don’t you understand yet?

Davus. Oh, perfectly! you come to the point at once: you don’t use much circumlocution, i’faith.

Simo. Remember! In this affair above all others, if you begin plotting, I will never forgive it.

Davus. Softly, worthy Sir, softly, good words I beg of you.

Simo. So! you are merry upon it, are you, but I am not to be imposed upon. I advise you, finally, to take care what you do: you cannot say you have not had fair warning.

[Exit.

Scene III.

Scene III[89].

Davus.

In truth, friend Davus, from what I have just heard from the old man about the marriage, I think thou hast no time to lose. This affair must be [90]handled dexterously, or either my young master or I must be quite undone. Nor have I yet resolved which side to take; whether I shall assist Pamphilus, or obey his father. If I abandon the son, I fear his happiness will be destroyed: if I help him, I dread the threats of the old man, who is as crafty as a fox. First, he has discovered his son’s intrigue, and keeps a jealous eye upon me, lest I should set some scheme a-foot to retard the marriage. If he finds out the least thing, I am undone[91], for right or wrong, if he once takes the whim into his head, he will soon find a pretence for sending me to grind in the mill for my life; and, to crown our disasters, this Andrian, Pamphilus’s wife or mistress, I know not which, is with child by him: ’tis strange enough to hear their presumption. I think their [92]intentions savour more of madness than of any thing else: boy or girl, say they, the child shall be brought up[93]. They have made up among them too, some story or other, to prove that she is a citizen of Athens[94]. Thus runs the tale. Once upon a time there was a certain old merchant[95], who was shipwrecked upon the island of Andros, where he afterwards died, and the father of Chrysis took in his helpless little orphan, who was this very Glycera. Fables! for my part I don’t believe a word of it: however, they themselves are vastly pleased with the story. But here comes her maid Mysis. Well, I’ll betake myself to the Forum[96], and look for Pamphilus: lest his father should surprise him with this marriage before I can tell him any thing of the matter.

[Exit.

Scene IV.

Scene IV.

Mysis.

[97]I understand you, Archillis: you need not stun me with the same thing over so often: you want me to fetch the midwife Lesbia: in truth, she’s very fond of the dram-bottle, and very headstrong; and I should think she was hardly skilful enough to attend a woman in her first labour.—However, I’ll bring her.——Mark how [98]importunate this [99]old baggage is to have her fellow-gossip, that they may tipple together. Well, may Diana grant my [100]poor mistress a happy minute; and that Lesbia’s want of skill may be shewn any where rather than here. But what do I see? here comes Pamphilus, seemingly half-distracted, surely something is the matter. I will stay and see whether this agitation is not the forerunner of some misfortune.

Scene V.

Scene V.

Pamphilus, Mysis[101].

Pam. Heavens! is it possible that any human being, much less a father, could be guilty of an action like this?

Mysis. (aside.) What can be the matter?

Pam. By the faith of gods and men, if ever any one was unworthily treated, I am. He peremptorily resolved that I should be married on this very day. Why was not I informed of this before? Why was not I consulted?

Mysis. (aside.) Miserable woman that I am! what do I hear?

Pam. And why has Chremes changed his mind, who obstinately persisted in refusing me his daughter, after he heard of my imprudence[102]? Can he do this to tear me from my dearest Glycera? Alas! if I lose her, I am utterly undone. Was there ever such an unfortunate lover?—was there ever such an unhappy man as I am? Heavens and earth! will this persecution never end? Shall I never hear the last of this detested marriage? How have I been insulted; how have I been slighted! First of all, the match is agreed on, every thing is prepared, then I am rejected, now I am courted again. I cannot, for the soul of me, discover the reason of all this; however, I shrewdly suspect that this daughter of Chremes is either hideously [103]ugly, or that something is amiss in her; and so, because he can find no one else to take her off his hands, he comes to me.

Mysis. (aside.) Bless me! I’m almost frightened out of my senses.

Pam. But what shall I say of my father’s behaviour? Ought an affair of such consequence to be treated so lightly? Meeting me just now in the Forum, Pamphilus, said he, you are to be married to-day, get ready, make haste home; it seemed as if he said, go quickly and hang yourself. I stood amazed and motionless; not one single word could I pronounce; not one single excuse could I make, though it had been ever so absurd, false, or unreasonable: I was quite speechless. If any one were to ask me now, what I would have done, if I had known of this before? I answer, I would have done any thing in the world to prevent this hateful marriage; but now what course can I take? A thousand cares distract my mind. On one side, I am called upon by love and my compassion for this unfortunate: on the other by their continued importunities for my marriage with Philumena, and a fear of offending my father, who has been hitherto so indulgent to me, and complied with my every wish; and can I now oppose his will? Alas! I am still wavering; I can resolve upon nothing.

