PART I

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Studies in the Poetry

of Italy

I. ROMAN

BY

FRANK JUSTUS MILLER

_The University of Chicago_

Chautauqua Press

CHAUTAUQUA, NEW YORK

MCMXIII

COPYRIGHT, 1901, BY

FRANK JUSTUS MILLER

Third Edition, 1913

The Chautauqua Print Shop

Chautauqua, New York

PREFACE

The accumulated literature of centuries of ancient Roman life, even

after the loss of more works than have survived, is still so large that,

were we to attempt to cover the whole field, the space allotted to this

volume would suffice for only the most superficial mention of the extant

authors. The writer has therefore chosen to present to his readers the

field of poetry only, and to narrow the scope of his work still further

by the selection of certain important and representative phases of

poetry, namely, the dramatic, satiric, and epic.

These different phases of the Roman poetic product will be presented in

the order named, although it is by no means certain which class of

poetry was first developed at Rome. It is more than likely that satire

and comedy had a common origin in the rude and unrecorded literary

product of ancient Italy. Ennius, indeed, prior to whose time the extant

fragments are exceedingly meager, produced both drama, satire, and epic.

And the same is true, though to a more limited extent, of other writers

of the same early period.

Each of these phases of poetry is treated separately in this volume,

according to its chronological development. We shall, therefore,

traverse the field three times by three parallel paths: from Andronicus

to Seneca, from Ennius to Juvenal, and from Naevius to Vergil.

F. J. Miller

Chicago.

CONTENTS

BOOK I. ROMAN

PART I. THE DRAMA

PAGE

1. THE BEGINNINGS OF ROMAN LITERATURE AND

OLD ROMAN TRAGEDY 1

2. LATER ROMAN TRAGEDY AND SENECA 8

3. ROMAN COMEDY 38

PART II. SATIRE

1. INTRODUCTION AND EARLY SATIRE 70

2. QUINTUS HORATIUS FLACCUS 80

3. AULUS PERSIUS FLACCUS 99

4. DECIMUS JUNIUS JUVENALIS 105

PART III. EPIC POETRY

1. CN. NAEVIUS.--THE FIRST NATIONAL ROMAN EPIC 119

2. QUINTUS ENNIUS 121

3. PUBLIUS VERGILIUS MARO 128

STUDIES IN

THE POETRY OF ITALY

PART I

THE DRAMA

"Whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as

'twere, the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own features,

scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his

form and pressure."

1. THE BEGINNINGS OF ROMAN LITERATURE

AND OLD ROMAN TRAGEDY

When Greece was at the height of her glory, and Greek literature was in

its flower; when AEschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, all within two

brilliant generations, were holding the polite world under the magic

spell of their dramatic art, their rough and almost unknown Roman

neighbors were just emerging from tradition into history. There the

atmosphere was altogether one of struggle. The king-ruled Romans, long

oppressed, had at last swept away that crumbling kingdom, and

established upon its ruins the young republic; the unconsidered masses,

still oppressed, were just heaving themselves up into legal recognition,

and had already obtained their tribunes, and a little later the boon of

a published law--the famous Law of the Twelve Tables, the first Roman

code.

Three years before this, and in preparation for it, a committee of three

Roman statesmen, the so-called triumvirs, had gone to Athens to study

the laws of Solon. This visit was made in 454 B. C. AEschylus had died

two years before; Sophocles had become famous, and Euripides had just

brought out his first play. As those three Romans sat in the theater at

Athens, beneath the open sky, surrounded by the cultured and

pleasure-loving Greeks, as they listened to the impassioned lines of the

popular favorite, unable to understand except for the actor's art--what

a contrast was presented between these two nations which had as yet

never crossed each other's paths, but which were destined to come

together at last in mutual conquest. The grounds and prophecy of this

conquest were even now present. The Roman triumvirs came to learn Greek

law, and they learned it so well that they became lawgivers not alone

for Greece but for all the world; the triumvirs felt that day the charm

of Greek art, and this was but a premonition of that charm which fell

more masterfully upon Rome in later years, and took her literature and

all kindred arts completely captive.

Still from that day, for centuries to come, the Romans had sterner

business than the cultivation of the arts of peace. They had themselves

and Italy to conquer; they had a still unshaped state to establish; they

had their ambitions, growing as their power increased, to gratify; they

had jealous neighbors in Greece, Africa, and Gaul to curb. In such

rough, troubled soil as this, literature could not take root and

flourish. They were not, it is true, without the beginnings of native

literature. Their religious worship inspired rude hymns to their gods;

their generals, coming home, inscribed the records of their victory in

rough Saturnian verse on commemorative tablets; there were ballads at

banquets, and dirges at funerals. Also the natural mimicry of the

Italian peasantry had no doubt for ages indulged itself in uncouth

performances of a dramatic nature, which developed later into those

mimes and farces, the forerunners of native Roman comedy and the old

Medley-Satura. Yet in these centuries Rome knew no letters worthy of the

name save the laws on which she built her state; no arts save the arts

of war.

But in her course of Italian conquest, she had finally come into

conflict with those Greek colonists who had long since been taking

peaceful possession of Italy along the southeastern border. These

Graeco-Roman struggles in Italy, which arose in consequence, culminated

in the fall of Tarentum, B. C. 272; and with this victory the conquest

of the Italian peninsula was complete.

This event meant much for the development of Italian literature; it

meant new impulse and opportunity--the impulse of close and quickening

contact with Greek thought, and the opportunity afforded by the internal

calm consequent upon the completed subjugation of Italy. Joined with

these two influences was a third which came with the end of the first

Punic War, a generation afterward. Rome has now taken her first fateful

step toward world empire; she has leaped across Sicily and set

victorious foot in Africa; has successfully met her first great foreign

enemy. The national pride and exaltation consequent upon this triumph

gave favorable atmosphere and encouragement for those impulses which had

already been stirred.

The first Punic War was ended in 241 B. C. In the following year the

first effects of the Hellenic influence upon Roman literature were

witnessed, and the first literary work in the Latin language of which we

have definite record was produced at Rome. This was by Livius

Andronicus, a Greek from Tarentum, who was brought to Rome as a captive

upon the fall of that city. He came as the slave of M. Livius Salinator,

who employed him as a tutor for his sons in Latin and Greek, and

afterward set him free to follow the same profession independently. That

he might have a Latin text from which to teach that language, he himself

translated into the Roman tongue the _Odyssey_ of Homer and some plays

of the Greek tragedians--the first professor of Latin on record! These

same translations, strangely enough, remained school text-books in Rome

for centuries.

