The Adulterer, Part II: War of Words

            By the standard established heretofore in this series, I’ll grant that a piece of theatrical satire strikes a rather odd contrast to my usual fare. I stand by the choice, of course. What comes next, I am confident, will prove a fascinating discussion. Nevertheless, I feel the need to explain the sort of approach I intend to make. The Adulterer, after all, is a piece of literature. In consequence, there will be much talk of meaning and characterization in what follows, as well as symbolism, narrative, theme, and subtext. A discussion of such things is made necessary by the fact that the document in question is not a plain recording of – or reaction to – certain historical events as they occurred. Rather, it is an interpretative response – an attempt by Warren to communicate an idea or an emotion that reflects upon certain facts, all through the medium of creative allegory.

I justify wading into this dense and thorny area – to myself as well as to anyone else – by maintaining that there is much to learn about Warren’s understanding of events in 1770s Massachusetts within the text of The Adulterer. Not only does it represent her personal reaction to the plight her country suffered, but it would also seem to constitute an attempt on her part to shape the public conversation that followed by encouraging similar reactions from among her beleaguered countrymen. That she used satire – so often a medium of outrage, by which the powerless vent their anger at those in power – to attempt this is telling. And so too are the themes, names, and symbols she chose – telling of what her ultimate aim might have been, of the nature of her audience, and of their shared conception of the challenges they then faced. How she chose to express herself, in short, is in this context equally as important as precisely what it is she said. If such things are of little interest to you – if, like me, you shunned school lessons in English because you didn’t like being told how to correctly interpret a given piece of art – then by all means feel free to excuse yourself for the next little while. We shall soon enough return to our regularly scheduled programming. In the meantime, however, we shall press on. To begin, it would seem prudent to outline the plot of The Adulterer. Thereafter, in this first entry, I’d like to highlight a few noteworthy aspects of form and discuss some of the ways that Mercy Otis Warren used language and subtext to build meaning into her work.

As noted previously, the play is a fairly compact five act satire whose setting and characters were meant to symbolize late 18^th century Massachusetts and its various inhabitants. The land depicted is named Servia, with its governor called Rapatio. An unabashed tyrant, Rapatio seeks to enrich himself and his followers by extinguishing his fellow Servian’s stubborn love of freedom. The piece opens with an extended conversation between Patriots and citizens Brutus, Cassius, Portius, and Junius which sees the four men loudly lament the sorry state of the country as compared to its illustrious beginnings. The spirits of their forefathers would weep to see what Servia has become, the four of them agree, and it therefore falls to them to make right what has gone so wrong. The scene then shifts to the home of Rapatio, who curses the Patriots and vows revenge for indignities he earlier suffered at their hands. Rapatio’s Secretary of State, Dupe, then enters, praises his superior, and begs to be remembered when the man comes into the full extent of his power. This basic dichotomy – Brutus, Cassius, and their friends and allies as a noble, beleaguered people arrayed against the self-consciously ruthless Rapatio and his various sycophantic deputies – forms the narrative spine of what follows. Scenes thereafter accordingly alternate between the laments, frustrations, and exhortations of the Patriots and the unreservedly vile machinations of Rapatio and his clique.

Brutus and Cassius next witness the death of an innocent youth by one of Rapatio’s supporters, Portius arrives and urges the need for revenge, and Brutus calms him with words of prudence and wisdom. Rapatio, consulting with the commander of Servia’s military – one Bagshot – then curses the riotous behavior of the Patriots and plots a violent response to increasing popular agitation. The next scene sees Brutus reflecting upon the cruelty of human existence, only to be interrupted by first Cassius, and then Portius and Junius, all of whom alert him of the recent murder of their fellow citizens by Bagshot’s soldiers. The three scenes that follow then show Brutus and his allies as they mourn their fallen countrymen, express their desire for revenge, and ultimately resolve to demand of Rapatio that the soldiers be removed from Servia’s streets. A meeting between Rapatio and some Senators is next depicted, wherein the latter entreat the former to recall the offending soldiers before the beleaguered masses take matters into their own hands. Raptio claims he must speak to Bagshot before making any such decisions and Bagshot advises that Rapatio back down – “Honor says, stand -- but prudence says, retire.” Rapatio reluctantly agrees with this advice, returns to the Senators, and makes known his ostensible commitment to heal the breach between the government and people of Servia. Having been informed of this outcome, Brutus celebrates what appears to be the peaceful resolution of an incipient crisis.

