CHAPTER III.COMEDIES OF THE WAR: THE ACHARNIANS—THE PEACE—LYSISTRATA.

“Let us praise our famous fathers, let their glory be recorded,On Minerva’s mighty mantle consecrated and embroidered.That with many a naval action, and with infantry by land,Still contending, never ending, strove for empire and command.When they met the foe, disdaining to compute a poor accountOf the number of their armies, of their muster and amount:But whene’er at wrestling matches they were worsted in the fray,Wiped their shoulders from the dust, denied the fall, and fought away.Then the generals never claimed precedence, or a separate seat,Like the present mighty captains, or the public wine or meat.As for us, the sole pretension suited to our birth and years,Is with resolute intention, as determined volunteers,To defend our fields and altars, as our fathers did before;Claiming as a recompense this easy boon, and nothing more:When our trials with peace are ended, not to view us with malignity,When we’re curried, sleek and pampered, prancing in our pride and dignity.”[12]—(F.)

From these praises of themselves—the Knights—they pass on, in pleasant banter, to the praises of their horses,—who, as the song declares, took a very active part in the late expedition against Corinth, in which the cavalry, conveyed in horse-transports, had done excellent service.

“Let us sing the mighty deeds of our illustrious noble steeds:They deserve a celebration for their service heretofore,—Charges and attacks,—exploits enacted in the days of yore:These, however, strike me less, as having been performed ashore.But the wonder was to see them, when they fairly went aboard,With canteens, and bread, and onions, victualled and completely stored,Then they fixed and dipped their oars, beginning all to shout and neigh,Just the same as human creatures,—‘Pull away, boys! pull away!Bear a hand there, Roan and Sorrel! Have a care there, Black and Bay!’Then they leapt ashore at Corinth; and the lustier younger sortStrolled about to pick up litter, for their solace and disport:And devoured the crabs of Corinth, as a substitute for clover,So that a poeticCrabbe[13]exclaimed in anguish—‘All is over!What awaits us, mighty Neptune, if we cannot hope to keepFrom pursuit and persecution in the land or in the deep?’”—(F.)

As the song ends, their champion returns triumphant from his encounter with Cleon in the Senate. The Knights receive him with enthusiasm, and he tells for their gratification the story of his victory, which he ascribes to the influence of the great powers of Humbug and Knavery, Impudence and Bluster, whom he had piously invoked at the outset. He had distracted the attention of the senators from his rival’s harangue by announcing to them the arrival of a vast shoal of anchovies, of which every man was eager to secure his share. In vain had Cleon tried to create a diversion in his own favour by the announcement that a herald had arrived from Sparta to treat of peace. “Peace, indeed, when anchovies are so cheap!—never.” Then rushing into the market, he had bought up the whole stock-in-trade of coriander-seed and wild onions—seasoning for the anchovies—and presented them with a little all round. This won their hearts completely. “In short,” says this practical politician, “I bought the whole Senate for sixpennyworth of coriander-seed!” A tolerably severe satire upon the highest deliberative assembly at Athens.

But Cleon is not conquered yet. Rushing on the stage in a storm of fury, he vows he will drag his rival beforePeoplehimself. There no one will have any chance against him; for he knows the old gentleman’s humour exactly, and feeds him with the nice soft pap which he likes. “Ay,” says the other—“and, like the nurses, you swallow three mouthfuls for every one you give him.” He is perfectly willing to submittheir respective claims to the master whose stewardship they are contending for. So both knock loudly at Demus’s door; and the impersonation of the great Athenian Commons comes out—not in very good case as regards dress and personal comforts, as may be gathered from the dialogue which follows; his majordomo has not taken over-good care of him, after all.