His first public work, to which we have referred above, was the

production of a play; but whether tragedy or comedy we do not know. It

was at any rate, without doubt, a translation into the crude,

unpolished, and heavy Latin of his time, from some Greek original. His

tragedies, of which only forty-one lines of fragments, representing nine

plays, have come down to us, are all on Greek subjects, and are

probably only translations or bald imitations of the Greek originals.

The example set by Andronicus was followed by four Romans of marked

ability, whose life and work form a continuous chain of literary

activity from Naevius, who was but a little younger than Andronicus, and

who brought out his first play in 235 B. C.; through Ennius, who first

established tragedy upon a firm foundation in Rome; through Pacuvius,

the nephew of Ennius and his worthy successor, to the death of Accius in

(about) 94 B. C., who was the last and greatest of the old Roman

tragedians.

As to the themes of these early tragedies, a few of them were upon

subjects taken from Roman history. Tragedies of this class were called

_fabulae praetextae_, because the actors wore the native Roman dress. When

we think of the great value which these plays would have to-day, not

only from a literary but also from a historical point of view, we cannot

but regret keenly their almost utter loss. In the vast majority of

cases, however, the old Roman tragedy was upon subjects taken from the

traditional Greek cycles of stories, and was closely modeled after the

Greek tragedies themselves. AEschylus and Sophocles were imitated to some

extent, but Euripides was the favorite.

While these tragedies were Greek in subject and form, it is not at all

necessary to suppose that they were servile imitations or translations

merely of the Greek originals. The Romans did undoubtedly impress their

national spirit upon that which they borrowed, in tragedy just as in all

things else. Indeed, the great genius of Rome consisted partly in

this--her wonderful power to absorb and assimilate material from every

nation with which she came in contact. Rome might borrow, but what she

had borrowed she made her own completely, for better or for worse. The

resulting differences between Greek literature and a Hellenized Roman

literature would naturally be the differences between the Greek and

Roman type of mind. Where the Greek was naturally religious and

contemplative, the Roman was practical and didactic. He was grave and

intense, fond of exalted ethical effects, appeals to national pride; and

above all, insisted that nothing should offend that exaggerated sense of

both personal and national dignity which characterized the Roman

everywhere.

All these characteristics made the Romanized Greek tragedies immensely

popular; but, strangely enough, this did not develop a truly national

Roman tragedy, as was the case, for instance, with epic and lyric

literature. We have already seen how meager was the production of the

_fabulae praetextae_. With the rich national traditions and history to

inspire this, we can account for the failure to develop a native Roman

tragedy only upon the assumption that the Roman lacked the gift of

dramatic invention, at least to the extent of originating and developing

great dramatic plots and characters, which form the essential elements

of tragic drama.

We shall not weary the reader with quotations from the extant fragments

of old Roman tragedy, fragments which, isolated as they are, can prove

next to nothing as to the development of the plot or the other essential

characteristics of a drama. A play is not like an animal: it cannot be

reconstructed from a single fragment. It will be profitable, however, to

dwell upon a few of these fragments, in order to get some idea of the

nature and contents of all that is left of an extensive literature.

There is a very dramatic fragment of the _Alexander_ or _Paris_ of

Ennius. It represents Cassandra, in prophetic raving, predicting the

destruction which her brother Paris is to bring upon his fatherland. It

is said that Hecuba, queen of Troy, before the birth of Paris, dreamed

that she had brought forth a firebrand. Remembering this, Cassandra

cries out at sight of her brother:

Here it is; here, the torch, wrapped in fire and blood. Many years

it hath lain hid; help, citizens, and extinguish it. For now, on

the great sea, a swift fleet is gathering. It hurries along a host

of calamities. They come: a fierce host lines the shores with

sail-winged ships.

Sellar.

Several of the fragments show a certain measure of descriptive power and

poetic imagination in these early tragedians. The following passage from

the _Argonautae_ of Accius shows this to a marked degree. It is a

description of the first ship, _Argo_, as she goes plowing through the

sea. It is supposed to be spoken by a rustic who from the shore is

watching the vessel's progress. It should be remembered that the great

boat is as strange a sight to him as were the ships of Columbus to the

natives of newly discovered America. Hence the strange and seemingly

strained metaphors.

The mighty mass glides on,

Like some loud-panting monster of the deep;

Back roll the waves, in eddying masses whirled.

It rushes on, besprinkling all the sea

With flying spray like backward streaming breath;

As when one sees the cloud-rack whirled along,

Or some huge mass of rock reft off and driven

By furious winds, or seething whirlpools, high

Upbeaten by the ever-rushing waves;

Or else when Ocean crashes on the shore,

Or Triton, from the caverns of the sea,

Far down beneath the swelling waters' depths,

A rocky mass to upper heaven uprears.

Miller.

Sellar, in speaking of the feeling for natural beauty, says of Accius:

"The fragments of Accius afford the first hint of that enjoyment of

natural beauty which enters largely into a later age"; and quotes the

following passage from the _Oenomaus_ as "perhaps the first instance

in Latin poetry of a descriptive passage which gives any hint of the

pleasure derived from contemplating the common aspects of nature":

By chance before the dawn, harbinger of burning rays, when the

husbandmen bring forth the oxen from their rest into the fields,

that they may break the red, dew-sprinkled soil with the plough,

and turn up the clods from the soft soil.

When we read this delightful passage, and then turn to the exquisite and

fuller pictures of natural beauty which Lucretius and Vergil have left

us, we shall agree that Accius was himself indeed the "harbinger of

burning rays."

2. LATER ROMAN TRAGEDY AND SENECA

Tragedy long continued to flourish after Accius, but its vitality was

gone. Such men as Pollio, Varius, and Ovid in the Augustan period, and

Maternus, Pomponius Secundus, and Lucan in the first century A. D.,

amused themselves by writing tragedies, and even produced some

commendable work. Varius, who was the personal friend of Vergil and

Horace, was perhaps the most gifted of these. He wrote a tragedy on

_Thyestes_ which was presented as part of the public rejoicings after

the battle of Actium. Of this play Quintilian said that it would stand

comparison with any Greek tragedy. Ovid also wrote a tragedy on _Medea_,

which was highly praised by Roman critics. Maternus wrote tragedies on

_Medea_ and _Thyestes_, as well as _praetextae_ on _Domitius_ and _Cato_.

