Aristophanes--His Character as an Artist--Description and Character of his
remaining Works--A Scene, translated from the _Acharnae,_ by way of
Appendix.
Of the Old Comedy but one writer has come down to us, and we cannot,
therefore, in forming an estimate of his merits, enforce it by a
comparison with other masters. Aristophanes had many predecessors,
_Magnes_, _Cratinus_, _Crates,_ and others; he was indeed one of the
latest of this school, for he outlived the Old Comedy. We have no
reason, however, to believe that we witness in him its decline, as we
do that of Tragedy in the case of the last tragedian; in all probability
the Old Comedy was still rising in perfection, and he himself one of its
most finished authors. It was very different with the Old Comedy and with
Tragedy; the latter died a natural, and the former a violent death.
Tragedy ceased to exist, because that species of poetry seemed to be
exhausted, because it was abandoned, and because no one was now able to
rise to the pitch of its elevation. Comedy was deprived by the hand of
power of that unrestrained freedom which was necessary to its existence.
Horace, in a few words, informs us of this catastrophe: "After these
(Thespis and Aeschylus) followed the Old Comedy, not without great merit;
but its freedom degenerated into licentiousness, and into a violence which
deserved to be checked by law. The law was enacted, and the Chorus sunk
into disgraceful silence as soon as it was deprived of the right to
injure." [Footnote:
Successit vetus his comedia, non sine multâ
Laude, sed in vitium libertas excidit, et vim
Dignam lege regi: lex est accepta: chorusque
Turpiter obticuit, sublato jure nocendi.] Towards the end of the
Peloponnesian war, when a few individuals, in violation of the
constitution, had assumed the supreme authority in Athens, a law was
enacted, giving every person attacked by comic poets a remedy by law.
Moreover, the introduction of real persons on the stage, or the use of
such masks as bore a resemblance to their features, &c., was prohibited.
This gave rise to what is called the _Middle Comedy_. The form still
continued much the same; and the representation, if not perfectly
allegorical, was nevertheless a parody. But the essence was taken away,
and this species must have become insipid when it could no longer be
seasoned by the salt of personal ridicule. Its whole attraction consisted
in idealizing jocularly the reality that came nearest home to every one of
the spectators, that is, in representing it under the light of the most
preposterous perversity; and how was it possible now to lash even the
general mismanagement of the state-affairs, if no offence was to be given
to individuals? I cannot, therefore, agree with Horace in his opinion that
the abuse gave rise to the restriction. The Old Comedy flourished together
with Athenian liberty; and both were oppressed under the same
circumstances, and by the same persons. So far were the calumnies of
Aristophanes from having been the occasion of the death of Socrates, as,
without a knowledge of history, many persons have thought proper to assert
(for the _Clouds_ were composed a great number of years before), that
it was the very same revolutionary despotism that reduced to silence alike
the sportive censure of Aristophanes, and also punished with death the
graver animadversions of the incorruptible Socrates. Neither do we see
that the persecuting jokes of Aristophanes were in any way detrimental to
Euripides: the free people of Athens beheld alike with admiration the
tragedies of the one, and their parody by the other, represented on the
same stage; they allowed every variety of talent to flourish undisturbed
in the enjoyment of equal rights. Never did a sovereign, for such was the
Athenian people, listen more good-humouredly to the most unwelcome truths,
and even allow itself to be openly laughed at. And even if the abuses in
the public administration were not by these means corrected, still it was
a grand point that this unsparing exposure of them was tolerated. Besides,
Aristophanes always shows himself a zealous patriot; the powerful
demagogues whom he attacks are the same persons that the grave Thucydides
describes as so pernicious. In the midst of civil war, which destroyed for
ever the prosperity of Greece, he was ever counselling peace, and
everywhere recommended the simplicity and austerity of the ancient
manners. So much for the political import of the Old Comedy.
