Chapter 17

The _Ecclesiazusae_ is in like manner a picture of woman's ascendency, but one much more depraved than the former. In the dress of men the women steal into the public assembly, and by means of the majority of voices which they have thus surreptitiously obtained, they decree a new constitution, in which there is to be a community of goods and of women. This is a satire on the ideal republics of the philosophers, with similar laws; Protagoras had projected such before Plato. The comedy appears to me to labour under the very same fault as the _Peace_: the introduction, the secret assembly of the women, their rehearsal of their parts as men, the description of the popular assembly, are all handled in the most masterly manner; but towards the middle the action stands still. Nothing remains but the representation of the perplexities and confusion which arise from the different communities, especially the community of women, and from the prescribed equality of rights in love both for the old and ugly, and for the young and beautiful. These perplexities are pleasant enough, but they turn too much on a repetition of the same joke. Generally speaking, the old allegorical comedy is in its progress exposed to the danger of sinking. When we begin with turning the world upside down, the most wonderful incidents follow one another as a matter of course, but they are apt to appear petty and insignificant when compared with the decisive strokes of fun in the commencement.

The _Thesmophoriazusae_ has a proper intrigue, a knot which is not loosed till the conclusion, and in this possesses therefore a great advantage. Euripides, on account of the well-known hatred of women displayed in his tragedies, is accused and condemned at the festival of the Thesmophoriae, at which women only were admitted. After a fruitless attempt to induce the effeminate poet Agathon to undertake the hazardous experiment, Euripides prevails on his brother-in-law, Mnesilochus, who was somewhat advanced in years, to disguise himself as a woman, that under this assumed appearance he may plead his cause. The manner in which he does this gives rise to suspicions, and he is discovered to be a man; he flies to the altar for refuge, and to secure himself still more from the impending danger, he snatches a child from the arms of one of the women, and threatens to kill it if they do not let him alone. As he attempts to strangle it, it turns out to be a leather wine-flask wrapped up like a child. Euripides now appears in a number of different shapes to save his friend: at one time he is Menelaus, who finds Helen again in Egypt; at another time he is Echo, helping the chained Andromeda to pour out her lamentations, and immediately after he appears as Perseus, about to release her from the rock. At length he succeeds in rescuing Mnesilochus, who is fastened to a sort of pillory, by assuming the character of a procuress, and enticing away the officer of justice who has charge of him, a simple barbarian, by the charms of a female flute-player. These parodied scenes, composed almost entirely in the very words of the tragedies, are inimitable. Whenever Euripides is introduced, we may always, generally speaking, lay our account with having the most ingenious and apposite ridicule; it seems as if the mind of Aristophanes possessed a peculiar and specific power of giving a comic turn to the poetry of this tragedian.

The _Clouds_ is well known, but yet, for the most part, has not been duly understood or appreciated. Its object is to show that the fondness for philosophical subtleties had led to a neglect of warlike exercises, that speculation only served to shake the foundations of religion and morals, and that by the arts of sophistry, every duty was rendered doubtful, and the worse cause frequently came off victorious. The Clouds themselves, as the chorus of the piece (for the poet converts these substances into persons, and dresses them out strangely enough), are an allegory on the metaphysical speculations which do not rest on the ground of experience, but float about without any definite shape or body, in the region of possibilities. We may observe in general that it is one of the peculiarities of the wit of Aristophanes to take a metaphor literally, and to exhibit it in this light before the eyes of the spectators. Of a man addicted to unintelligible reveries, it is a common way of speaking to say that he is up in the clouds, and accordingly Socrates makes his first appearance actually descending from the air in a basket. Whether this applies exactly to him is another question; but we have reason to believe that the philosophy of Socrates was very ideal, and that it was by no means so limited to popular and practical matters as Xenophon would have us believe. But why has Aristophanes personified the sophistical metaphysics by the venerable Socrates, who was himself a determined opponent of the Sophists? There was probably some personal grudge at the bottom of this, and we do not attempt to justify it; but the choice of the name by no means diminishes the merit of the picture itself. Aristophanes declares this play to be the most elaborate of all his works: but in such expressions we are not always to take him exactly at his word. On all occasions, and without the least hesitation, he lavishes upon himself the most extravagant praises; and this must be considered a feature of the licence of comedy. However, the _Clouds_ was unfavourably received, and twice unsuccessfully competed for the prize.