The rival claimants seize him affectionately by either arm, and profess their attachment; while he eyes them both with a divided favour, like Captain Macheath in our comic opera. “I love you,” says the Paphlagonian: “I love you better,” says the other. “Remember, I brought you the Spartans from Pylos.”[14]“A pretty service,” says the Black-pudding-man,—“just like the mess of meat once I stole which another man had cooked.” “Call a public assembly, and decide the matter, then,” says Cleon. “No—not in the assembly—not in the Pnyx,” begs the other; “Demus is an excellent fellow at home, but once set him down at a public meeting, and he goes wild!”

To the Pnyx, however, Demus vows they must all go; and to that place the scene changes. There the contest is renewed: but the interest of the political satire with which it abounds has passed away, in great measure, with the occasion. Some passages in this battle of words are more generally intelligible, as depending less upon local colour, but they are not such good specimens of the satirist’s powers. The new aspirantto office is shocked to find that Demus is left to sit unprotected on the cold rock (on which the Pnyx was built), and produces a little padded cushion of his own manufacture—a delicate attention with which the old gentleman is charmed. “What a noble idea!” he cries: “Do tell me your name and family—you must surely come of the patriot stock of Harmodius, the great deliverer of Athens!” Then his zealous friend notices the condition of his feet, which are actually peeping through his sandals, and indignantly denounces the selfishness of his present steward:—

“Tell me whetherYou, that pretend yourself his friend, with all your wealth in leather,Ever supplied a single hide to mend his reverend, batteredOld buskins?Dem.No, not he, by Jove; look at them, burst and tattered!B.-P.-S.That shows the man! now, spick and span, behold my noble largess!A lovely pair, bought for your wear, at my own cost and charges.Dem.I see your mind is well inclined, with views and temper suiting,To place the state of things—and toes—upon a proper footing.B.-P.-S.But there now, see—this winter he might pass without his clothing;The season’s cold—he’s chilly and old—but still you think of nothing;Whilst I, to show my love, bestow this waistcoat as a present,Comely and new, with sleeves thereto, of flannel, warm and pleasant.Dem.How strange it is! Themistocles was reckoned mighty clever;With all his wit he could not hit on such a project ever;Such a device! so warm! so nice! in short it equals fairlyHis famous wall, with port and all, that he contrived so rarely.”—(F.)

Not to be outdone in such attentions, Cleon offers his cloak, to keep his master from the cold; but Demus, who is already turning his fickle affections towards his new flatterer, rejects it—it stinks so abominably of leather. “That’s it,” says the other; “he wants to poison you; he tried it once before!”

The old gentleman has made up his mind that the new claimant is his best friend, and desires the Paphlagonian to give up his seal of office. The discarded minister begs that at least his employer will listen to some new oracles which he has to communicate. They promise that he shall be sovereign of all Greece, and sit crowned with roses. The new man declares that he has oracles too—plenty of them; and they promise that he shall rule not Greece alone, but Thrace, and wear a golden crown and robe of spangles. So both rush off to fetch their documents, while the Chorus break into a chant of triumph, as they prognosticate the fall of the great Demagogue before the antagonist who thus beats him at his own weapons.

The rivals return, laden with rolls of prophecy. Cleon declares he has a trunkful more at home; the Black-pudding-man has a garret and two outhouses full of them. They proceed to read the most absurdparodies on this favourite enigmatical literature. Here is one which Cleon produces:—

“Son of Erectheus, mark and ponder wellThis holy warning from Apollo’s cell;It bids thee cherish him, the sacred whelp,Who for thy sake doth bite and bark and yelp.”

Demus shakes his head with an air of puzzled wisdom; he cannot make it out at all. “What has Erectheus to do with a whelp?” “That’s me,” says Cleon; “I watch and bark for you. I’m Tear’em, and you must make much of me.”[15]“Not at all,” says his rival; “the whelp has been eating some of that oracle, as he does everything else. It’s a defective copy; I’ve got the complete text here:”—

“Son of Erectheus, ’ware the gap-toothed dog,The crafty mongrel that purloins thy prog;Fawning at meals, and filching scraps away,The whiles you gape and stare another way;He prowls by night and pilfers many a prizeAmidst the sculleries and the—colonies.”—(F.)