Mysis. Unhappy wretch that I am. I dread how this wavering may end at last; but now it is of the utmost consequence either that I should say something to him respecting my mistress, or that he should see her himself; for the least thing in the world may turn the scale, while the mind is in suspense.

Pam. Whose voice is that? Oh, Mysis, welcome.

Mysis. Oh! Sir, well met.

Pam. How is your mistress?

Mysis. Do you not know? she is in labour[104], and her anguish is increased tenfold at the thought of this being the day formerly appointed for your marriage. Her greatest fear is lest you should forsake her.

Pam. Heavens! could I have the heart even to think of so base an action? Can I deceive an unfortunate who has intrusted her all to me? and whom I have always tenderly loved as my wife? Can I suffer that she, who has been brought up in the paths of modesty and virtue, should be exposed to want; [105]and perhaps even to dishonour? I never can, I never will permit it!

Mysis. Ah! Sir, if you were your own master, I should fear nothing; but I dread lest you should not be able to withstand your father’s commands.

Pam. Do you then think me so cowardly, so ungrateful too, so inhuman, and so cruel, that neither our intimate connexion, nor love, nor even shame can prevail upon me, or influence me to keep my promise?

Mysis. I am sure of this; she does not deserve that you should forget her.

Pam. Forget her! O Mysis, Mysis, the last words that Chrysis spoke to me, are still engraved upon my heart, already at the point of death; she calls for me; I approach; you all retire: we are alone with her: she speaks thus,—My dear Pamphilus; you see the youth and beauty of this dear girl; I need not tell you how little these endowments are calculated to secure either her property or her honour; I call upon you then, by the pledge of this hand you now extend to me, and by the natural goodness of your disposition[106]; by your plighted faith, and by her helpless situation, I conjure you not to forsake her. If ever I have loved you as my brother, if ever she has obeyed you as her husband, take her, I implore you, as your wife; be to her a [107]friend, a guardian, a parent; to you I confide our little wealth; in your honour I put all my trust.—She placed the hand of Glycera in mine, and expired. I received the precious gift, and never will I relinquish it.

Mysis. Heaven forbid you ever should!

Pam. But why are you abroad at this time?

Mysis. I am going for the midwife.

Pam. Make haste then; and Mysis, do you hear; say not a word to your mistress about this marriage, lest that should increase her sufferings.

Mysis. I understand you, Sir.

END OF THE FIRST ACT.

ACT II.

Scene I.

Scene I.

Charinus, Byrrhia[108].

Char. What is it you tell me, Byrrhia; is she then to be married to Pamphilus; and is the wedding to take place even on this very day?

Byrr. It is even so, Sir.

Char. How do you know it?

Byrr. From Davus, whom I met just now in the Forum.

Char. Alas! the measure of my wretchedness is now full: my soul has hitherto fluctuated between my hopes and fears; but now all hope is lost, I sink wearied and care-worn into utter despair.

Byrr[109]. I beseech you, O Charinus, [110]to wish for something possible, since what you now wish for is impossible!

Char. I can wish for nothing but Philumena!

Byrr. Ah! how much wiser you would be, if instead of talking thus, which only serves to nourish [111]a hopeless passion; you would endeavour to subdue, and banish it entirely from your heart.

Char. How readily do those who are in health give good counsel to the diseased! if you were in my situation you would not talk thus.

Byrr. Well, well, as you please, Sir.

Char. But I see Pamphilus coming this way. I am resolved to attempt every thing before I am quite undone.

Byrr. What is he going about now?

Char. I will entreat even my rival himself, I will implore him, I will tell him of my love. I trust I shall be able to prevail upon him, at least to postpone his marriage for a few days; meantime I hope something may happen in my favour.

Byrr. That something is nothing at all.

Char. What think you, Byrrhia; shall I speak to him?

Byrr. Why not? that even if you can obtain nothing, you may make him think, at least, that Philumena will find a pressing gallant in you, if he marries her[112].

Char. Get away, rascal, with your base suspicions.

Scene II.

Scene II.

Charinus, Byrrhia, Pamphilus.

Pam. Ha! Charinus, I hope you are well, Sir.

Char. Oh, Pamphilus!——I come to implore from you hope, safety, counsel, and assistance.

Pam. Truly, I myself have need of counsel, and assistance too: but what is this affair?

Char. You are to be married to-day!

Pam. Ay, they say so.

Char. If you are, Pamphilus, you see me to-day for the last time[113].

Pam. Why so?

Char. Alas! I dread to speak it! tell him, Byrrhia, I beseech you.

Byrr. I will.

Pam. What is it, speak?

Byrr. My master loves Philumena to distraction, and hears that she is betrothed to you.