The _Frogs_, as we have already said, has for its subject the decline of Tragic Art. Euripides was dead, as well as Sophocles and Agathon, and none but poets of the second rank were now remaining. Bacchus misses Euripides, and determines to bring him back from the infernal world. In this he imitates Hercules, but although furnished with that hero's lion- skin and club, in sentiments he is very unlike him, and as a dastardly voluptuary affords us much matter for laughter. Here we have a characteristic specimen of the audacity of Aristophanes: he does not even spare the patron of his own art, in whose honour this very play was exhibited. It was thought that the gods understood a joke as well, if not better, than men. Bacchus rows himself over the Acherusian lake, where the frogs merrily greet him with their melodious croakings. The proper chorus, however, consists of the shades of those initiated in the Eleusinian mysteries, and odes of surpassing beauty are put in their mouths. Aeschylus had hitherto occupied the tragic throne in the world below, but Euripides wants to eject him. Pluto presides, but appoints Bacchus to determine this great controversy; the two poets, the sublimely wrathful Aeschylus, and the subtle and conceited Euripides, stand opposite each other and deliver specimens of their poetical powers; they sing, they declaim against each other, and in all their peculiar traits are characterised in masterly style. At last a balance is brought, on which each lays a verse; but notwithstanding all the efforts of Euripides to produce ponderous lines, those of Aeschylus always make the scale of his rival to kick the beam. At last the latter becomes impatient of the contest, and proposes that Euripides himself, with all his works, his wife, children, Cephisophon and all, shall get into one scale, and he will only lay against them in the other two verses. Bacchus in the mean time has become a convert to the merits of Aeschylus, and although he had sworn to Euripides that he would take him back with him from the lower world, he dismisses him with a parody of one of his own verses in _Hippolytus_:

My tongue hath sworn, I however make choice of Aeschylus.

Aeschylus consequently returns to the living world, and resigns the tragic throne in his absence to Sophocles.

The observation on the changes of place, which I made when mentioning _Peace_, may be here repeated. The scene is first at Thebes, of which both Bacchus and Hercules were natives; afterwards the stage is changed, without its ever being left by Bacchus, to the nether shore of the Acherusian lake, which must have been represented by the sunken space of the orchestra, and it was not till Bacchus landed at the other end of the logeum that the scenery represented the infernal world, with the palace of Pluto in the back-ground. This is not a mere conjecture, it is expressly stated by the old scholiast.

The _Wasps_ is, in my opinion, the feeblest of Aristophanes' plays. The subject is too limited, the folly it ridicules appears a disease of too singular a description, without a sufficient universality of application, and the action is too much drawn out. The poet himself speaks this time in very modest language of his means of entertainment, and does not even promise us immoderate laughter.