“That’s much more intelligible,” remarks the master. Cleon produces another, about a lion, who is to be carefully preserved “with a wooden wall and iron fortifications:”—“and I’m the lion.” “I can give the interpretation of that,” says the other; “the wood and iron are the stocks that you are to put this fellow in.” “That part of the oracle,” says Demus,“at any rate, is very likely to come true.” And again he declares that his mind is made up; he shall make a change in his establishment forthwith. Once more Cleon begs a respite, until his master sees what nice messes he will bring him. The other assures him he has far better viands, all ready hot; and the sensual old Demus, licking his lips, will wait until he has made trial of both. While they are gone to fetch the dainties, the Chorus rallies him upon his being so open to the practices of his flatterers:—

Chorus.

“Worthy Demus, your estateIs a glorious thing, we own;The haughtiest of the proud and greatWatch and tremble at your frown;Like a sovereign or a chief,But so easy of belief,Every fawning rogue and thiefFinds you ready to his hand;Flatterers you cannot withstand;To them your confidence is lent,With opinions always bentTo what your last advisers say,Your noble mind is gone astray.

Demus.

. . . . . . . . . .But though you see me dote and dream,Never think me what I seem;For my confidential slaveI prefer a pilfering knave;And when he’s pampered and full-blown,I snatch him up and dash him down.. . . . . . . . . .Hark me—when I seem to doze,When my wearied eyelids close,Then they think their tricks are hid;But beneath the drooping lidStill I keep a corner left,Tracing every secret theft:I shall match them by-and-by,All the rogues you think so sly.”—(F.)

The two candidates for office now run in from different directions, meeting and nearly upsetting each other, laden with trays of delicacies to tempt the master’s appetite.

“Dem.Well, truly, indeed, I shall be feasted rarely;My courtiers and admirers will quite spoil me.Cleon.There, I’m the first, ye see, to bring ye a chair.B.-P.-S.But a table—here, I’ve brought it first and foremost.Cleon.See here, this little half-meal cake from Pylos,Made from the flour of victory and success.B.-P.-S.But here’s a cake! see here! which the heavenly goddessPatted and flatted herself, with her ivory hand,For your own eating.Dem.Wonderful, mighty goddess!What an awfully large hand she must have had!”—(F.)

Ragouts, pancakes, fritters, wine, rich cake, hare-pie, are all tendered him in succession. This last is brought by Cleon; but the other cunningly directs his attention to some foreign envoys, whom he declares he sees coming with bags of gold; and while Cleon runs to pounce upon the money, he gets possession of the pie, and presents it as his own offering—“Just as you did the prisoners from Pylos, you know.” Demuseats in turn of all the good things, and grows quite bewildered as to his choice between two such admirable purveyors. He cannot see on which side his best interests lie, and at last appeals helplessly to the audience to advise him. The Black-pudding-man proposes that as a test of the honesty of their service, he should search the lockers of each of them. His own proves to be empty; he has given all he had. But in the Paphlagonian’s are found concealed all manner of good things, especially a huge cake, from which it appears he had cut off but a miserable slice for his master. This decides the question: Cleon is peremptorily desired to surrender his office at once. He makes a last struggle, and a scene ensues which reads like an antedated parody on the last meeting of Macbeth and Macduff. He holds an oracle which forewarns him of the only man who can overthrow his power. Where was his antagonist educated, and how?—“By the cuffs and blows of the scullions in the kitchen.” What did his next master teach him!—“To steal, and then swear he did not.” Cleon’s mind misgives him. What is his trade, and where does he practise it? And when he learns that his rival sells black-puddings at the city gates, he knows that all is over—Birnam Wood is come to Dunsinane. He wildly tears his hair, and takes his farewell in the most approved vein of tragedy.

