THE KNIGHTS.
The two first comedies which Aristophanes brought out--‘The Revellers’
and ‘The Babylonians’--are both unfortunately lost to us. The third was
‘The Acharnians,’ followed in the next year by ‘The Knights.’ It may be
convenient, for some reasons, to begin our acquaintance with the author
in this latter play, because it is that into which he seems to have
thrown most of his personality as well as the whole force of his satiric
powers. There was a reason for this. In its composition he had not only
in view his fame as a dramatic writer, or the advocacy of a political
principle, but also a direct personal object.
It is now the eighth year of the Peloponnesian War, in which all Greece
is ranged on the side of the two great contending powers, Athens and
Sparta. The great Pericles--to whose fatal policy, as Aristophanes held,
its long continuance has been due--has been six years dead. His place in
the commonwealth has been taken by men of inferior mark. And the man who
is now most in popular favour, the head of the democratic interest, now
completely in the ascendant, is the poet’s great enemy, Cleon: an able
but unscrupulous man, of low origin, loud and violent, an able speaker
and energetic politician. Historians are at variance as to his real
claim to honesty and patriotism, and it remains a question never likely
to be set at rest. It would be manifestly unfair to decide it solely on
the evidence of his satirical enemy. He and his policy had been fiercely
attacked in the first comedy produced by Aristophanes--‘The
Babylonians,’ of which only the merest fragment has come down to us. But
we know that in it the poet had satirised the abuses prevalent in the
Athenian government, and their insolence to their subject-allies, under
the disguise of an imaginary empire, the scene of which he laid in
Babylon. Cleon had revenged himself upon his satirist by overwhelming
him with abuse in the public assembly, and by making a formal accusation
against him of having slandered the state in the presence of foreigners
and aliens, and thus brought ridicule and contempt upon the commonwealth
of Athens. In the drama now before us, the author is not only satirising
the political weakness of his countrymen; he is fulfilling the threat
which he had held out the year before in his ‘Acharnians,’--that he
would “cut up Cleon the tanner into shoe-leather for the Knights,”--and
concentrating the whole force of his wit, in the most unscrupulous and
merciless fashion, against his personal enemy. In this bitterness of
spirit the play stands in strong contrast with the good-humoured
burlesque of ‘The Acharnians’ and ‘The Peace,’ or, indeed, with any
other of the author’s productions which have reached us.
This play follows the fashion of the Athenian stage in taking its name
from the Chorus, who are in this case composed of THE KNIGHTS--the class
of citizens ranking next to the highest at Athens. A more appropriate
title, if the title is meant to indicate the subject, would be that
which Mr Mitchell gives it in his translation--‘The Demagogues.’ The
principal character in the piece is “Demus”--_i.e._, People: an
impersonation of that many-headed monster the Commons of Athens, the
classical prototype of Swift’s John Bull; and the satire is directed
against the facility with which he allows himself to be gulled and
managed by those who are nominally his servants but really his
masters--those noisy and corrupt demagogues (and one in particular, just
at present) who rule him for their own selfish ends.
The characters represented are only five. “People” is a rich
householder--selfish, superstitious, and sensual--who employs a kind of
major-domo to look after his business and manage his slaves. He has had
several in succession, from time to time. The present man is known in
the household as “The Paphlagonian,” or sometimes as “The Tanner”--for
the poet does not venture to do more than thus indicate Cleon by names
which refer either to some asserted barbarian blood in his family, or to
the occupation followed by his father. He is an unprincipled, lying
rascal; a slave himself, fawning and obsequious to his master, while
cheating him abominably--insolent and bullying towards the fellow-slaves
who are under his command. Two of these are Nicias and Demosthenes--the
first of them holding the chief naval command at this time, with
Demosthenes as one of his vice-admirals. These characters bear the real
names in most of the manuscripts, though they are never so addressed in
the dialogue; but they would be readily known to the audience by the
masks in which the actors performed the parts. But in the case of Cleon,
no artist was found bold enough to risk his powerful vengeance by
caricaturing his features, and no actor dared to represent him on the
stage. Aristophanes is said to have played the part himself, with his
face, in the absence of a mask, smeared with wine-lees, after the
primitive fashion, when “comedy” was nothing more than a village revel
in celebration of the vintage. Such a disguise, moreover, served
excellently well, as he declared, to imitate the purple and bloated
visage of the demagogue. The remaining character is that of “The
Black-pudding-Seller,” whose business in the piece will be better
understood as it proceeds. The whole action takes place without change
of scene (excepting the final tableau) in the open air, in front of
Demus’s house, the entrance to which is in the centre of the proscenium.