On the other hand, the _Birds_ transports us by one of the boldest and richest inventions into the kingdom of the fantastically wonderful, and delights us with a display of the gayest hilarity: it is a joyous- winged and gay-plumed creation. I cannot concur with the old critic in thinking that we have in this work a universal and undisguised satire on the corruptions of the Athenian state, and of all human society. It seems rather a harmless display of merry pranks, which hit alike at gods and men without any particular object in view. Whatever was remarkable about birds in natural history, in mythology, in the doctrine of divination, in the fables of Aesop, or even in proverbial expressions, has been ingeniously drawn to his purpose by the poet; who even goes back to cosmogony, and shows that at first the raven-winged Night laid a wind-egg, out of which the lovely Eros, with golden pinions (without doubt a bird), soared aloft, and thereupon gave birth to all things. Two fugitives of the human race fall into the domain of the birds, who resolve to revenge themselves on them for the numerous cruelties which they have suffered: the two men contrive to save themselves by proving the pre-eminency of the birds over all other creatures, and they advise them to collect all their scattered powers into one immense state; the wondrous city, Cloud-cuckootown, is then built above the earth; all sorts of unbidden guests, priests, poets, soothsayers, geometers, lawyers, sycophants, wish to nestle in the new state, but are driven out; new gods are appointed, naturally enough, after the image of the birds, as those of men bore a resemblance to man. Olympus is walled up against the old gods, so that no odour of sacrifices can reach them; in their emergency, they send an embassy, consisting of the voracious Hercules, Neptune, who swears according to the common formula, by Neptune, and a Thracian god, who is not very familiar with Greek, but speaks a sort of mixed jargon; they are, however, under the necessity of submitting to any conditions they can get, and the sovereignty of the world is left to the birds. However much all this resembles a mere farcical fairy tale, it may be said, however, to have a philosophical signification, in thus taking a sort of bird's-eye view of all things, seeing that most of our ideas are only true in a human point of view.

The old critics were of opinion that Cratinus was powerful in that biting satire which makes its attack without disguise, but that he was deficient in a pleasant humour, also that he wanted the skill to develope a striking subject to the best advantage, and to fill up his pieces with the necessary details. Eupolis they tell us was agreeable in his jokes, and ingenious in covert allusions, so that he never needed the assistance of parabases to say whatever he wished, but that he was deficient in satiric power. But Aristophanes, they add, by a happy medium, united the excellencies of both, and that in him we have satire and pleasantry combined in due proportion and attractive manner. From these statements I conceive myself justified in assuming that among the pieces of Aristophanes, the _Knights_ is the most in the style of Cratinus, and the _Birds_ in that of Eupolis; and that he had their respective manners in view when he composed these pieces. For although he boasts of his independent originality, and of his never borrowing anything from others, it was hardly possible that among such distinguished contemporary artists, all reciprocal influence should be excluded. If this opinion be well founded, we have to lament the loss of the works of Cratinus, perhaps principally on account of the light they would have thrown on the manners of the times, and the knowledge they might have afforded of the Athenian constitution, while the loss of the works of Eupolis is to be regretted, chiefly for the comic form in which they were delivered.

_Plutus_ was one of the earlier pieces of the poet, but as we have it, it is one of his last works; for the first piece was afterwards recast by him. In its essence it belongs to the Old Comedy, but in the sparingness of personal satire, and in the mild tone which prevails throughout, we may trace an approximation to the Middle Comedy. The Old Comedy indeed had not yet received its death-blow from a formal enactment, but even at this date Aristophanes may have deemed it prudent to avoid a full exercise of the democratic privilege of comedy. It has even been said (perhaps without any foundation, as the circumstance has been denied by others) that Alcibiades ordered Eupolis to be drowned on account of a piece which he had aimed at him. Dangers of this description would repress the most ardent zeal of authorship: it is but fair that those who seek to afford pleasure to their fellow-citizens should at least be secure of their life.

APPENDIX TO THE TWELFTH LECTURE.

As we do not, so far as I know, possess as yet a satisfactory poetical translation of Aristophanes, and as the whole works of this author must, for many reasons, ever remain untranslatable, I have been induced to lay before my readers the scene in the _Acharnians_ where Euripides makes his appearance; not that this play does not contain many other scenes of equal, if not superior merit, but because it relates to the character of this tragedian as an artist, and is both free from indecency, and, moreover, easily understood.

The Acharnians, country-people of Attica, who have greatly suffered from the enemy, are highly enraged at Dikaiopolis for concluding a peace with the Lacedaemonians, and determine to stone him. He undertakes to speak in defence of the Lacedaemonians, standing the while behind a block, as he is to lose his head if he does not succeed in convincing them. In this ticklish predicament, he calls on Euripides, to lend him the tattered garments in which that poet's heroes were in the habit of exciting commiseration. We must suppose the house of the tragic poet to occupy the middle of the back scene.