“O me! the oracles of heaven are sped!Bear me within, unhappy! O farewellMine olive crown! Against my will I leave thee,A trophy for another’s brow to wear;Perchance to prove more fortunate than me;But greater rascal he can never be.”[16]

Here the action of the drama might have ended; but the dramatist had not yet driven his moral home. He had to show what Athens might yet be if she could get rid of the incubus of her demagogues. A choral ode is introduced—quite independent, as is so often the case, of the subject of the comedy—chiefly perhaps, in this case, in order to give opportunity for what we must conclude was a change of scene. The doors in the flat, as we should call it, are thrown open, and disclose to view the citadel of Athens. There, seated on a throne, no longer in his shabby clothes, but in a magnificent robe, and glorious in renewed youth, sits Demus, such as he was in the days of Miltiades and Aristides. His new minister has a secret like Medea’s, and has boiled him young again. “The good old times are come again,” as he declares, thanks to his liberator. There shall be no more ruling by favour and corruption; right shall be might, and he will listen to no more flatterers. To crown the whole, his new minister leads forth Peace—beautiful Peace, inpropria persona, hitherto hid away a close prisoner in the house of the Paphlagonian—and presents her to Demus in all her charms. And with this grand tableau the drama closes; it is not difficultto imagine, without being an Athenian, amid what thunders of applause. If the satire had been bitter and trenchant as to the faults and follies of the present—that unfortunate tense of existence, social and political, which appears never to satisfy men in any age of the world—this brilliant reminiscence of the glories of the past, and anticipation of a still more glorious future, was enough to condone for the poet the broadest licence which he had taken. Not indeed that any such apology was required. There was probably not a man among the audience—not a man in the state, except Cleon himself—who would not enjoy the wit far more than he resented its home application. That such a masterpiece was awarded the first prize of comedy by acclamation we should hardly doubt, even if we were not distinctly so informed. Those who know the facile temper of the multitude—and it may be said, perhaps, especially of the Athenian multitude—will understand, almost equally as a matter of course, that the political result was simply nothing. As Mr Mitchell briefly but admirably sums it up—“The piece was applauded in the most enthusiastic manner, the satire on the sovereign multitude was forgiven, and—Cleon remained in as great favour as ever.”[17]

Themomentous period in the history of Greece during which Aristophanes began to write, forms the ground-work, more or less, of so many of his Comedies, that it is impossible to understand them, far less to appreciate their point, without some acquaintance with its leading events. All men’s thoughts were occupied by the great contest for supremacy between the rival states of Athens and Sparta, known as the Peloponnesian War. It is not necessary here to enter into details; but the position of the Athenians during the earlier years of the struggle must be briefly described. Their strength lay chiefly in their fleet; in the other arms of war they were confessedly no match for Sparta and her confederate allies. The heavy-armed Spartan infantry, like the black Spanish bands of the fifteenth century, was almost irresistible in the field. Year after year the invaders marched through the Isthmus into Attica, or were landed in strong detachments on different points of the coast, while the powerful Bœotian cavalry swept all the champaign, burning the towns and villages, cutting down the crops, destroying vines and olive-groves,—carrying this work of devastation almost up to the very walls of Athens. For no serious attempt was made to resist these periodical invasions. The strategy of the Athenians was much the same as it had been when the Persian hosts swept down upon them fifty years before. Again they withdrew themselves and all their movable property within the city walls, and allowed the invaders to overrun the country with impunity. Their flocks and herds were removed into the islands on the coasts, where, so long as Athens was mistress of the sea, they would be in comparative safety. It was a heavy demand upon their patriotism; but, as before, they submitted to it, trusting that the trial would be but brief, and nerved to it by the stirring words of their great leader Pericles. The ruinous sacrifice, and even the personal suffering, involved in this forced migration of a rural population into a city wholly inadequate to accommodate them, may easily be imagined, even if it had not been forcibly described by the great historian of those times. Some carried with them the timber framework of their houses, and set it up in such vacant spaces as they could find. Others built for themselves little “chambers on the wall,” or occupied the outer courts of the temples, or were content with booths and tents set up under the Long Walls which connected the city with the harbour of Piræus. Some—if our comic satirist is to be trusted—were even fain to sleep in tubs and hen-coops. Provisions grew dear andscarce. Pestilence broke out in the overcrowded city; and in the second and third years of the war, the Great Plague carried off, out of their comparatively small population, above 10,000 of all ranks. The lands were either left unsown, or sown only to be ravaged before harvest-time by the enemy. No wonder that, as year after year passed, and brought no respite from suffering to the harassed citizens, they began to ask each other how long this was to last, and whether even national honour was worth purchasing at this heavy cost. Even the hard-won victories and the successful blows struck by their admirals at various points on their enemies’ coasts failed to reconcile the less warlike spirits to the continuance of the struggle. Popular orators like Cleon, fiery captains like Alcibiades, still carried the majority with them when they called for new levies and prophesied a triumphant issue; but there was a party at Athens, not so loud but still very audible, who said that such men had personal ambitions of their own to serve, and who had begun to sigh for “peace at any price.”

