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SCENE I.

SIMO, SOSIA, and Servants with Provisions.
Simo.
Carry those things in: go!
[Ex. Servants. ]
Sosia, come here;
A Word with you!

Sosia.
I understand: that these
Be ta'en due care of.


8

Simo.
Quite another thing.

Sosia.
What can my art do more for you?

Simo.
This business
Needs not that art; but those good qualities,
Which I have ever known abide in you,
Fidelity and secrecy.

Sosia.
I wait
Your pleasure.

Simo.
Since I bought you, from a boy
How just and mild a servitude you've pass'd
With me, you're conscious: from a purchas'd slave
I made you free, because you serv'd me freely:
The greatest recompence I cou'd bestow.

Sosia.
I do remember.

Simo.
Nor do I repent.

Sosia.
If I have ever done, or now do aught
That's pleasing to you, Simo, I am glad,
And thankful that you hold my Service good.
And yet this troubles me: for this detail,
Forcing your kindness on my memory,
Seems to reproach me of ingratitude.

9

Oh tell me then at once, what wou'd you? Sir!

Simo.
I will; and this I must advise you first:
The nuptial you suppose preparing now,
Is all unreal.

Sosia.
Why pretend it then?

Simo.
You shall hear all from first to last: and thus
The conduct of my son, my own intent,
And what part you're to act, you'll know at once.
For my son, Sosia, now to manhood grown,
Had freer scope of living: for before
How might you know, or how indeed divine

10

His disposition, good or ill, while youth,
Fear, and a master, all constrain'd him?

Sosia.
True.

Simo.
Though most, as is the bent of youth, apply
Their mind to some one object, horses, hounds,
Or to the study of philosophy;
Yet none of these, beyond the rest, did he
Persue; and yet, in moderation, all.
I was o'erjoy'd.

Sosia.
And not without good cause.
For this I hold to be the Golden Rule
Of Life, Too much of one Thing's good for nothing.

Simo.
So did he shape his life to bear himself
With ease and frank good-humour unto all;
Mixt in what company soe'er, to them
He wholly did resign himself; and join'd
In their persuits, opposing nobody,

11

Nor e'er assuming to himself: and thus
With ease, and free from envy, may you gain
Praise, and conciliate friends.

Sosia.
He rul'd his life
By prudent maxims: for, as times go now,
Compliance raises friends, and truth breeds hate.

Simo.
Meanwhile, 'tis now about three years ago,
A certain woman from the isle of Andros,
Came o'er to settle in this neighbourhood,
By poverty and cruel kindred driv'n:
Handsome and young.

Sosia.
Ah! I begin to fear
Some mischief from this Andrian.

Simo.
At first
Modest and thriftily, tho' poor, she liv'd,

12

With her own hands a homely livelihood
Scarce earning from the distaff and the loom.
But when a lover came, with promis'd gold,
Another, and another, as the mind
Falls easily from labour to delight,
She took their offers, and set up the trade.
They, who were then her chief gallants, by chance
Drew thither, as oft happens with young men,
My son to join their company. So, so!
Said I within myself, he's smit! he has it!
And in the morning as I saw their servants
Run to and fro, I'd often call, Here, Boy!
Prithee now, who had Chrysis yesterday?
The name of this same Andrian.

Sosia.
I take you.

Simo.
Phædrus they said, Clinia, or Niceratus,
For all these three then follow'd her.—Well, well,
But what of Pamphilus?—Of Pamphilus!
He supt, and paid his reck'ning.—I was glad.
Another day I made the like enquiry,
But still found nothing touching Pamphilus.
Thus I believ'd his virtue prov'd, and hence

13

Thought him a miracle of continence:
For he who struggles with such spirits, yet
Holds in that commerce an unshaken mind,
May well be trusted with the governance
Of his own conduct. Nor was I alone
Delighted with his life, but all the world
With one accord said all good things, and prais'd
My happy fortunes, who possest a son
So good, so lib'rally dispos'd.—In short
Chremes, seduc'd by this fine character,
Came of his own accord, to offer me
His only daughter with a handsome portion
In marriage with my son. I lik'd the match;
Betroth'd my son; and this was pitch'd upon,
By joint agreement, for the Wedding-Day.

Sosia.
And what prevents it's being so?