The next four scenes focus either on Rapatio or his various subordinates as they express their contempt for the common people of Servia or the devotion they feel towards their leader. This sequence begins with Rapatio, his brother Meagre, his brother-in-law Limput, and a soldier whose name is rendered as P____p, then introduces another soldier named Gripeall, then becomes a monologue for Rapatio – wherein he attempts to banish his conscience – before finally shifting into a second monologue, this time for the Lord Chief Justice character Hazelrod. A third monologue follows, whereby Brutus once more laments the state of his country and its people and begs the “powers divine” to render some aid against so reprehensible a foe as Rapatio has proven. The next scene finds the accused murderer of the innocent youth mentioned earlier – named E____r – awaiting the judgement of his countrymen in his cell. He complains of being put up to the task by Rapatio and his supporters and then abandoned, at which point Hazelrod appears to reassure him that the entire cohort is working to see him released. The final scene then commences: Brutus, dejected and discouraged, encounters a young Patriot, the previously unseen Marcus. Marcus, eager and earnest, professes his desire to be of some aid in the rescue of their country, to which Brutus advises that persistence and integrity are the best remedies anyone can seek. Refuse preferment, and allow monsters like Rapatio to be, “Crushed in the ruins they themselves have made,” he declares, and a brighter future will yet dawn upon benighted Servia.       

            While certainly not the most compelling piece of dramatic expression ever penned by human hand, The Adulterer was – in 1773 – and remains significant in ways that have little to do with the quality of its text or the rendering of its characters. Indeed, its various constituent elements – character names, elements of style, overt and subtextual references, etc. – seem at times about as important to its author’s intentions as the narrative itself. Yes, it does essentially retell the events of 1770 in Boston, during which the looming crisis between the American colonies and the Crown reached its lowest point to date. And yes, it does present Massachusetts Governor Thomas Hutchinson – as Rapatio – and his various allies – as Limput, Meagre, Bagshot, Hazelrod, et al. – as unabashedly greedy, vicious, conniving, and merciless. But these could hardly be considered revelations. The Boston Massacre (March 5^th, 1770) was by 1773 a cause for mourning and resentment across Massachusetts – recognized, in fact, by the observance of Massacre Day between 1771 and 1783. There was surely little Warren could add to what had been said already to deepen the sense of bitterness and loss her countrymen already felt. And as to Hutchinson and his clique of colonial officials, a great number of Warren’s fellow citizens were doubtless already convinced by the time that The Adulterer was published that every officer of the Crown from Governor down to custom’s clerk was as vile and reprehensible as it was possible for a human to be.

In consequence, then, the purpose of The Adulterer was likely not to convince its intended audience of the brutality of British behavior in America or the cruelty and callousness of colonial officialdom. It would rather seem probable that Warren’s aim was to simultaneously confirm her viewers’ assumptions as to the state of government in Massachusetts and direct them towards a reaction or a perspective that she felt to be most appropriate. This, she seemed to attempt by a number of means. The first and most obvious of which was through the aforementioned use of certain specific references and stylistic elements. Some of these components likely functioned as code-words of a sort, whereby the initiated could be made aware of the playwright’s sympathies. Others appeared to operate on the level of making the subject matter at hand – i.e. the recent calamities suffered by the people of Massachusetts – amendable to the tastes of the contemporary theatre-going public. Each served to facilitate Warren’s ultimate goal – though not always harmoniously – of provoking a particular response among her audience by representing familiar events through a slightly skewed lens.

Take, for example, the quotation Warren chose to include at the beginning of the piece, from Act II, Scene III of English playwright Joseph Addison’s Cato, a Tragedy. It read in full,

Then let us rise, my friends, and strive to fill

This little interval, this pause of life

(While yet our liberty and fates are doubtful)

With resolution, friendship, Roman bravery,

And all the virtues we can crowd into it;

That Heaven may say it ought to be prolonged.