But Aristophanes, I hear it said, was an immoral buffoon. Yes, among other
things, he was that also; and we are by no means disposed to justify the
man who, with such great talents, could yet sink so very low, whether it
was to gratify his own coarse propensities, or from a supposed necessity
of winning the favour of the populace, that he might be able to tell them
bold and unpleasant truths. We know at least that he boasts of having been
much more sparing than his rivals in the use of obscene jests, to gain the
laughter of the mob, and of having, in this respect, carried his art to
perfection. Not to be unjust towards him, we must judge of all that
appears so repulsive to us, not by modern ideas, but by the opinions of
his own age and nation. On certain subjects the morals of the ancients
were very different from ours, and of a much freer character. This arose
from the very nature of their religion, which was a real worship of
Nature, and had sanctioned many public customs grossly injurious to
decency. Besides, from the very retired manner in which the women lived,
[Footnote: This brings us to the consideration of the question so much
agitated by antiquaries, whether the Grecian women were present at the
representation of plays in general, and more especially of comedies. With
respect to tragedy, I think the question must be answered in the
affirmative, since the story about the _Eumenides_ of Aeschylus could
not have been invented with any degree of propriety, had women never
visited the theatre. Moreover, there is a passage in Plato (_De Leg._,
lib. ii. p. 658, D.), in which he mentions the predilection educated women
evince for tragical composition. Lastly, Julius Pollux, among the
technical expressions belonging to the theatre, mentions the Greek word
for a _spectatress_. But in the case of the old comedy, I should be
inclined to think that they were not present. However, its indecency alone
does not appear to be a decisive proof. Even in the religious festivals
the eyes of the women must have been exposed to sights of gross indecency.
But in the numerous addresses of Aristophanes to the spectators, even
where he distinguishes them according to their respective ages and
otherwise, we never observe any mention of spectatresses, and the
poet would hardly have omitted the opportunity which this afforded him for
some witticism or joke. The only passage with which I am acquainted,
whence any conclusion may be drawn in favour of the presence of women, is
_Pax_, v. 963-967. But still it remains doubtful, and I recommend it
to the consideration of the critic.--AUTHOR.], while the men were almost
constantly together, the language of conversation contracted a certain
coarseness, as is always the case under similar circumstances. In modern
Europe, since the origin of chivalry, women have given the tone to social
life, and to the respectful homage which we yield to them, we owe the
prevalence of a nobler morality in conversation, in the fine arts, and in
poetry. Besides, the ancient comic writers, who took the world as they
found it, had before their eyes a very great degree of corruption of
morals.
The most honourable testimony in favour of Aristophanes is that of the
sage Plato, who in an epigram says, that the Graces chose his soul for
their abode, who was constantly reading him, and transmitted the _Clouds_,
(this very play, in which, with the meshes of the sophists, philosophy
itself, and even his master Socrates, was attacked), to Dionysius the
elder, with the remark, that from it he would be best able to understand
the state of things at Athens. He could hardly mean merely that the play
was a proof of the unbridled democratic freedom which prevailed in Athens;
but must have intended it as an acknowledgment of the poet's profound
knowledge of the world, and his insight into the whole machinery of the
civil constitution. Plato has also admirably characterised him in his
_Symposium_, where he puts into his mouth a speech on love, which
Aristophanes, far from every thing like high enthusiasm, considers merely
in a sensual view. His description of it is, however, equally bold and
ingenious.
We might apply to the pieces of Aristophanes the motto of a pleasant and
acute adventurer in Goethe: "Mad, but clever." In them we are best enabled
to conceive why the Dramatic Art in general was consecrated to Bacchus: it
is the intoxication of poetry, the Bacchanalia of fun. This faculty will
at times assert its rights as well as others; and hence several nations
have set apart certain festivals, such as Saturnalia, Carnivals, &c., in
which the people may give themselves altogether up to frolicsome follies,
that when once the fit is over, they may for the rest of the year remain
quiet, and apply themselves to serious business. The Old Comedy is a
general masquerade of the world, during which much passes that is not
authorised by the ordinary rules of propriety; but during which much also
that is diverting, witty, and even instructive, is manifested, which would
never be heard of without this momentary breaking up of the barricades of
precision.