Simo.
I'll tell you.
In a few days, the treaty still on foot,
This neighbour Chrysis dies.

Sosia.
In happy hour:
Happy for you! I was afraid of Chrysis.


14

Simo.
My son, on this event, was often there
With those who were the late gallants of Chrysis;
Assisted to prepare the funeral,
Ever condol'd, and sometimes wept with them.
This pleas'd me then; for in myself I thought,
Since merely for a small acquaintance-sake
He takes this woman's death so nearly, what
If he himself had lov'd? What wou'd he feel
For me, his father? All these things, I thought,
Were but the tokens and the offices
Of a humane and tender disposition.
In short, on his account, e'en I myself
Attend the funeral, suspecting yet
No harm.

Sosia.
And what—

Simo.
You shall hear all. The Corpse
Born forth, we follow: when among the women,

15

Attending there, I chanc'd to cast my eyes
Upon one girl, in form—

Sosia.
Not bad, perhaps.—

Simo.
And look; so modest, and so beauteous, Sosia!
That nothing cou'd exceed it. As she seem'd
To grieve beyond the rest; and as her air
Appear'd more liberal and ingenuous,
I went, and ask'd her women, who she was.
Sister, they said, to Chrysis: when at once
It struck my mind; So! so! the secret's out;
Hence were those tears, and hence all that compassion!

Sosia.
Alas! I fear how this affair will end!

Simo.
Meanwhile the funeral proceeds: we follow;
Come to the sepulchre: the Body's plac'd
Upon the pile, lamented: Whereupon
This Sister, I was speaking of, all wild,
Ran to the flames with peril of her life.
Then! there! the frighted Pamphilus betrays
His well-dissembled and long-hidden love:
Runs up, and takes her round the waist, and cries,
Oh my Glycerium! what is it you do?
Why, why endeavour to destroy yourself?
Then she, in such a manner, that you thence
Might easily perceive their long, long, love,

16

Threw herself back into his arms, and wept,
Oh how familiarly!

Sosia.
How say you!

Simo.
I
Return in anger thence, and hurt at heart,
Yet had not cause sufficient for reproof.
What have I done? he'd say: or how deserv'd
Reproach? or how offended, Father?—Her,
Who meant to cast herself into the flames,
I stopt. A fair excuse!

Sosia.
You're in the right:
For him, who sav'd a life, if you reprove,
What will you do to him that offers wrong?

Simo.
Chremes next day came open-mouth'd to me:
Oh monstrous! he had found that Pamphilus
Was married to this Stranger-Woman. I
Deny the fact most steadily, and he
As steadily insists. In short we part
On such bad terms, as let me understand
He wou'd refuse his daughter.


17

Sosia.
Did not you
Then take your son to task?

Simo.
Not even this
Appear'd sufficient for reproof.

Sosia.
How so?

Simo.
Father, (he might have said) You have, you know,
Prescrib'd a term to all these things yourself.
The time is near at hand, when I must live
According to the humour of another.
Meanwhile, permit me now to please my own!

Sosia.
What cause remains to chide him then?

Simo.
If he
Refuses, on account of this amour,
To take a wife, such obstinate denial
Must be considered as his first offence.
Wherefore I now, from this mock-nuptial,
Endeavour to draw real cause to chide:
And that same rascal Davus, if he's plotting,
That he may let his counsel run to waste,
Now, when his knaveries can do no harm:
Who, I believe, with all his might and main
Will strive to cross my purposes; and that
More to plague me, than to oblige my son.

Sosia.
Why so?


18

Simo.
Why so! Bad mind, bad heart: But if
I catch him at his tricks!—But what need words?
—If, as I wish it may, it shou'd appear
That Pamphilus objects not to the match,
Chremes remains to be prevail'd upon,
And will, I hope, consent. 'Tis now your place
To counterfeit these nuptials cunningly;
To frighten Davus; and observe my son,
What he's about, what plots they hatch together.

Sosia.
Enough; I'll take due care. Let's now go in!

Simo.
Go first; I'll follow you.
[Exit Sosia.

19

Beyond all doubt
My son's averse to take a wife: I saw
How frighten'd Davus was, but even now,
When he was told a nuptial was preparing.
But here he comes.