Notwithstanding the content of it – though doubtless it would have struck many in Warren’s intended audience as particularly relevant to their as-yet unresolved plight – the choice of its inclusion says a great deal about the mood of what followed and to whom The Adulterer was supposed to be addressed. Addison (1672-1719), a statesman, essayist, and general man of letters, was among the most famous public personalities of late Restoration and early Georgian Britain, with Cato – written in 1712 – as by far his most popular and influential published work. Set during the last days of Roman Senator Cato the Younger, the play depicted the twilight of the Roman Republic through the words and deeds of perhaps its last implacable defender. Against the backdrop of the imminent arrival of Julius Caesar, Addison’s Cato meditates on such themes as individual liberty, monarchism, republicanism, logic, and personal conviction, culminating in the titular character’s decision to commit suicide rather than live in a world dominated by the will of a single individual.  

Celebrated by members of both the Whig and Tory political factions in contemporary British politics, Addison’s Cato notably served to stir Thomas Gordon (1691-1750) and John Trenchard (1662-1723) to pen a series of essays under the title Cato’s Letters which collectively denounced the corruption and tyranny the two men perceived as having crept into the practice of government in Britain. As discussed in weeks past, these essays were themselves a potent influence upon the thinking and writing of the Founding Generation, though Addison’s original play was inarguably an even greater source of affection and inspiration. Among men like John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, and George Washington, there appeared to be no single piece of literature upon which more affection was heaped. Washington in particular was exceptionally fond of the play, quoted it often, and even requested a performance for his men while they camped at Valley Forge, Pennsylvania in the winter of 1777-1778. In Washington’s eyes, it seemed, Addison’s tragic hero was the very embodiment of virtue, self-sacrifice, and integrity. As Cato resolved to cleave to his convictions even in the face of death, so did Washington frequently declare that he would rather dispose of the honors and offices made available to him and retire in obscurity, secure in the knowledge that he had done what his conscience demanded. Granting that few of Washington’s fellow Americans attempted to live the lessons imparted by Addison’s Cato to quite this extent, the play and its title character were undeniably objects of great reverence and inspiration throughout much of British America in the latter half of the 18^th century.

Warren’s quotation from Cato, therefore, was likely intended to both reflect the affection she felt for a piece of literature that had served as a personal inspiration and also act as a kind of signal to those among her audience who were similarly inclined. That said quotation precedes the text of The Adulterer doubtless speaks to the importance its author attached to this objective. Before a single line of her own creation reached the ears of the viewer, they were first to be made aware that Warren was fond of Addison’s greatest creation, that she valued its message, and that she believed some portion of it might effectively preface what she herself had to say. To that end, those among her audience who were likewise devotees of Addison’s tragic hero would surely have kept the fact of the quotation – and all that it suggested – in mind as The Adulterer commenced. The entire work, in effect, existed in the shadow of Cato.  While this might not have been the most flattering critical comparison, it was one which Warren seemed keen to invoke. And in so doing, she essentially set the stage for what followed – a tragedy in the style of Addison, in which virtue was confronted by corruption and tyranny, a hero grapples with the dictates of his conscience, and a great people are brought low by the ambitions of a single man.       

The names that Warren chose for the various characters featured in The Adulterer are similarly indicative of the kind of narrative she intended to portray and the various virtues and vices that formed the core of its moral dynamic. The aforementioned governor of beleaguered Servia, for instance, was named Rapatio. Doubtless audiences were meant to perceive an association with words like “rapacity” – aggressive greed – and “rapaciousness” – excessively grasping or covetous – and to attach these characteristics to the character itself. Before he even opened his mouth, then, the antagonist of Warren’s narrative was already marked out as a man of excessive, clutching, perhaps even destructive avarice. The various members of Rapatio’s retinue were for the most part also given names that connoted negative character traits. Hazelrod, for instance, was another term for a length of birch – a “switch” – with which a contemporary parent might have administered a beating to their child. The moniker bestowed upon the Secretary of State of Servia – Dupe – was meanwhile surely meant to evoke an image of credulity or foolishness, Rapatio’s brother Meagre was doubtless named as such to imply a fundamental personal inadequacy, and military officer Gripeall to denote one who finds fault in everything he sees. Combined, the overall impression of the antagonists of The Adulterer would therefore seem to be one of pettiness, self-indulgence, querulousness, and imprudence. 