But it needed a pressure of calamity far greater than the present to keep a good citizen of Athens away from the theatre. If the times were gloomy, so much the more need of a little honest diversion. And if the war party were too strong for him to resist in the public assembly, at least he could have his laugh out against them when caricatured on the stage. It has been already shown that the comic drama was to the Athenians what a free press is to modern commonwealths. As the government of France under LouisXIV. was said to have been “a despotism tempered by epigrams,” so the power of the popular leaders over the democracy of Athens found a wholesome check in the free speech—not to say the licence—accorded to the comedian. Sentiments which it might have been dangerous to express in the public assembly were enunciated in the most plain-spoken language by the actor in the new burlesque. The bolder the attack was, and the harder the hitting, the more the audience were pleased. Nor was it at all necessary, in order to the spectator’s keen enjoyment of the piece, that he should agree with its politics. Many an admirer of the war policy of Lamachus laughed heartily enough, we may be sure, at his presentment on the stage in the caricature of military costume in which the actor dressed the part: just as many a modern Englishman has enjoyed the political caricatures of “H. B.,” or the cartoons in ‘Punch,’ not a whit the less because the satire was pointed against the recognised leaders of his own party. It is probable that Aristophanes was himself earnestly opposed to the continuance of the war, and spoke his own sentiments on this point by the mouth of his characters; but the prevalent disgust at the hardships of this long-continued siege—for such it practically was—would in any case be a tempting subject for the professed writer of burlesques; and the caricature of a leading politician, if cleverly drawn, is always a success for the author. To win the verdict of popular applause, which was the great aim of an Athenian play-writer, he must above all things hit the popular taste.

The Peloponnesian War lasted for twenty-nine years—during most of the time for which our dramatist held possession of the stage. Nearly all his comedies which have come down to us abound, as we should naturally expect, in allusions to the one absorbing interest of the day. But three of them—‘The Acharnians,’ ‘The Peace,’ and ‘Lysistrata,’—are founded entirely on what was the great public question of the day—How long was this grinding war to continue? when should Athens see again the blessings of peace? Treated in various grotesque and amusing forms, one serious and important political moral underlies them all.