 

The want of marginal directions, however trifling they may at first sight appear, has occasioned, as it necessarily must, much confusion and obscurity in several passages of the antient Dramatick Writers: and is a defect in the manuscripts, and old editions of those authors in the learned languages, which has in vain been attempted to be supplied by long notes of laborious commentators, and delineations of the figures of the characters employed in each scene. This simple method of illustrating the dialogue, and rendering it clear and intelligible to the most ordinary reader, I propose to persue throughout this translation: And I cannot better enforce the utility of this practice, than by few extracts from a very ingenious treatise on Dramatick Poetry, written in French by Mons. Diderot, and annext to his Play, called the Father of a Family.

“The Pantomime is a part of the Drama, to which the author ought to pay the most serious attention: for if it is not always present to him, he can neither begin, nor conduct, nor end a scene according to truth and nature; and the action should frequently be written down instead of dialogue.

“The Pantomime should be written down, whenever it creates a picture; whenever it gives energy, or clearness, or connection to the Dialogue; whenever it paints character; whenever it consists in a delicate play, which the reader cannot himself supply; whenever it stands in the place of an answer; and almost always at the beginning of a scene.

“Whether a poet has written down the Pantomime or not, it is easy to discover at first sight, whether he has composed after it. The conduct of the piece will not be the same; the scenes will have another turn; the Dialogue will relish of it.”

Moliere, as this ingenious Critick observes, has always written down the Pantomime, (as he phrases it) and Terence seems plainly to have had it always in his view, and to have paid a constant attention to it in his compositions, though he has not set it down in words.

Nempe ut curentur recte hæc. Madam Dacier will have it that Simo here makes use of a kitchen-term in the word curentur. I believe it rather means to take care of any thing generally; and at the conclusion of this very scene, Sosia uses the word again speaking of things very foreign to cookery. Sat est, Curabo.”

There is a beautiful passage in the Duke of Milan of Massinger very similar to the above. The situations of the persons are somewhat alike, Sforza being on the point of opening his mind to Francisco. The English Poet has with great address transferred the sentiment from the inferior to the superior character, which certainly adds to its delicacy.

Sforza.
—I have ever found you true and thankful,
Which makes me love the building I have rais'd,
In your advancement; and repent no grace,
I have conferr'd upon you: And, believe me,
Tho' now I should repeat my favours to you,
It is not to upbraid you; but to tell you,
I find you're worthy of them, in your love
And service to me.

“Terence stands alone in every thing, but especially in his narrations. It is a pure and transparent stream which flows always evenly, and takes neither swiftness nor noise but that which it derives from its course and the ground it runs over. No wit, no display of sentiment, not a sentence that wears an epigrammatical air, none of those definitions always out of place, except in Nicole or Rochefoucauld. When he generalizes a maxim, it is in so simple and popular a manner, you would believe it to be a common proverb which he has quoted: Nothing but what belongs to the subject. I have read this poet over with attention; there are in him no superfluous scenes, nor any thing superfluous in the scenes.”

Diderot.

This being the first narration in our author, and exceedingly beautiful, I could not help transcribing the foregoing passage from the French Treatise above-mentioned. The narrations in the Greek Tragedies have been long and justly admired; and from this and many other parts of Terence, taken from Greek authors, we may fairly conclude that their Comedies were equally excellent in that particular.

Postquam excessit ex Ephebis. The Ephebia was the first stage of youth, and youth the last stage of boyhood. Donatus.

It was at that age that the Greeks applied themselves to the study of philosophy, and chose out some particular sect, to which they attached themselves. Plato's Dialogues give us sufficient light into that custom. Dacier.

No quid nimis. A sentiment not unbecoming a servant, because it is common, and is therefore not put into the mouth of the master.

Donatus.

Though the Commentators are full of admiration of this golden saying, “Do nothing to excess,” yet it is plain that Terence introduces it here as a characteristick sentiment. Sosia is a dealer in old sayings. The very next time he opens his mouth, he utters another. I thought it necessary therefore, for the sake of the preservation of character, to translate this antient proverb by one of our own, though the modern maxim is not exprest with equal elegance.

The mention of this distance of time is certainly artful, as it affords time for all the events, previous to the opening of the piece, to have happened with the strictest probability. The comment of Donatus on this passage is curious.