DIKAIOPOLIS. 'Tis time I pluck up all my courage then, And pay a visit to Euripides. Boy, boy!

CEPHISOPHON. Who's there?

DIKAIOPOLIS. Is Euripides within?

CEPHISOPHON. Within, and not within: Can'st fathom that?

DIKAIOPOLIS. How within, yet not within?

CEPHISOPHON. 'Tis true, old fellow. His mind is out collecting dainty verses, [1] And not within. But he's himself aloft Writing a tragedy.

DIKAIOPOLIS. Happy Euripides, Whose servant here can give such witty answers. Call him.

CEPHISOPHON. It may not be.

DIKAIOPOLIS. I say, you must though-- For hence I will not budge, but knock the door down. Euripides, Euripides, my darling! [2] Hear me, at least, if deaf to all besides. 'Tis Dikaiopolis of Chollis calls you.

EURIPIDES. I have not time.

DIKAIOPOLIS. At least roll round. [3]

EURIPIDES. I can't. [4]

DIKAIOPOLIS. You must.

EURIPIDES. Well, I'll roll round. Come down I can't; I'm busy.

DIKAIOPOLIS. Euripides!

EURIPIDES. What would'st thou with thy bawling.

DIKAIOPOLIS What! you compose aloft and not below. No wonder if your muse's bantlings halt. Again, those rags and cloak right tragical, The very garb for sketching beggars in! But sweet Euripides, a boon, I pray thee. Give me the moving rags of some old play; I've a long speech to make before the Chorus, And if I falter, why the forfeit's death.

EURIPIDES. What rags will suit you? Those in which old Oeneus, That hapless wight, went through his bitter conflict?

DIKAIOPOLIS. Not Oeneus, no,--but one still sorrier.

EURIPIDES. Those of blind Phoenix?

DIKAIOPOLIS. No, not Phoenix either; But another, more wretched still than Phoenix

EURIPIDES. Whose sorry tatters can the fellow want? 'Tis Philoctetes' sure! You mean that beggar.

DIKAIOPOLIS. No; but a person still more beggarly.

EURIPIDES. I have it. You want the sorry garments Bellerophon, the lame man, used to wear.

DIKAIOPOLIS. No,--not Bellerophon. Though the man I mean Was lame, importunate, and bold of speech.

EURIPIDES. I know, 'Tis Telephus the Mysian.

DIKAIOPOLIS. Right. Yes, Telephus: lend me his rags I pray you.

EURIPIDES. Ho, boy! Give him the rags of Telephus. There lie they; just upon Thyestes' rags, And under those of Ino.

CEPHISOPHON. Here! take them.

DIKAIOPOLIS (_putting them on_). Now Jove! who lookest on, and see'st through all, [5] Your blessing, while thus wretchedly I garb me. Pr'ythee, Euripides, a further boon, It goes, I think, together with these rags: The little Mysian bonnet for my head; "For sooth to-day I must put on the beggar, And be still what I am, and yet not seem so." [6] The audience here may know me who I am, But like poor fools the chorus stand unwitting, While I trick them with my flowers of rhetoric.

EURIPIDES. A rare device, i'faith! Take it and welcome.

DIKAIOPOLIS. "For thee. my blessing; for Telephus, my thoughts." [7] 'Tis well; already, words flow thick and fast. Oh! I had near forgot--A beggar's staff, I pray.

EURIPIDES. Here, take one, and thyself too from these doors.

DIKAIOPOLIS. (_Aside_.) See'st thou, my soul,--he'd drive thee from his door Still lacking many things. Become at once A supple, oily beggar. (_Aloud_.) Good Euripides, Lend me a basket, pray;--though the bottom's Scorch'd, 'twill do.

EURIPIDES. Poor wretch! A basket? What's thy need on't?

DIKAIOPOLIS. No need beyond the simple wish to have it.

EURIPIDES. You're getting troublesome. Come pack--be off.