However vulgar and even corrupt Aristophanes may have been in his own
personal propensities, and however offensive his jokes are to good manners
and good taste, we cannot deny to him, both in the general plan and
execution of his poems, the praise of carefulness, and the masterly skill
of a finished artist. His language is extremely polished, the purest
Atticism reigns in it throughout, and with the greatest dexterity he
adapts it to every tone, from the most familiar dialogue up to the high
elevation of the Dithyrambic ode. We cannot doubt that he would have been
eminently successful in grave poetry, when we see how at times with
capricious wantonness he lavishes it only to destroy at the next moment
the impression he has made. The elegant choice of the language becomes
only the more attractive from the contrast in which it is occasionally
displayed by him; for he not only indulges at times in the rudest
expressions of the people, the different dialects, and even in the broken
Greek of barbarians, but he extends the same arbitrary power which he
exercised over nature and human affairs, to language itself, and by
composition, allusion to names of persons, or imitation of particular
sounds, coins the strangest words imaginable. The structure of his
versification is not less artificial than that of the tragedians; he uses
the same forms, but differently modified: his object is ease and variety,
instead of gravity and dignity; but amidst all this apparent irregularity,
he still adheres with great accuracy to the laws of metrical composition.
As Aristophanes, in the exercise of his separate but infinitely varied and
versatile art, appears to me to have displayed the richest development of
almost every poetical talent, so also whenever I read his works I am no
less astonished at the extraordinary capacity of his hearers, which the
very nature of them presupposes. We might, indeed, expect from the
citizens of a popular government an intimate acquaintance with the history
and constitution of their country, with public events and transactions,
with the personal circumstance of all their contemporaries of any note or
consequence. But besides all this, Aristophanes required of his auditory a
cultivated poetical taste; to understand his parodies, they must have
almost every word of the tragical master-pieces by heart. And what
quickness of perception was requisite to catch, in passing the lightest
and most covert irony, the most unexpected sallies and strangest
allusions, which are frequently denoted by the mere twisting of a
syllable! We may boldly affirm, that notwithstanding all the explanations
which have come down to us--notwithstanding the accumulation of learning
which has been spent upon it, one-half of the wit of Aristophanes is
altogether lost to the moderns. Nothing but the incredible acuteness and
vivacity of the Athenian intellect could make it conceivable that these
comedies which, with all their farcical drolleries, do, nevertheless, all
the while bear upon the most grave interests of human life, could ever
have formed a source of popular amusement. We may envy the poet who could
reckon on so clever and accomplished a public; but this was in truth a
very dangerous advantage. Spectators whose understandings were so quick,
would not be easily pleased. Thus Aristophanes complains of the too
fastidious taste of the Athenians, with whom the most admired of his
predecessors were immediately out of favour as soon as the slightest trace
of a falling off in their mental powers was perceivable. On the other
hand, he allows that the other Greeks could not bear the slightest
comparison with them in a knowledge of the Dramatic Art. Even genius in
this department strove to excel at Athens, and here, too, the competition
was confined within the narrow period of a few festivals, during which the
people always expected to see something new, of which there was always a
plentiful supply. The prizes (on which all depended, there being no other
means of gaining publicity) were distributed after a single
representation. We may easily imagine, therefore, the state of perfection
to which this would be carried under the directing care of the poet. If we
also take into consideration the high state of the co-operating arts, the
utmost distinctness of delivery (both in speaking and singing,) of the
most finished poetry, as well as the magnificence and vast size of the
theatre, we shall then have some idea of a theatrical treat, the like of
which has never since been offered to the world.