The two slaves, Nicias and Demosthenes, come out rubbing their
shoulders. They have just had a lashing from the major-domo. After
mutual condolences, and complaints of their hard lot, they agree to sit
down together and howl in concert--to the last new fashionable tune--
“Ŏ ōħ, Ŏ ōħ,--Ŏ ōħ, Ŏ ōħ,--Ŏ ōħ, Ŏ ōħ!”
Perhaps the burlesque of the two well-known commanders bemoaning
themselves in this parody of popular music does not imply more
childishness on the part of an Athenian audience than the nigger
choruses and comic operas of our own day. But, as Demosthenes, the
stronger character of the pair, observes at last--“crying’s no good.”
They must find some remedy. And there is one which occurs to him,--an
effectual one--but of which the very name is terrible, and not safely to
be uttered. It lies in a word that may be fatal to a slave, and is
always of ill omen to Athenian ears. At last, after a fashion quite
untranslatable, they contrive to say it between them--“Run away.” The
idea seems excellent, and Demosthenes proposes that they should take the
audience into their confidence, which accordingly they do,--begging them
to give some token of encouragement if the plot and the dialogue so far
please them:--
“_Dem. (to the audience.)_ Well, come now! I’ll tell ye
about it--Here are we,
A couple of servants--with a master at home
Next door to the hustings. He’s a man in years,
A kind of a bean-fed,[8] husky, testy character,
Choleric and brutal at times, and partly deaf.
It’s near about a month now, that he went
And bought a slave out of a tanner’s yard,
A Paphlagonian born, and brought him home,--
As wicked a slanderous wretch as ever lived.
This fellow, the Paphlagonian, has found out
The blind side of our master’s understanding,
With fawning and wheedling in this kind of way:
‘Would not you please go to the bath, sir? surely
It’s not worth while to attend the courts to-day.’
And--‘Would not you please to take a little refreshment?
And there’s that nice hot broth--and here’s the threepence
You left behind you--and would not you order supper?’
Moreover, when we get things out of compliment
As a present for our master, he contrives
To snatch ’em and serve ’em up before our faces.
I’d made a Spartan cake at Pylos lately,
And mixed and kneaded it well, and watched the baking;
But he stole round before me and served it up:[9]
And he never allows us to come near our master
To speak a word; but stands behind his back
At meal times, with a monstrous leathern fly-flap,
Slapping and whisking it round, and rapping us off.
Sometimes the old man falls into moods and fancies,
Searching the prophecies till he gets bewildered,
And then the Paphlagonian plies him up,
Driving him mad with oracles and predictions.
And that’s his harvest. Then he slanders us,
And gets us beaten and lashed, and goes his rounds
Bullying in this way, to squeeze presents from us:
‘You saw what a lashing Hylas got just now;
You’d best make friends with me, if you love your lives.’
Why then, we give him a trifle, or, if we don’t,
We pay for it; for the old fellow knocks us down,
And kicks us on the ground.”--(F.)