The protagonists of The Adulterer – representative of the oppressed people of Servia – were blessed with comparatively unoriginal designations, though they were no less significant to the general impression Warren seemed eager to convey. Brutus, the ostensible hero of the piece, shared his name with both the semi-mythical founder of the Roman Republic, Lucius Junius Brutus (???-509 BC), and Marcus Junius Brutus (85 BC-42 BC), assassin of Julius Caesar. Both namesakes were exceedingly important figures within the history of republican Rome, and perhaps more importantly within the context of 18^th century political philosophy. Symbolic both of the overthrow of a corrupt monarchy – the semi-legendary Roman Kingdom – and the slaying of an unabashed tyrant, Brutus was among the many Roman pseudonyms deployed by 18^th century Anglo-American essayists who wished to denounce corruption or plead for a return to some lost age of virtue. Cassius, another Patriot of Servia and friend to Brutus, possessed a similar pedigree. Gaius Cassius Longinus (85 BC-42 BC) was another of Caesar’s assassin’s, and along with his co-conspirator Brutus had attained a degree of reverence among 18^th century admirers of classical republicanism for his failed attempt to hold back the tide of encroaching tyranny. By naming her two central protagonists after these illustrious figures, Warren no doubt hoped to evoke these very same connotations – of virtue, conviction, and opposition to despotism.

Another friend and ally of Brutus was the aforementioned Junius. In addition to possessing another self-consciously Roman name, Junius also shared his moniker with an otherwise unknown essayist who contributed a number of letters to London’s Public Advertiser between 1769 and 1772. Among the various topics that these letters discussed, a large number were directed towards both informing the British public of the nature and history of their rights under the English Constitution as well as drawing attention to the various instances in which the contemporary governments of the Duke of Grafton (1735-1811) and Lord North (1732-1792) had infringed upon those selfsame rights. Corruption, it seemed, was the great sin of these redoubtable public servants, along with a lack of respect for freedom of the press and a persistent abuse of the royal prerogative, and the self-styled Junius took it upon himself to alert his fellow citizens to the crimes he believed were being perpetrated in the name of Parliament, the Crown, and the British people. The letters were well received and widely re-printed, and at the same moment that Parliament was actively grappling with a group of recalcitrant colonies on the outskirts of the Empire over similar accusations of corruption, the infringement of established liberties, and the prerogatives of the Crown. Warren’s invocation of the name Junius in her 1773 satirical drama, therefore, was surely intended to pay tribute to – and express solidarity with – this unknown but highly-regarded polemicist whose chosen cause seemed to align quite closely with that of the citizens of British America.

The final two Patriots of Servia to feature in The Adulterer were called Portius and Marcus. Likewise possessing typically Roman designations – Warren’s identification of colonial Massachusetts and the Roman Republic is hardly in doubt – these characters also happened to share the names of the Cato’s sons in Joseph Addison’s aforementioned tragedy. The Portius and Marcus of Cato open the play with a dialogue concerning the ruins to which the two believe Julius Caesar has reduced the Roman people – “Is there not some chosen curse,” Marcus laments, “to blast the man/Who owes his greatness to his country’s ruin?” Marcus is later slain while attempting to foil an attempted betrayal of his father by men he thought to be his allies – “Thy brother Marcus acts a Roman’s part,” Cato remarks upon being informed – and Portius is present upon his father’s self-inflicted demise. As with the quotation from Addison cited above, Warren’s use of these two specific names for characters in her own theatrical meditation on virtue and corruption was doubtless intended as both a form of tribute as well as a kind of signal to her audience. Those familiar with the tragedy Cato would surely have recognized them, marked their significance, and inferred something about the message of The Adulterer and the intentions of its author. This was most assuredly Warren’s objective, to invoke the weight that Addison’s greatest work carried among her countrymen and direct it towards the realization of her own particular literary ends.