Although, among the remaining works of Aristophanes, we have several of
his earliest pieces, they all bear the stamp of equal maturity. He had, in
fact, been long labouring in silence to perfect himself in the exercise of
an art which he conceived to be of all others the most difficult; nay,
from diffidence in his own power, (or, to use his own words, like a young
girl who consigns to the care of others the child of her secret love,) he
even brought out his earliest pieces under others' names. He appeared for
the first time without this disguise with the _Knights_, and here he
displayed the undaunted resolution of a comedian, by an open assault on
popular opinion. His object was nothing less than the overthrow of Cleon,
who, after the death of Pericles, was at the head of all state affairs, a
promoter of war, and a worthless man of very ordinary abilities, but at
the same time the idol of an infatuated people. The only opponents of
Cleon were the rich proprietors, who constituted the class of horsemen or
knights: these Aristophanes in the strongest manner made of his party, by
forming the chorus of them. He had the prudence never to name Cleon,
though he portrayed him in such a way that it was impossible to mistake
him. Yet such was the dread entertained of Cleon and his faction, that no
mask-maker would venture to execute his likeness: the poet, therefore,
resolved to act the part himself, merely painting his face. We may easily
imagine the storms and tumults which this representation must have excited
among the assembled crowd; however, the bold and well-concerted efforts of
the poet were crowned with success: his piece gained the prize. He was
proud of this feat of theatrical heroism, and often alludes with a feeling
of satisfaction to the Herculean valour with which he first combated the
mighty monster. No one of his plays, perhaps, is more historical and
political; and its rhetorical power in exciting our indignation is almost
irresistible: it is a true dramatic Philippic. However, in point of
amusement and invention, it does not appear to me the most fortunate. The
thought of the serious danger which he was incurring may possibly have
disposed him to a more serious tone than was suitable to comedy, or stung,
perhaps, by the persecution he had already suffered from Cleon, he may,
perhaps, have vented his rage in too Archilochean a style. When the storm
of cutting invective has somewhat spent itself, we have then several droll
scenes, such us that where the two demagogues, the leather-dealer (that
is, Cleon) and the sausage-seller, vie with each other by adulation, by
oracle-quoting, and by dainty tit-bits, to gain the favour of Demos, a
personification of the people, who has become childish through age, a
scene humorous in the highest degree; and the piece ends with a triumphal
rejoicing, which may almost be said to be affecting, when the scene
changes from the Pnyx, the place where the people assembled, to the
majestic Propylaea, when Demos, who has been wonderfully restored to a
second youth, comes forward in the garb of an ancient Athenian, and shows
that with his youthful vigour, he has also recovered the olden sentiments
of the days of Marathon.
With the exception of this attack on Cleon, and with the exception also of
the attacks on Euripides, whom he seems to have pursued with the most
unrelenting perseverance, the other pieces of Aristophanes are not so
exclusively pointed against individuals. They have always a general, and
for the most part a very important aim, which the poet, with all his
turnings, digressions, and odd medleys, never loses sight of. The
_Peace_, the _Acharnae_, and the _Lysistrata_, with many turns, still all
recommend peace; and one object of the _Ecclesiazusae_, or _Women in
Parliament,_, of the _Thesmophoriazusae, or Women keeping the Festival of
the Thesmophoriae_, and of _Lysistrata_, is to throw ridicule on the
relations and the manners of the female sex. In the _Clouds_ he laughs at
the metaphysics of the Sophists, in the _Wasps_ at the mania of the
Athenians for hearing and determining law-suits; the subject of the
_Frogs_ is the decline of the tragic art, and _Plutus_ is an allegory on
the unjust distribution of wealth. The _Birds_ are, of all his pieces, the
one of which the aim is the least apparent, and it is on that very account
one of the most diverting.