‘The Acharnians’ might indeed have fairly claimed the first place here, on the ground that it was the earliest in date of the eleven comedies of Aristophanes which have been preserved to us. Independently of its great literary merits, it would have a special interest of its own, as being the most ancient specimen of comedy of any kind which has reached us. It was first acted at the great Lenæan festival held annually in honour of Bacchus, in February of the year 425B.C., when the war had already lasted between six and seven years. It took its name from Acharnæ, one of the “demes,” or country boroughs of Attica, about seven miles north of Athens; and the Chorus in the play is supposed to consist of old men belonging to the district. Acharnæ was the largest, the most fertile, and the most populous of all the demes, supplying a contingent of 3000 heavy-armed soldiers to the Athenian army. It lay right in theinvader’s path in his march from the Spartan frontier upon the city of Athens: and when, in the first year of the war, the Spartan forces bivouacked in its corn-fields and olive-grounds, and set fire to its homesteads, the smoke of their burning and the camp of the destroying enemy could be seen from the city walls. The effect was nearly being that which the Spartan king Archidamus had desired. The Athenians—and more especially the men of Acharnæ, now cooped within the fortifications of the capital—clamoured loudly to be led out to battle; and it needed all the influence of Pericles to restrain them from risking an engagement in which he knew they would be no match for the invaders. The Acharnians, therefore, had their national hostility to the Spartans yet more imbittered by their own private sufferings. Yet it was not unnatural that a sober-minded and peaceful yeoman of the district, remembering what his native canton had suffered and was likely to suffer again, should strongly object to the continuance of a war carried on at such a cost. His zeal for the national glory of Athens and his indignation against her enemies might be strong: but the love of home and property is a large component in most men’s patriotism. He was an Athenian by all means—but an Acharnian first.

Such a man is Dicæopolis, the hero of this burlesque. He has been too long cooped up in Athens, while his patrimony is being ruined: and in the first scene he comes up to the Pnyx—the place where the public assembly was held—grumbling at things in general, and the war in particular. The members of the Committee on Public Affairs come, as usual, very late tobusiness—every one, in this city life, is so lazy, as the Acharnian declares: but when business does begin, an incident occurs which interests him very much indeed. One Amphitheus—a personage who claims to be immortal by virtue of divine origin—announces that he has obtained, perhaps on that ground, special permission from the gods to negotiate a peace with Sparta. But there is one serious obstacle; nothing can be done in this world, even by demigods, without money, and he would have the Committee supply him with enough for his long journey. Such an outrageous request is only answered on the part of the authorities by a call for “Police!” and the applicant, in spite of the remonstrances of Dicæopolis at such unworthy treatment of a public benefactor, is summarily hustled out of court. Dicæopolis, however, follows him, and giving him eight shillings—or thereabouts—to defray his expenses on the road, bids him haste to Sparta and bring back with him, if possible, a private treaty of peace—for himself, his wife and children, and maid-servant. Meanwhile the “House” is occupied with the reception of certain High Commissioners who have returned from different foreign embassies. Some have been to ask help from Persia, and have brought back with them “the Great King’s Eye, Sham-artabas” (Dicæopolis is inclined to look upon him as a sham altogether)—who is, in fact, all eye, as far as the mask-maker’s art can make him so. He talks a jargon even more unintelligible than modern diplomatic communications, which the envoys explain to mean that the king will send the Athenians a subsidy of gold, but which Dicæopolis interprets in quite a contrary sense. Others have come back from a mission to Thrace, and have brought with them a sample of the warlike auxiliaries which Sitalces, prince of that country (who had a sort of Athenomania), is going to send to their aid—at two shillings a-day; some ragamuffin tribe whose appearance on the stage was no doubt highly ludicrous, and whose character is somewhat like that of Falstaff’s recruits, or Bombastes Furioso’s “brave army,” since their first exploit is to steal Dicæopolis’s luncheon: a palpable warning against putting trust in foreign hirelings.

Within a space of time so brief as to be conceivable upon the stage only, Amphitheus has returned from Sparta, to the great joy of Dicæopolis. His mission has been successful. But he is quite out of breath; for the Acharnians, finding out what his business is, have hunted and pelted him up to the very walls of Athens. “Peace, indeed! a pretty fellow you are, to negotiate a peace with our enemies after all our vines and corn-fields have been destroyed!” He has escaped them, however, for the present, and has brought back with him three samples of Treaties—in three separate wine-skins. The contents are of various growth and quality.[18]