DIKAIOPOLIS. (_Aside_.) Faugh! Faugh! (_Aloud_.) May heaven prosper thee as--thy good mother. [8]

EURIPIDES. Be off, I say!

DIKAIOPOLIS. Not till thou grant'st my prayer. Only a little cup with broken rim.

EURIPIDES. Take it and go; for know you're quite a plague.

DIKAIOPOLIS. (_Aside_.) Knows he how great a pest he is himself? (_Aloud_.) But, my Euripides! my sweet! one thing more: Give me a cracked pipkin stopped with sponge.

EURIPIDES. The man would rob me of a tragedy complete. There--take it, and begone.

DIKAIOPOLIS. Well! I am going. Yet what to do? One thing I lack, whose want Undoes me. Good, sweet Euripides! Grant me but this, I'll ask no more, but go-- Some cabbage-leaves--a few just in my basket!

EURIPIDES. You'll ruin me. See there! A whole play's gone!

DIKAIOPOLIS (_seemingly going off_). Nothing more now. I'm really off. I am, I own, A bore, wanting in tact to please the great. Woe's me! Was ever such a wretch? Alas! I have forgot the very chiefest thing of all. Hear me, Euripides, my dear! my darling. Choicest ills betide me! if e'er I ask Aught more than this; but one--this one alone: Throw me a pot-herb from thy mother's stock.

EURIPIDES. The fellow would insult me--shut the door. (_The Encyclema revolves, and Euripides and Cephisophon retire_.)

DIKAIOPOLIS. Soul of me, thou must go without a pot-herb! Wist thou what conflict thou must soon contend in To proffer speech and full defence for Sparta? Forward, my soul! the barriers are before thee. What, dost loiter? hast not imbibed Euripides? And yet I blame thee not. Courage, sad heart! And forward, though it be to lay thy head Upon the block. Rouse thee, and speak thy mind. Forward there! forward again! bravely heart, bravely.

NOTES

[1] The Greek diminutive _epullia_ is here correctly expressed by the German _verschen_, but versicle would not be tolerated in English.--TRANS.

[2] Euripidion--in the German Euripidelein.--TRANS.

[3] A technical expression from the Encyclema, which was thrust out.

[4] Euripides appears in the upper story; but as in an altana, or sitting to an open gallery.

[5] Alluding to the holes in the mantle which he holds up to the light.

[6] These lines are from Euripides' tragedy of _Telephus_.

[7] An allusion (which a few lines lower is again repeated) to his mother as a poor retailer of vegetables.

[8] See previous footnote.

LECTURE XIII.

Whether the Middle Comedy was a distinct species--Origin of the New Comedy--A mixed species--Its prosaic character--Whether versification is essential to Comedy--Subordinate kinds--Pieces of Character, and of Intrigue--The Comic of observation, of self-consciousness, and arbitrary Comic--Morality of Comedy--Plautus and Terence as imitators of the Greeks here cited and characterised for want of the Originals--Moral and social aim of the Attic Comedy--Statues of two Comic Authors.

Ancient critics assume the existence of a _Middle Comedy_, between the _Old_ and the _New_. Its distinguishing characteristics are variously described: by some its peculiarity is made to consist in the abstinence from personal satire and introduction of real characters, and by others in the abolition of the chorus. But the introduction of real persons under their true names was never an indispensable requisite. Indeed, in several, even of Aristophanes' plays, we find characters in no respect historical, but altogether fictitious, but bearing significant names, after the manner of the New Comedy; while personal satire is only occasionally employed. This right of personal satire was no doubt, as I have already shown, essential to the Old Comedy, and the loss of it incapacitated the poets from throwing ridicule on public actions and affairs of state. When accordingly they confined themselves to private life, the chorus ceased at once to have any significance. However, accidental circumstances accelerated its abolition. To dress and train the choristers was an expensive undertaking; now, as Comedy with the forfeiture of its political privileges lost also its festal dignity, and was degraded into a mere amusement, the poet no longer found any rich patrons willing to take upon themselves the expense of furnishing the chorus.