Of all these nothing remains but the barest fragments. But it is certain

that the efforts of these later tragedians were for the most part of a

dilettante sort, and that their plays were purely literary (see,

however, the case of Varius), intended for dramatic reading and

declamation, rather than for presentation upon the stage.

Of this sort also were the ten tragedies commonly attributed to L.

Annaeus Seneca, the philosopher, who is better known as the author of

numerous philosophical essays. He lived in the time of Nero, and was,

indeed, the tutor of that emperor. Of these ten plays, nine are modeled

after the Greek, and one, the _Octavia_, which is undoubtedly not

Seneca's, is a _praetexta_, in which Seneca himself appears.

These plays are of especial interest to us, aside from their intrinsic

value, for the triple reason that they are the sole representatives of

Roman tragedy preserved entire, that they reflect the literary

complexion of the artificial age in which they were produced, and that

they had so large an influence in shaping the early English drama. They

are, in fact, the stepping-stone between ancient and modern, Greek and

English, drama.

As to their style, even a cursory reading reveals their extreme

declamatory nature, the delight of the author in the horrible and weird,

the pains he has taken to select from the Greek sources the most

harrowing of all the tales as the foundation of his tragedies, the

boldness with which he has broken over the time-honored rule that deeds

of blood should not be done upon the stage, and his fondness for

abstruse mythological allusions. Add to these features the dreary

prolixity with which the author spoils many of his descriptive passages,

protracting them often into veritable catalogues of places and things,

also his frequent exaggerations and repetitions, and we have the chief

defects of these tragedies.

And yet they have equally marked excellences. They abound in brilliant

epigrams, graphic descriptions, touching pathos, magnificent passion,

subtile analysis of character and motive. But when all is said, it must

be admitted that the plays, faults and virtues included, are highly

rhetorical and artificial, such alone as that artificial age would be

expected to produce.

Such as they were, and perhaps because they were what they were, the

tragedies of Seneca, rather than the Greek plays, were the model for

Italian, French, and early English tragedy. The first and obvious reason

for this no doubt is the fact that the Middle Age of Europe was an age

of Latin rather than of Greek scholarship, so far as popular

scholarship was concerned. And this made Seneca rather than Euripides

available. But it is also probable that his style and spirit appealed

strongly to those later-day imitators. So great, indeed, was the

popularity of Seneca's tragedies in the early Elizabethan age, that he

might be said to have monopolized the attention of writers of that time.

He was a favorite with the schools as a classical text-book, as old

Roger Ascham testifies; and his works were translated entire into

English then for the first time by five English scholars, and collected

into a single volume in 1581 by Thomas Newton, one of the translators.

In addition to the version of 1581, the tragedies of Seneca were again

translated into English by Glover in 1761. Since that date no English

version was attempted until the present writer a few years ago undertook

the task again, and produced a metrical version of three of these plays.

We have selected the tragedy of _Medea_ for presentation to the readers

of this volume as an illustration of the Senecan tragedy, and (alas for

the fate of so many noble works!) of the entire field of Roman tragedy.

It follows Euripides in general development of the plot; but if the

reader will take the trouble to compare the two plays, he will find that

the imitation is by no means close.

Although the play is confined in time to the final day of catastrophe at

Corinth, the background is the whole romantic story of the Argonauts:

how Jason and his hero-comrades, at the instigation of Pelias, the

usurping king of Thessalian Iolchos, undertook the first voyage in

quest of the golden fleece; how after many adventures these first

sailors reached the kingdom of AEetes, who jealously guarded the fleece,

since upon its possession depended his own kingship; how the three

deadly labors were imposed upon Jason before the fleece could be won;

how, smitten by love of him, the beautiful, barbaric Medea, daughter of

the king, by the help of her magic, aided Jason in all his labors and

accompanied him in his flight; how, to retard her father's pursuit, she

slew her brother and scattered his mangled remains in the path as she

fled; how again, for love of Jason, she restored his father to youth,

and tricked Pelias' own daughters into slaying their aged sire; how, for

this act, Medea and her husband were exiled from Thessaly and went and

dwelt in Corinth; how, for ten happy years, she lived with her husband

and two sons in this alien land, her wild past almost forgotten, her

magic untouched. But now Jason has been gradually won away from his

wife, and is about to wed Creuesa, the daughter of Creon, king of

Corinth. The wedding festivities have already begun, when the play opens

and reveals Medea invoking all the powers of heaven and hell in

punishment of her false lord.

Into her frenzied and dreadful imprecations breaks the sound of sweet

voices from without of a chorus of Corinthian women, chanting the

epithalamium for the nuptials of Jason and Creuesa.

Hearing this cruel song in praise of her rival and of her false husband,

Medea goes into a wilder passion of rage. Medea's old nurse tries to

soothe her mistress and recall her to her right mind by wise saws and

prudent philosophy. But the flood of passion will not be checked.

_Nurse._ Be silent now, I pray thee, and thy plaints confine

To secret woe. The man who heavy blows can bear

In silence, biding still his time with patient soul,

Full oft his vengeance gains. 'Tis hidden wrath that harms;

But hate proclaimed oft loses half its power to harm.

_Medea._ But small the grief is that can counsel take and hide

Its head; great ills lie not in hiding, but must rush

Abroad and work their will.

_Nurse._ O cease this mad complaint,

My mistress; scarce can friendly silence help thee now.

_Medea._ But Fortune fears the brave, the faint of heart o'erwhelms.

_Nurse._ Then valor be approved, if for it still there's room.

_Medea._ But it must always be that valor finds its place.

_Nurse._ No star of hope points out the way from these our woes.

_Medea._ The man who hopes for naught at least has naught to fear.

_Nurse._ The Colchians are thy foes; thy husband's vows have failed;

Of all thy vast possessions not a jot is left.

_Medea._ Yet I am left. There's left both sea and land and fire

And sword and gods and hurtling thunderbolts.

_Nurse._ The king must be revered.

_Medea._ My father was a king.

_Nurse._ Dost thou not fear?

_Medea._ Not though the earth produced the foe.

_Nurse._ Thou'lt perish.

_Medea._ So I wish it.

_Nurse._ Flee!

_Medea._ I'm done with flight.

Why should Medea flee?

_Nurse._ Thy children!

_Medea._ Whose, thou know'st.