“Dic.You’ve brought the Treaties?Amph.Ay, three samples of them;This here is a five years’ growth—taste it and try.Dic.(tastes, and spits it out). Don’t like it.Amph.Eh?Dic.Don’t like it—it won’t do;There’s an uncommon ugly twang of pitch,A touch of naval armament about it.Amph.Well, here’s a ten years’ growth may suit you better.Dic.(tastes again). No, neither of them; there is a sort of sournessHere in this last,—a taste of acid embassies,And vapid allies turning to vinegar.Amph.But here’s a truce of thirty years entire,Warranted sound.Dic.(smacking his lips and then hugging the jar). O Bacchus and the Bacchanals!This is your sort! here’s nectar and ambrosia!Here’s nothing about providing three days’ rations;[19]It says, ‘Do what you please, go where you will;’I choose it, and adopt it, and embrace it,For sacrifice, and for my private drinking.In spite of all the Acharnians, I’m determinedTo remove out of the reach of wars and mischief,And keep the Feast of Bacchus on my farm.”—(F.)

He leaves the stage on these festive thoughts intent. The scene changes to the open country in the district of Acharnæ, and here what we must consider as the second act of the play begins. The Chorus of ancient villagers—robust old fellows, “tough as oak, men who have fought at Marathon” in their day—rush in, in chase of the negotiators of this hateful treaty. Moving backwards and forwards with quick step in measured time across the wide orchestra (which, it mustbe remembered, was their proper domain), they chant a strain of which the rhythm, at least, is fairly preserved in Mr Frere’s translation:—

“Follow faster, all together! search, inquire of every one.Speak—inform us—have you seen him? whither is the rascal run?’Tis a point of public service that the traitor should be caughtIn the fact, seized and arrested with the treaties he has brought.”

Then they separate into two bodies, mutually urging each other to the pursuit, and leave the scene in different directions as Dicæopolis reappears. He is come to hold a private festival on his own account to Bacchus, in thanksgiving for the Peace which he, at all events, is to enjoy from henceforward. But he will have everything done in regular order, so far as his resources admit, with all the pomp and solemnity of a public festival. His daughter is to act as “Canephora,” or basket-bearer, carrying the sacred emblems of the god—a privilege which the fairest and noblest maidens of Athens were proud to claim—and her mother exhorts her to move and behave herself like a lady,—if on this occasion only. Their single slave is to follow behind with other mystic emblems. But a spectacle is nothing, as Dicæopolis feels, without spectators; so he bids his wife go indoors, and mount upon the house-top to see the procession pass. Next to a caricature of their great men, an Athenian audience enjoyed a caricature of their religion. They had this much of excuse, that Paganism was full of tempting themes forburlesque, of which their comic dramatists liberally availed themselves. But in truth there is a temptation to burlesque and parody presented by all religions, more or less, on their external side. Romanism and Puritanism have met with very similar treatment amongst ourselves; and one has only to refer to the old miracle-plays, and such celebrations as the Fête d’Ane, to be convinced how closely in such matters jest and earnest lie side by side.

But the festivities are very soon interrupted. The Acharnians have scented their prey at last, and rush in upon the celebrant with a shower of stones. Dicæopolis begs to know what crime he has committed. They soon let him know it: he has presumed to separate his private interest from the public cause, and to make a private treaty with the detested Spartans. They will listen to no explanation:—

“Don’t imagine to cajole us with your argument and fetches!You confess you’ve made a peace with these abominable wretches?Dic.Well—the very Spartans even—I’ve my doubts and scruples whetherThey’ve been totally to blame, in every instance, altogether.Cho.Not to blame in every instance?—villain, vagabond! how dare ye?Talking treason to our faces, to suppose that we shall spare ye?Dic.Not so totally to blame; and I will show that, here and there,The treatment they received from us has not been absolutely fair.Cho.What a scandal! what an insult! what an outrage on the state!Are ye come to plead before us as the Spartans’ advocate?”—(F.)