But, after all, what shall they do?--“Die at once,” says the despondent
Nicias--“drink bull’s blood, like Themistocles.” “Drink a cup of good
wine, rather,” says his jovial comrade. And he sends Nicias to purloin
some, while their hated taskmaster is asleep. Warming his wits under its
influence, Demosthenes is inspired with new counsels. The oracles which
this Paphlagonian keeps by him, and by means of which he strengthens his
influence over their master, must be got hold of. And Nicias--the weaker
spirit--is again sent by his comrade upon the perilous service of
stealing them from their owner’s possession while he is still
snoring.[10] He succeeds in his errand, and Demosthenes (who has paid
great attention to the wine-jar meanwhile) takes the scrolls from his
hands and proceeds to unroll and read them, his comrade watching him
with a face of superstitious eagerness. The oracles contain a prophetic
history of Athens under its successive demagogues. First there should
rise to power a hemp-seller, secondly a cattle-jobber, thirdly a dealer
in hides--this Paphlagonian, who now holds rule in Demus’s household.
But he is to fall before a greater that is to come--one who plies a
marvellous trade. Nicias is all impatience to know who and what this
saviour of society is to be. Demosthenes, in a mysterious whisper, tells
him the coming man is--a Black-pudding-seller!
“Black-pudding-seller! marvellous, indeed!
Great Neptune, what an art!--but where to find him?”
Why, most opportunely, here he comes! He is seen mounting the steps
which are supposed to lead from the city, with his tray of wares
suspended from his neck. The two slaves make a rush for him, salute him
with the profoundest reverence, take his tray off carefully, and bid him
fall down and thank the gods for his good fortune.
“_Black-P.-Seller._ Hallo! what is it?
_Demosth._ O thrice blest of mortals!
Who art nought to-day, but shall be first to-morrow!
Hail, Chief that shall be of our glorious Athens!
_B.-P.-S._ Prithee, good friend, let me go wash my tripes,
And sell my sausages--you make a fool of me.
_Dem._ Tripes, quotha! tripes? Ha-ha!--Look yonder,
man--(_pointing to the audience._)
You see these close-packed ranks of heads?
_B.-P.-S._ I see.
_Dem._ Of all these men you shall be sovereign chief,
Of the Forum, and the Harbours, and the Courts,
Shall trample on the Senate, flout the generals,
Bind, chain, imprison, play what pranks you will.
_B.-P.-S._ What,--I?
_Dem._ Yes--you. But you’ve not yet seen all;
Here--mount upon your dresser there--look out!
(_Black-Pudding-Seller gets upon the dresser, from
which he is supposed to see all the dependencies
of Athens, and looks stupidly round him._)
You see the islands all in a circle round you?
_B.-P.-S._ I see.
_Dem._ What, all the sea-ports, and the shipping?
_B.-P.-S._ I see, I tell ye.
_Dem._ Then, what luck is yours!
But cast your right eye now towards Caria--there--
And fix your left on Carthage,--both at once.
_B.-P.-S._ Be blest if I shan’t squint--if that’s good luck.”
The Black-pudding-man is modest, and doubts his own qualifications for
all this preferment. Demosthenes assures him that he is the very man
that is wanted. “A rascal--bred in the forum,--and with plenty of
brass;” what could they wish for more? Still, the other fears he is “not
strong enough for the place.” Demosthenes begins to be alarmed: modesty
is a very bad symptom in a candidate for preferment; he is afraid, after
all, that the man has some hidden good qualities which will disqualify
him for high office. Possibly, he suggests, there is some gentle blood
in the family? No, the other assures him: all his ancestors have been
born blackguards like himself, so far as he knows. But he has had no
education--he can but barely spell. The only objection, Demosthenes
declares, is that he has learnt even so much as that.
“The only harm is, you can spell at all;
Our leaders of the people are no longer
Your men of education and good fame;
We choose the illiterate and the blackguards, always.”