_Nurse._ And dost thou still delay?

_Medea._ I go, but vengeance first.

_Nurse._ Th' avenger will pursue.

_Medea._ Perchance I'll stop his course.

_Nurse._ Nay, hold thy words and cease thy threats, O foolish one.

Thy temper curb; 'tis well to yield to fate's decrees.

_Medea._ Though fate may strip me of my all, myself am left.

But who flings wide the royal palace doors? Behold,

'Tis Creon's self, exalted high in Grecian sway.

[_Medea retires to the back of the stage._

_Creon._ [_As he enters._]

Medea, baleful daughter of the Colchian king,

Has not yet taken her hateful presence from our realm.

On mischief is she bent; well known her treacherous power.

For who escapes her? Who may pass his days in peace?

This cursed pestilence at once would I have stayed

By force of arms: but Jason's prayers prevailed. She still

May live, but let her free my borders from the fear

Her presence genders, and her safety gain by flight.

[_He sees Medea approaching._]

But lo, she comes with fierce and threatening mien to seek

An audience with us.

Slaves! defend us from her touch

And pestilential presence! Bid her silence keep,

And learn at length obedience to the king's

Commands.

[_To Medea._] Go, speed thy flight, thou thing of evil,

fell

And monstrous!

_Medea._ What the crime, my lord, or what the guilt

That merits exile?

_Creon._ Let the guiltless question thus.

_Medea._ If now thou judgest, hear me; if thou reign'st, command.

_Creon._ The king's command thou must obey, nor question aught.

_Medea._ Unrighteous kingdoms never long endure.

_Creon._ Go, bear

Thy plaints to Colchis.

_Medea._ Yea, but let him take me hence

Who brought me to thy shores.

_Creon._ Too late thy prayer, for fixed

Is my decree.

_Medea._ Who sits in judgment and denies

His ear to either suitor, though his judgment right

Appear, is still himself unrighteous.

_Creon._ Didst _thou_ lend

Thine ear to Pelias, ere thou judgedst him to death?--

But come, I'll give thee grace to plead thy goodly cause.

_Medea._ How hard the task to turn the soul from wrath, when once

To wrath inclined; how 'tis the creed of sceptered kings

To swerve not from the proposed course they once

have taken,

Full well I know, for I have tasted royalty.

For, though by present storms of ill I'm overwhelmed,

An exile, suppliant, lone, forsaken, all undone,

I once in happier times a royal princess shone,

And traced my proud descent from heavenly Phoebus' self.

Then princes humbly sought my hand in wedlock, mine,

Who now must sue.--

O changeful Fortune, thou my throne

Hast reft away, and given me exile in its stead.

Trust not in kingly realms, since fickle chance may strew

Their treasures to the winds. Lo _this_ is regal, this

The work of kings, which time nor change cannot undo:

To succor the afflicted, to provide at need

A trusty refuge for the suppliant. This alone

I brought of all my Colchian treasure, this renown,

This very flower of fame,--that by my arts I saved

The bulwark of the Greeks, the offspring of the gods.

My princely gift to Greece is Orpheus, that sweet bard,

Who can the trees in willing bondage draw, and melt

The crag's hard heart. Mine too are Boreas' winged sons,

And Leda's heaven-born progeny, and Lynceus, he

Whose glance can pierce the distant view; yea, all the

Greeks,

Save Jason; for I mention not the king of kings,

The leader of the leaders: he is mine alone,

My labor's recompense. The rest I give to you.

Nay, come, O king, arraign me, and rehearse my crimes.

But stay! for I'll confess them all. The only crime

Of which I stand accused is this--the _Argo_ saved.

Suppose my maiden scruples had opposed the deed;

Suppose my filial piety had stayed my hand:

Then had the mighty chieftains fall'n, and in their fate

All Greece had been o'erwhelmed; then this thy son-in-law

Had felt the bull's consuming breath, and perished there.

Nay, nay, let Fortune when she will my doom decree;

I glory still that kings have owed their lives to me.

But what reward I reap for all my glorious deeds

Is in thy hands. Convict me, if thou wilt, of sin,

But give him back for whom I sinned. O Creon, see,

I own that I am guilty. This much thou didst know,

When first I clasped thy knees, a humble suppliant,

And sought the shelter of thy royal clemency.

Some little corner of thy kingdom now I ask

In which to hide my grief. If I must flee again,

O let some nook remote within thy broad domain

Be found for me!

Creon claims to have been merciful in having shielded Jason and Medea

all these years from the just resentment of the king of Thessaly.

Jason's cause would be easy enough to defend, for he has been innocent

of guilt; but it is impossible longer to shield Medea, who has

committed so many bloody deeds in the past, and is capable of doing the

like again.

_Creon._ Then go thou hence and purge our kingdom of its stain;

Bear with thee in thy flight thy fatal poisons; free

The state from fear; abiding in some other land,

Outwear the patience of the gods.

_Medea._ Thou bidst me flee?

Then give me back my bark in which to flee. Restore

The partner of my flight. Why should I flee alone?

I came not thus. Or if avenging war thou fear'st,

Then banish both the culprits; why distinguish me

From Jason? 'Twas for him old Pelias was o'ercome;

For him the flight, the plunder of my father's realm,

My sire forsaken and my infant brother slain,

And all the guilt that love suggests; 'twas all for him.

Deep-dyed in sin am I, but on my guilty soul

The sin of profit lieth not.

_Creon._ Why seek delay

By speech? Too long thou tarriest.

_Medea._ I go, but grant

This last request: let not the mother's fall o'erwhelm

her hapless babes.

_Creon._ Then go in peace; for I to them

A father's place will fill, and take them to my breast.

_Medea._ Now by the fair hopes born upon this wedding day,

And by thy hopes of lasting sovereignty secure

From changeful fate's assault, I pray thee grant from flight

A respite brief, while I upon my children's lips

A mother's kiss imprint, perchance the last.

_Creon._ A time

Thou seek'st for treachery.

_Medea._ What fraud can be devised

In one short hour?

_Creon._ To those on mischief bent, be sure,

The briefest time is fraught with mischief's fatal power.

_Medea._ Dost thou refuse me, then, one little space for tears?

_Creon._ Though deep-ingrafted fear would fain resist thy plea,

A single day I'll give thee ere my sentence holds.

_Medea._ Too gracious thou. But let my respite further shrink,

And I'll depart content.