_Peace_ begins in the most spirited and lively manner; the peace-
loving Trygaeus rides on a dung-beetle to heaven in the manner of
Bellerophon; War, a desolating giant, with his comrade Riot, alone, in
place of all the other gods, inhabits Olympus, and there pounds the cities
of men in a great mortar, making use of the most celebrated generals for
pestles. The Goddess Peace lies buried in a deep well, out of which she is
hauled up by ropes, through the united exertions of all the states of
Greece: all these ingenious and fanciful inventions are calculated to
produce the most ludicrous effect. Afterwards, however, the play is not
sustained at an equal elevation; nothing remains but to sacrifice, and to
carouse in honour of the recovered Goddess of Peace, when the importunate
visits of such persons as found their advantage in war form, indeed, an
entertainment pleasant enough, but by no means correspondent to the
expectations which the commencement gives rise to. We have, in this piece,
an additional example to prove that the ancient comic writers not only
changed the decoration during the intervals, when the stage was empty, but
also while an actor was in sight. The scene changes from Attica to
Olympus, while Trygaeus is suspended in the air on his beetle, and calls
anxiously to the director of the machinery to take care that he does not
break his neck. His descent into the orchestra afterwards denotes his
return to the earth. It was possible to overlook the liberties taken by
the tragedians, according as their subject might require it, with the
Unities of Place and Time, on which such ridiculous stress has been laid
by many of the moderns, but the bold manner in which the old comic writer
subjects these mere externalities to his sportive caprice is so striking,
that it must enforce itself on the most short-sighted observers: and yet
in all the treatises on the constitution of the Greek stage, due respect
has never yet been paid to it.
The _Acharnians_, an earlier piece, [Footnote: The Didascaliae place
it in the year before the _Knights_. It is therefore, the earliest of
the extant pieces of Aristophanes, and the only one of those which he
brought out under a borrowed name, that has come down to us.] appears to
me to possess a much higher excellence than _Peace_, on account of
the continual progress of the story, and the increasing drollery, which at
last ends in a downright Bacchanalian uproar. Dikaiopolis, the honest
citizen, enraged at the base artifices by which the people are deluded,
and by which they are induced to reject all proposals for peace, sends an
embassy to Lacedaemon, and concludes a separate treaty for himself and his
family. He then retires to the country, and, in spite of all assaults,
encloses a piece of ground before his house, within which there is a
peaceful market for the people of the neighbouring states, while the rest
of the country is suffering from the calamities of war. The blessings of
peace are represented most temptingly to hungry stomachs: the fat Boeotian
brings his delicious eels and poultry for sale, and nothing is thought of
but feasting and carousing. Lamachus, the celebrated general, who lives on
the other side, is, in consequence of a sudden inroad of the enemy, called
away to defend the frontiers; Dikaiopolis, on the other hand, is invited
by his neighbours to a feast, where every one brings his own scot.
Preparations military and preparations culinary are now carried on with
equal industry and alacrity; here they seize the lance, there the spit;
here the armour rings, there the wine-flagon; there they are feathering
helmets, here they are plucking thrushes. Shortly afterwards Lamachus
returns, supported by two of his comrades, with a broken head and a lame
foot, and from the other side Dikaiopolis is brought in drunk, and led by
two good-natured damsels. The lamentations of the one are perpetually
mimicked and ridiculed in the rejoicings of the other; and with this
contrast, which is carried to the very utmost limit, the play ends.
_Lysistrata_ is in such bad repute, that we must mention it lightly
and rapidly, just as we would tread over hot embers. According to the
story of the poet, the women have taken it into their heads to compel
their husbands, by a severe resolution, to make peace. Under the direction
of a clever leader they organize a conspiracy for this purpose throughout
all Greece, and at the same time gain possession in Athens of the
fortified Acropolis. The terrible plight the men are reduced to by this
separation gives rise to the most laughable scenes; plenipotentiaries
appear from the two hostile powers, and peace is speedily concluded under
the management of the sage Lysistrata. Notwithstanding the mad indecencies
which are contained in the piece, its purpose, when stript of these, is
upon the whole very innocent: the longing for the enjoyment of domestic
joys, so often interrupted by the absence of the husbands, is to be the
means of putting an end to the calamitous war by which Greece had so long
been torn in pieces. In particular, the honest bluntness of the
Lacedaemonians is inimitably portrayed.
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.