Demosthenes proceeds to tell him of a prophecy, found amongst the stolen
scrolls, in which, after the enigmatical fashion of such literature, it
is foretold that the great tanner-eagle shall be overcome by the cunning
serpent that drinks blood. The tanner-eagle is plainly none other than
this Paphlagonian hide-seller; and as to his antagonist, what can be
plainer? It is the resemblance of Macedon to Monmouth. “A serpent is
long, and so is a black-pudding; and both drink blood.” So Demosthenes
crowns the new-found hero with a garland, and they proceed to finish the
flagon of wine to the health of the conqueror in the strife that is to
come. Nor will allies be wanting:--
“Our Knights--good men and true, a thousand strong,--
Who hate the wretch, shall back you in this contest;
And every citizen of name and fame,
And each kind critic in this goodly audience,
And I myself, and the just gods besides.
Nay, never fear; you shall not see his features;
For very cowardice, the mask-makers
Flatly refused to mould them. Ne’ertheless,
He will be known,--our friends have ready wits.”
At this moment the dreaded personage comes out from the house in a fury.
The Black-pudding-man takes to flight at once, leaving his
stock-in-trade behind him, but is hauled back by Demosthenes, who
loudly summons the “Knights” to come to the rescue,--and with the usual
rhythmical movement, and rapid chant, the Chorus of Knights sweep up
through the orchestra.
“Close around him and confound him, the confounder of us all!
Pelt him, pummel him, and maul him,--rummage, ransack, overhaul him!
Overbear him, and out-bawl him; bear him down, and bring him under!
Bellow like a burst of thunder--robber, harpy, sink of plunder!
Rogue and villain! rogue and cheat! rogue and villain! I repeat.
Oftener than I can repeat it has the rogue and villain cheated.
Close upon him left and right--spit upon him, spurn and smite;
Spit upon him as you see: spurn and spit at him, like me.”
--(F.)
They surround and hustle the representative of Cleon, who calls in vain
for his partisans to come to his assistance. The Black-pudding man takes
courage, and comes to the front; and a duel in the choicest Athenian
Billingsgate takes place, in which the current truths or slanders of the
day are paraded, no doubt much to the amusement of an Athenian
audience--hardly so to the English reader. The new champion shows
himself at least the equal of his antagonist in this kind of warfare,
and the Chorus are delighted. “There is something hotter, after all,
than fire--a more consummate blackguard has been found than Cleon!” From
words the battle proceeds to blows, and the Paphlagonian retires
discomfited, threatening his antagonist with future vengeance, and
challenging him to meet him straightway before the Senate.[11]
The Chorus fill up the interval of the action by an address to the
audience; in which, speaking on the author’s behalf, they apologise on
the ground of modesty for his not having produced his previous comedies
in his own name and on his own responsibility, and make a
complaint--common to authors in all ages--of the ingratitude of the
public to its popular favourites of the hour. Thence the chant passes
into an ode to Neptune, the tutelary god of a nation of seamen, and to
Pallas Athene, who gives her name to the city. And between the pauses of
the song they rehearse, in a kind of recitative, the praises of the good
old days of Athens.
“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 account
Of 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 sort
Strolled about to pick up litter, for their solace and disport:
And devoured the crabs of Corinth, as a substitute for clover,
So that a poetic _Crabbe_[13] exclaimed in anguish--‘All is over!
What awaits us, mighty Neptune, if we cannot hope to keep
From 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 before PEOPLE himself. 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 submit their 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
aspirant to 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 whether
You, that pretend yourself his friend, with all your wealth in leather,
Ever supplied a single hide to mend his reverend, battered
Old 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 fairly
His 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 absurd parodies
on this favourite enigmatical literature. Here is one which Cleon
produces:--
“Son of Erectheus, mark and ponder well
This 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 prize
Amidst 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 estate
Is a glorious thing, we own;
The haughtiest of the proud and great
Watch and tremble at your frown;
Like a sovereign or a chief,
But so easy of belief,
Every fawning rogue and thief
Finds you ready to his hand;
Flatterers you cannot withstand;
To them your confidence is lent,
With opinions always bent
To 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 slave
I 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 lid
Still 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 goddess
Patted 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.” Demus
eats 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 farewell
Mine 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, in _propria 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
difficult to 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]