Well,—yes, he is, if they will only listen to him; and so confident is he of the justice of his views, that he undertakes to plead his cause with his head laid upon a chopping-block, with full permission to his opponents to cut it off at once if he fails to convince them. Even this scanty grace the indignant Acharnians are unwilling to allow him, until he fortunately lays his hand upon an important hostage, whose life shall, he declares, be forfeited the moment they proceed to violence. He produces what looks like a cradle, and might contain a baby. It is really nothing more or less than a basket of charcoal—the local product and staple merchandise of Acharnæ. “Lo,” says he to his irate antagonists, throwing himself into a tragic attitude and brandishing a dagger—“Lo, I will stab your darling to the heart!” The joke seems so very feeble in itself, that it is necessary to bear in mind that a well-known “situation” in a lost tragedy of Euripides (Telephus), which would have been fresh in the memory of an audience of such inveterate play-goers, is here burlesqued for their amusement. The threat brings the Acharnians to terms at once; they lay down their stones, and prepare to listen to argument, even in apology for the detested Spartans. The chopping-block is brought out; but before Dicæopolis begins to plead, he remembers that he is not provided with one very important requisite for a prisoner ontrial for his life. He ought to be clothed in “a most pathetical and heart-rending dress”—to move the compassion of his judges. Will they allow him just to step over the way and borrow one from that great tragedian Euripides, who keeps a whole wardrobe of pathetic costumes for his great characters? They give him leave; and as Euripides—most conveniently for dramatic purposes—appears to live close by, Dicæopolis proceeds at once to knock at the door of his lodging, and a servant answers from within. The humour of the scene which follows must have been irresistible to an audience who were familiar with every one of the characters mentioned, and who enjoyed the caricature none the less because they had, no doubt, applauded the tragic original.

“Servant.Who’s there?Dic.Euripides within?Serv.Within, yet not within. You comprehend me?Dic.Within and not within! why, what d’ye mean?Serv.I speak correctly, old sire! his outward manIs in the garret writing tragedy;While his essential being is abroad,Pursuing whimsies in the world of fancy.Dic.O happy Euripides, with such a servant,So clever and accomplished!—Call him out.Serv.It’s quite impossible.Dic.But it must be done.Positively and absolutely I must see him;Or I must stand here rapping at the door.Euripides! Euripides! come down,If ever you came down in all your life!’Tis I—’tis Dicæopolis from Chollidæ.Eur.I’m not at leisure to come down.Dic.Perhaps—But here’s the scene-shifter can wheel you round.Eur.It cannot be.Dic.But, however, notwithstanding.Eur.Well, there then, I’m wheeled round; for I had not timeFor coming down.Dic.Euripides, I say!Eur.What say ye?Dic.Euripides! Euripides!Good lawk, you’re there! up-stairs! you write up-stairs,Instead of the ground-floor? always up-stairs?Well now, that’s odd! But, dear Euripides,If you had but a suit of rags that you could lend me!You’re he that brings out cripples in your tragedies,A’nt ye?[20]You’re the new Poet, he that writesThose characters of beggars and blind people?Well, dear Euripides, if could you but lend meA suit of tatters from a cast-off tragedy!For mercy’s sake, for I’m obliged to makeA speech, in my own defence before the Chorus,A long pathetic speech, this very day;And if it fails, the doom of death betides me.Eur.Say, what d’ye seek? is it the woful garbIn which the wretched aged Æneus acted?Dic.No, ’twas a wretcheder man than Æneus, much.Eur.Was it blind Phœnix?Dic.No, not Phœnix; no,A fellow a great deal wretcheder than Phœnix.”—(F.)

After some further suggestions on the part of Euripides of other tragic characters, whose piteous“get-up” might excite the compassion of audience or judges, it turns out that the costume on which the applicant has set his heart is that in which Telephus the Mysian, in the tragedy which bears his name, pleads before Achilles, to beg that warrior to heal, as his touch alone could do, the wound which he had made. The whole scene should be read, if not in the original, then in Mr Frere’s admirable translation. Dicæopolis begs Euripides to lend him certain other valuable stage properties, one after the other: a beggar’s staff,—a little shabby basket,—a broken-lipped pitcher. The tragedian grows out of patience at last at this wholesale plagiarism of his dramatic repertory:—

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