The author hath artfully said three years, when he might have given a longer or a shorter period. Since it is probable that the woman might have lived modestly one year; set up the trade, the next; and died, the third. In the first year, therefore, Pamphilus knew nothing of the family of Chrysis; in the second, he became acquainted with Glycerium; and in the third, Glycerium marries Pamphilus, and finds her parents.

Donatus.

It is absolutely necessary that the reputation of Glycerium should be supposed to be spotless and unblemished: and as she could never be made an honest woman, if it were not clear that she was so before marriage, Chrysis, with whom she lived, is partly to be defended, partly to be praised; whom although it is necessary to confess to be a courtezan, yet her behaviour is rendered as excusable as such a circumstance will admit. Donatus.

Captus est, habet. Terms taken from the Gladiators. Dacier.

There is a beautiful sentiment uttered by Manoa in the Samson Agonistes of Milton, which seems to be partly borrowed from this passage in our author.

—I gain'd a son,
And such a son, as all men hail'd me happy;
Who would be now a Father in my stead!

'Tis strange, the Criticks have never discovered a similar sentiment to this in Shakespeare. When Valentine in Twelfth-Night reports the inconquerable grief of Olivia for the loss of a brother, the Duke observes upon it,

Oh, she that hath a heart of that fine frame
To pay this debt of love but to a brother,
How will She love, when the rich golden shaft,
Hath kill'd the flock of all affections else
That live in her?

Common sense directs us, for the most part, to regard Resemblances in great writers, not as the pilferings, or frugal acquisitions of needy art, but as the honest fruits of Genius, the free and liberal bounties of unenvying Nature.

Hurd's Discourse on Poetical Imitation.

A complaisant father, to go to the funeral of a courtezan, merely to oblige his son. Cooke.

Nothing can mark the flat simplicity of Sosia's character stronger than the insipidity of this speech.

The Greeks and Romans made use of this expression to signify a Courtezan; and I believe they borrowed that term from the people of the east; as we find it used in that sense in the books of the Old Testament.

Dacier.

Donatus seems to think the word used here merely as a contemptuous expression.

Mala mens, malus animus. Animus, the heart, conceives the bad actions, and Mens, the mind, devises the means of carrying them into execution. Dacier.

Here we take our last leave of Sosia, who is in the language of the commentators, a Protatick Personage, that is, as Donatus explains it, one who appears only once in the beginning (the Protasis) of the piece, for the sake of unfolding the argument, and is never seen again in any part of the play. The narration being ended, says Donatus, the character of Sosia is no longer necessary. He therefore departs, and leaves Simo alone to carry on the action. With all due deference to the antients, I cannot help thinking this method, if too constantly practised, as I think it is in our author, rather inartificial. Narration, however beautiful, is certainly the deadest part of theatrical compositions; it is indeed, strictly speaking, scarce Dramatick, and strikes the least in the representation: and the too frequent introduction of a character, to whom a principal person in the Fable is to relate in confidence the circumstances previous to the opening of the play, is surely too direct a manner of conveying that information to the audience. Every thing of this nature should come obliquely, fall in a manner by accident, or be drawn, as it were, perforce, from the parties concerned, in the course of the action: a practice, which if reckoned highly beautiful in Epick, may be almost set down as absolutely necessary in Dramatick Poetry. It is, however, more adviseable even to seem tedious, than to hazard being obscure. Terence certainly opens his plays with great address, and assigns a probable reason for one of the parties being so communicative to the other; and yet it is too plain that this narration is made merely for the sake of the audience, since there never was a duller hearer than Master Sosia, and it never appears in the sequel of the Play, that Simo's instructions to him are of the least use to frighten Davus, or work upon Pamphilus. Yet even this Protatick Personage is one of the instances of Terence's art, since it was often usual in the Roman Comedy, as may be seen even in Plautus, to make the relation of the argument the express office of the Prologue.

Sir Richard Steele has opened the Conscious Lovers in direct imitation of the Andrian, but has unfolded the argument with much less art, as will perhaps appear in the course of the notes on this act. In this place it is sufficient to observe, that the delineation of the characters in the English author is infinitely inferior to that of those in the Roman. Simo is the most finished character in the play. Sir John Bevil, I fear, is but an insignificant personage. Humphry, while he has all the plainness and dullness of Sosia, possesses neither his fidelity nor secrecy; for he goes between the father and the son, and in some measure betrays both.