_Creon._ Thy life shall surely pay

The forfeit if to-morrow's sun beholds thee still

In Corinth.

But the voice of Hymen calls away

To solemnize the rites of this his festal day.

Creon goes out toward his palace. Medea remains gazing darkly after him

for a few moments, and then takes her way in the opposite direction.

The chorus sings in reminiscent strain of the old days before the

_Argo's_ voyage, the simple innocent life of the golden age when each

man was content to dwell within the horizon of his birth; the impious

rash voyage of the Argonauts, their dreadful experiences in consequence,

their wild adventure's prize of fatal gold and more fatal Colchian

sorceress; their dark forebodings of the consequences in after years,

when the sea shall be a highway, and all hidden places of the world laid

bare. Medea comes rushing in bent upon using for vengeance the day which

Creon has granted her. The nurse tries in vain to restrain her.

_Nurse._ My foster daughter, whither speedest thou abroad?

O stay, I pray thee, and restrain thy passion's force.

But Medea hastens by without answering or noticing her. The nurse,

looking after her, reflects in deep distress:

As some wild bacchanal, whose fury's raging fire

The god inflames, now roams distraught on Pindus' snows,

And now on lofty Nysa's rugged slopes; so she

Now here, now there, with frenzied step is hurried on,

Her face revealing every mark of stricken woe,

With flushing cheek and sighs deep drawn, wild cries

and tears,

And laughter worse than tears. In her a medley strange

Of doubts and fears is seen, and overtopping wrath,

Bewailings, bitter groans of anguish.--Whither tends

This overburdened soul? What mean her frenzied threats?

When will the foaming wave of fury spend itself?

No common crime, I fear, no easy deed of ill

She meditates. Herself she will outvie. For well

I recognize the wonted marks of rage. Some deed

Is threatening, wild, profane and hideous. Behold,

Her face betrays her madness. O ye gods, may these

Our fears prove vain forebodings!

Our own imaginations and our fears keep pace with those of the devoted

nurse, and we listen in fearful silence while Medea, communing with her

tortured soul, reveals the depth of suffering and hate into which she

has been plunged.

_Medea._ For thy hate, poor soul,

Dost thou a measure seek? Let it be deep as love.

And shall I tamely view the wedding torches' glare?

And shall this day go uneventful by, this day

So hardly won, so grudgingly bestowed? Nay, nay;

While, poised upon her heights, the central earth shall

bear

The heavens up; while seasons run their endless round,

And sands unnumbered lie; while days and nights and sun

And stars in due procession pass; while round the pole

The ocean-fearing bears revolve, and tumbling streams

Flow downward to the sea: my grief shall never cease

To seek revenge, and shall forever grow. What rage

Of savage beast can equal mine? What Scylla famed?

What sea-engulfing pool? What burning AEtna placed

On impious Titan's heaving breast? No torrent stream,

Nor storm-tossed sea, nor breath of flame fanned by

the gale,

Can check or equal my wild storm of rage. My will

Is set on limitless revenge!

But this wild rage can lead nowhere. She struggles to calm her terrible

passion to still more terrible reason and resolve.

Will Jason say

He feared the power of Creon and Acastus' wrath?--

True love is proof against the fear of man. But grant

He was compelled to yield, and pledged his hand in fear:

He might at least have sought his wife with one last word

Of comfort and farewell. But this, though brave in heart,

He feared to do. The cruel terms of banishment

Could Creon's son-in-law not soften? No. One day

Alone was given for last farewell to both my babes.

But time's short space I'll not bewail; though brief in

hours,

In consequence it stretches out eternally.

This day shall see a deed that ne'er shall be forgot.--

But now I'll go and pray the gods, and move high heaven

But I shall work my will!

As Medea hastens from the scene, Jason himself enters; and now we hear

from his own lips the fatal dilemma in which he finds himself. Regard

for his marriage vows, love for his children, and fear of death at the

hands of Creon--all are at variance and must be faced. It is the usual

tragedy of fate.

_Jason._ O heartless fate, if frowns or smiles bedeck thy brow!

How often are thy cures far worse than the disease

They seek to cure! If, now, I wish to keep the troth

I plighted to my lawful bride, my life must pay

The forfeit; if I shrink from death, my guilty soul

Must perjured be. I fear no power that man can wield,

But in my heart paternal love unmans me quite;

For well I know that in my death my children's fate

Is sealed. O sacred Justice, if in heaven thou dwell'st,

Be witness now that for my children's sake I act.

Nay, sure am I that even she, Medea's self,

Though fierce she is of soul, and brooking no restraint,

Will see her children's good outweighing all her wrongs.

With this good argument my purpose now is fixed,

In humble wise to brave her wrath.

[_Re-enter Medea._] But lo! at sight

Of me her fury flames anew! Hate, like a shield,

She bears, and in her face is pictured all her woe.

But Medea's passion has for the moment spent itself. She is now no

sorceress, no mad woman breathing out dreadful threatenings; but only

the forsaken wife, indignant, indeed, but pathetic in her appeals for

sympathy and help from him for whose sake she had given up all her

maiden glory, and broken every tie that held her to the past. Her quiet

self-control is in marked contrast to her recent ravings.

_Medea._ Thou seest, Jason, that we flee. 'Tis no new thing

To suffer exile; but the cause of flight is strange;

For with thee I was wont to flee, not from thee. Yes,

I go; but whither dost thou send me whom thou driv'st

From out thy home? Shall I the Colchians seek again,

My royal father's realm whose soil is steeped in blood

My brother shed? What country dost thou bid me seek?

What way by sea is open? Shall I fare again

Where once I saved the noble kings of Greece and thee,

Thou wanton, through the threatening jaws of Pontus' strait,

The blue Symplegades? Or shall I hie me back

To fair Thessalia's realms? Lo, all the doors which I,

For thee, have opened wide, I've closed upon myself.

But whither dost thou send me now? Thou bidd'st me flee,

But show'st no way or means of flight.

[_In bitter sarcasm._] But 'tis enough:

The king's own son-in-law commands, and I obey.

Come, heap thy torments on me; I deserve them all.

Let royal wrath oppress me, wanton that I am,

With cruel hand, and load my guilty limbs with chains;

And let me be immured in dungeons black as night:

Still will my punishment be less than my offense.--

O ingrate! Hast thou then forgot the brazen bull,

And his consuming breath? the fear that smote thee, when,

Upon the field of Mars, the earth-born brood stood forth

To meet thy single sword? 'Twas by my arts that they,

The monsters, fell by mutual blows. Remember, too,

The long-sought fleece of gold I won for thee, whose guard,

The dragon huge, was lulled to rest at my command;

My brother slain for thee. For thee old Pelias fell,

When, taken by my guile, his daughters slew their sire,

Whose life could not return. All this I did for thee.

In quest of thine advantage have I quite forgot

Mine own.

And now, by all thy fond paternal hopes,

By thine established house, by all the monsters slain

For thee, by these my hands which I have ever held

To work thy will, by all the perils past, by heaven,

And sea that witnessed at my wedlock--pity me!

Since thou art blessed, restore me what I lost for thee:

That countless treasure plundered from the swarthy tribes

Of India, which filled our goodly vaults with wealth,

And decked our very trees with gold. This costly store

I left for thee, my native land, my brother, sire,

My reputation--all; and with this dower I came.

If now to homeless exile thou dost send me forth,

Give back the countless treasures which I left for thee.

And now again we have a situation which only the quick, sharp flashes,

the clash of words like steel on steel, can relieve. Here is no chance

for long periods, nor flights of oratory; but sentences as short and

sharp as swords, flashes of feeling, stinging epigrams.

_Jason._ Though Creon, in a vengeful mood, would have thy life,

I moved him by my tears to grant thee flight instead.

_Medea._ I thought my exile punishment; 'tis now, I see,

A gracious boon!

_Jason._ O flee, while still the respite holds.

Provoke him not, for deadly is the wrath of kings.

_Medea._ Not so. 'Tis for Creuesa's love thou sayest this;

Thou wouldst remove the hated wanton once thy wife.

_Jason._ Dost thou reproach me with a guilty love?

_Medea._ Yea, that,

And murder too, and treachery.

_Jason._ But name me now,

If so thou canst, the crimes that I have done.

_Medea._ Thy crimes--

Whatever I have done.

_Jason._ Why then, in truth, thy guilt

Must all be mine, if all thy crimes are mine.

_Medea._ They are,

They are all thine: for who by sin advantage gains

Commits the sin. All men proclaim thy wife defiled;

Do thou thyself protect her and condone her sins.

Let her be guiltless in thine eyes who for thy gain

Has sinned.

_Jason._ But gifts which sin has brought 'twere shame to take.

_Medea._ Why keep'st thou then the gifts which it were shame to take?

_Jason._ Nay, curb thy fiery soul! Thy children--for their sake

Be calm.

_Medea._ My children! Them I do refuse, reject,

Renounce! Shall then Creuesa brothers bear to these

My children?

_Jason._ But the queen can aid thy wretched sons.

_Medea._ May that day never dawn, that day of shame and woe,

When in one house are joined the low-born and the high,

The sons of that foul robber Sisyphus, and these

The sons of Phoebus.

_Jason._ Wretched one, and wilt thou, then

Involve me also in thy fall? Begone, I pray.

_Medea._ The king hath yielded to my prayer.

_Jason._ What wouldst thou then?

_Medea._ Of thee? I'd have thee dare the law.

_Jason._ The royal power

Doth compass me.

_Medea._ A greater than the king is here:

Medea. Set us front to front, and let us strive;

And of this royal strife let Jason be the prize.

_Jason._ Outwearied by my woes I yield. But be thou ware,

Medea, lest too often thou shouldst tempt thy fate.

_Medea._ Yet Fortune's mistress have I ever been.

_Jason._ But see

With hostile front Acastus comes, on vengeance bent,

While Creon threatens instant death.

_Medea._ Then flee them both.

I ask thee not to draw thy sword against the king,

Nor yet to stain thy pious hands with kindred blood.

Come, flee with me.

_Jason._ But what resistance can we make,

If war with double visage rear his horrid front,--

If Creon and Acastus join in common cause?

_Medea._ Add, too, the Colchian armies with my father's self

To lead them; join the Scythian and Pelasgian hordes.

In one deep grief of ruin will I whelm them all.

_Jason._ Yet on the scepter do I look with fear.

_Medea._ Beware,

Lest not the fear, but lust of power prevail with thee.

_Jason._ Too long we strive: have done, lest we suspicion breed.

_Medea._ Now Jove, throughout thy heavens let the thunders roll!

Thy mighty arm make bare! Thy darting flames

Of vengeance loose, and shake the lofty firmament

With rending storms! At random hurl thy vengeful bolts,

Selecting neither me nor Jason with thy aim,

That thus whoever falls may perish with the brand

Of guilt upon him. For thy hurtling darts can take

No erring flight.

_Jason._ Recall thee and in calmness speak

With words of peace and reason. Then if any gift

From Creon's royal house can compensate thy woes,

Take that as solace of thy flight.

_Medea._ My soul doth scorn

The wealth of kings. But let me have my little ones

As comrades of my flight, that in their childish breasts

Their mother's tears may flow. New sons await thy home.

_Jason._ My heart inclines to yield to thee, but love forbids.

For these my sons shall never from my arms be reft,

Though Creon's self demand. My very spring of life,

My sore heart's comfort and my joy are these my sons;

And sooner could I part with limbs or vital breath,

Or light of life.

_Medea._ [_Aside._] Doth he thus love his sons? 'Tis well;

Then is he bound, and in his armored strength this flaw

Reveals the place to strike.

Here, apparently, is the first suggestion to Medea of the most terrible

part of the revenge which she was to take upon Jason. The obvious

revenge upon Creon and his daughter, as well as upon her husband, Medea

had already foreshadowed in her opening words; but her deadly passion

had not yet been aimed at her children. It is true that twice she had

bitterly renounced them, once to the nurse, and again but now to Jason

himself, since they were Jason's also, and were likely now to be

brothers to the sons of her hated rival; nevertheless her mother-love

still is strong. But now, by Jason's unfortunate emphasis upon the love

he bears his sons, she sees a chance to obtain that measure of revenge

which in her heart she has already resolved to find. And yet this

thought is so terrible to her that, even though we see her shape her

present course in reference to it, it is evident that she gives it no

more than a subconscious existence.

But now she resolves to conceal her purposes of revenge and overcome

Jason with guile, and thus addresses him:

At least ere I depart

Grant me this last request: let me once more embrace

My sons. E'en that small boon will comfort my sad heart.

And this my latest prayer to thee: if, in my grief,

My tongue was over-bold, let not my words remain

To rankle in thy heart. Remember happier things

Of me, and let my bitter words be straight forgot.

Jason is completely deceived, as Creon had been, by Medea's seeming

humility, as if, indeed, a passionate nature like hers, inflamed by

wrongs like hers, could be restrained and tamed by a few calm words of

advice! He says:

Not one shall linger in my soul; and curb, I pray,

Thy too impetuous heart, and gently yield to fate.

For resignation ever soothes the woful soul.

[_Exit Jason._

As Jason leaves her, calmly satisfied with this disposition of affairs,

with no recognition of his wife's great sufferings, the thought of this

adds fresh fuel to her passion.

He's gone! And can it be? And shall he thus depart,

Forgetting me and all my service? Must I drop,

Like some discarded toy, out of his faithless heart?

It shall not be. Up then, and summon all thy strength

And all thy skill! And this, the fruit of former crime,

Count nothing criminal that works thy will!

But lo,

We're hedged about; scant room is left for our designs.

Now must the attack be made where least suspicion makes

The least resistance. Now Medea, on! And do,

And dare thine utmost, yea, beyond thy utmost power!

[_To the Nurse._] Do thou, my faithful nurse, the comrade

of my grief,

And all the devious wanderings of my checkered course,

Assist me now in these my plans. There is a robe,

The glory of our Colchian realm, the precious gift

Of Phoebus' self to King AEetes as a proof

Of fatherhood; a gleaming circlet, too, all wrought

With threads of gold, the yellow gold bespangled o'er

With gems, a fitting crown to deck a princess' head.

These treasures let Medea's children bear as gifts

To Jason's bride. But first imbue them with the power

Of magic, and invoke the aid of Hecate;

The woe-producing sacrifices then prepare,

And let the sacred flames through all our courts resound.

The chorus, which is supposed to be present throughout the play, an

interested though inactive witness of all that passes, has already been

seen to be a partisan of Jason, and hostile to Medea. It now sings a

choral interlude opening on the text "Hell hath no fury like a woman

scorned," and continuing with a prayer for Jason's safety. It then

recounts the individual history of Jason's companions subsequent to the

Argonautic expedition, showing how almost all came to an untimely end.

These might indeed be said to have deserved their fate, for they

volunteered to assist in that first impious voyage in quest of the

golden fleece; but Jason should be spared the general doom, for the task

had been imposed upon him by his usurping uncle, Pelias.

As the next scene opens, the old nurse voices the feeling that we all

have upon the eve of some expected but unknown horror.

My spirit trembles, for I feel the near approach

Of some unseen disaster. Swiftly grows her grief,

Its own fires kindling; and again her passion's force

Hath leaped to life. I oft have seen her, with the fit

Of inspiration in her soul, confront the gods,

And force the very heavens to her will. But now,

A monstrous deed of greater moment far than these

Medea is preparing. For, but now, did she

With step of frenzy hurry off until she reached

Her stricken home. There, in her chamber, all her stores

Of magic wonders are revealed; once more she views

The things herself hath held in fear these many years,

Unloosing one by one her ministers of ill,

Occult, unspeakable, and wrapt in mystery.

We omit the remainder of the nurse's speech out of regard for Seneca's

reputation as an artist, for in a long passage of sixty lines he

proceeds to scour heaven, earth, and the waters under the earth, for

every form of venomous serpent, noxious herb, and dread, uncanny thing

that the mind of man can conceive; and by the time he has his full array

of horrors marshaled before us, we have grown so familiar with the

gruesome things that we cease to shiver at them. But at last the

ingredients for the hell-broth are ready.

These deadly, potent herbs she takes and sprinkles o'er

With serpent venom, mixing all; and in the broth

She mingles unclean birds, a wailing screech-owl's heart,

A ghastly vampire's vitals torn from living flesh.

Her magic poisons all she ranges for her use:

The ravening power of hidden fire is held in these,

While deep in others lurks the numbing chill of frost.

Now magic runes she adds, more potent far.

But lo!

Her voice resounds, and as with maddened step she comes

She chants her charms, while heaven and earth convulsive

rock.

Medea now enters, chanting her incantations. Madness has done fearful

work with her in the last few hours. We see at a glance that she has

indeed, as the nurse has told us, gone back to

The things herself hath held in fear these many years,

and has been changed from a true wife and loving mother to a wild and

murderous witch once more. She calls upon the gods of the underworld,

the silent throng from the dark world of spirits, the tormented shades,

all to come to her present aid. She recounts her miraculous powers over

nature which she has used aforetime, and which are still in her grasp.

Thou radiant moon,

Night's glorious orb, my supplications hear and come

To aid; put on thy sternest guise, thou goddess dread

Of triple form! Full oft have I with flowing locks,

And feet unsandaled, wandered through thy darkling groves,

And by thy inspiration summoned forth the rain

From cloudless skies; the heaving seas have I subdued,

And sent the vanquished waves to ocean's lowest depths.

At my command the sun and stars together shine,

The heavenly law reversed; while in the Arctic Sea

The Bears have plunged. The seasons, too, obey my will:

I've made the burning summer blossom as the spring,

And hoary winter autumn's golden harvests bear.

The Phasis sends his swirling waves to seek their source;

And Ister, flowing to the sea with many mouths,

His eager water checks and sluggish rolls along.

The billows roar, the mad sea rages, though the winds

All silent lie. At my command primeval groves

Have lost their leafy shade, and Phoebus, wrapped in gloom,

Has stood in middle heaven; while falling Hyades

Attest my charms.

Here again Seneca's love for the curious runs counter to his art; for he

represents Medea as possessed of a veritable museum of curious charms

which she has in some occult way gathered from various mythological and

traditionary sources, and which she now takes occasion to recount. And

it is to this catalogue that we are compelled to listen, though we are

waiting in breathless suspense to know what is to come of all this

preparation!

After these and much more somewhat confused ravings, Medea at last says

to her attendants:

Take now Creuesa's bridal robe, and steep in these

My potent drugs; and when she dons the clinging folds,

Let subtle flames go stealing through her inmost heart.

We are told that these magic flames are compounded of some of that fire

which Prometheus stole from heaven; certain sulphurous fire which Vulcan

had given her; a flame gained from the daring young Phaethon, who had

himself perished in flames because of his overweening folly; the fiery

Chimera's breath, and some of "that fierce heat that parched the brazen

bull of Colchis." The imagination flags before such an array of fires.

The mystery of the burning robe and crown is no longer mysterious.

Truly, he doth explain too much.

But now, in more hurried strain, we hasten on the denouement.

Now, O Hecate,

Give added force to these my deadly gifts,

And strictly guard the hidden seeds of flame;

Let them escape detection of the eye,

But spring to instant life at human touch.

Let burning streams run through her veins;

In fervent heat consume her bones,

And let her blazing locks outshine

Her marriage torches!--Lo, my prayer

Is heard: thrice have replied the hounds,

The baying hounds of Hecate.

Now all is ready: hither call

My sons, and let them bear the gifts

As costly presents to the bride. [_Enter sons._]

Go, go, my sons, of hapless mother born,

And win with gifts and many prayers

The favor of the queen!

Begone, but quick your way retrace,

That I may fold you in a last embrace.

[_Exit sons toward the palace, Medea in the

opposite direction._]

The chorus, which but dimly comprehends Medea's plans, briefly voices

its dread of her unbridled passion. It knows that she has one day only

before her banishment from Corinth, and prays that this day may soon be

over.

And now, as the chorus and the old nurse wait in trembling suspense for

what is to follow, a messenger comes running breathless from the

direction of the royal palace. All ears are strained to hear his words,

for his face and manner betoken evil tidings. He gasps out his message:

Lo, all is lost! The kingdom totters from its base!

The daughter and the father lie in common dust!

_Chorus._ By what snare taken?

_Messenger._ By gifts, the common snare of kings.

_Chorus._ What harm could lurk in them?

_Messenger._ In equal doubt I stand;

And, though my eyes proclaim the dreadful deed is done,

I scarce can trust their witness.

_Chorus._ What the mode of death?

_Messenger._ Devouring flames consume the palace at the will

Of her who sent them; there complete destruction reigns,

While men do tremble for the very city's doom.

_Chorus._ Let water quench the fire.

_Messenger._ Nay, here is added wonder:

The copious streams of water _feed_ the deadly flames;

And opposition only fans their fiery rage

To whiter heat. The very bulwarks feel their power.

Medea has entered meanwhile, and has heard enough to be assured that her

magic has been successful. The nurse, seeing her, and fearing for her

mistress, exclaims:

O haste thee, leave this land of Greece in headlong

flight!

_Medea._ Thou bidst me speed my flight? Nay, rather, had I fled,

I should return for this. Strange bridal rites I see!

But now, forgetful of all around her, she becomes absorbed in her own

meditations. And here follows a masterful description of the struggle of

conflicting passions in a human soul. The contending forces are

mother-love and the passionate hate of an outraged wife. And when the

mother-love is at last vanquished, we may be sure that all the woman is

dead in her, and she becomes what the closing scene of the play

portrays--an incarnate fury.

_Medea._ Why dost thou falter, O my soul? 'Tis well begun;

But still how small a portion of thy just revenge

Is that which gives thee present joy? Not yet has love

Been banished from thy maddened heart if 'tis enough

That Jason widowed be. Pursue thy vengeful quest

To acts as yet unknown, and steel thyself for these.

Away with every thought and fear of God and man;

Too lightly falls the rod that pious hands upbear.

Give passion fullest sway; exhaust thy ancient powers;

And let the worst thou yet hast done be innocent

Beside thy present deeds. Come, let them know how slight

Were those thy crimes already done; mere training they

For greater deeds. For what could hands untrained in crime

Accomplish? Or what mattered maiden rage? But now,

I am Medea; in the bitter school of woe

My powers have ripened.

This mood culminates in an ecstasy of madness as she dwells upon her

former successful deeds of blood.

O the bliss of memory!

My infant brother slain, his limbs asunder rent,

My royal father spoiled of his ancestral realm,

And Pelias' guiltless daughters lured to slay their sire!

But here I must not rest; no untrained hand I bring

To execute my deeds.

But now, by what approach,

Or by what weapon wilt thou threat the treacherous foe?

Deep hidden in my secret heart have I conceived

A purpose which I dare not utter. O I fear

That in my foolish madness I have gone too far.--

I would that children had been born to him of this

My hated rival. Still, since she hath gained his heart,

His children too are hers.--

That punishment would be most fitting and deserved.

Yes, now I see the final deed of crime, and thou,

My soul, must face it. You, who once were called my sons,

Must pay the penalty of these your father's crimes.--

My heart with horror melts, a numbing chill pervades

My limbs, and all my soul is filled with sinking fear.

Now wrath gives place, and, heedless of my husband's sins,

The tender mother-instinct quite possesses me.

And could I shed my helpless children's blood? Not so,

O say not so, my maddened heart! Far from my hand

And thought be that unnamable and hideous deed!

What sin have they that shedding of their wretched blood

Would wash away?

Their sin--that Jason is their sire,

And, deeper guilt, that I have borne them. Let them die;

They are not mine.--Nay, nay, they are my own, my sons,

And with no spot of guilt.--Full innocent they are,

'Tis true: my brother too was innocent. O soul,

Why dost thou hesitate? Why flow these streaming tears

While with contending thoughts my wavering heart is torn?

As when conflicting winds contend in stubborn strife,

And waves, to stormy waves opposed, the sea invade,

And to their lowest sands the briny waters boil:

With such a storm my heart is tossed. Hate conquers love,

And love puts impious hate to flight. O yield thee, grief,

To love! Then come, my sons, sole comfort of my heart,

Come cling within thy mother's close embrace. Unharmed

Your sire may keep you, while your mother holds you too.

But she remembers, even as she embraces her children, that this is her

last embrace.

But flight and exile drive me forth! And even now

My children must be torn away with tears and cries.--

Then let them die to Jason since they're lost to me.

Once more has hate resumed her sway, and passion's fire

Is hot within my soul. Now fury, as of yore,

Reseeks her own. Lead on, I follow to the end!

I would that I had borne twice seven sons, the boast

Of Niobe! But all too barren have I been.

Still will my two sufficient be to satisfy

My brother and my sire.

She suddenly falls distraught, as one who sees a dreadful vision.

But whither hastes that throng

Of furies? What their quest? What mean their brandished

fires?

Whom threats this hellish host with horrid, bloody brands?

I hear the writhing lash of serpents huge resound.

Whom seeks Magaera with her deadly torch?--Whose shade

Comes gibbering there with scattered limbs?--It is my

brother!

Revenge he seeks; and we will grant his quest. Then come,

Within my heart plunge all your torches--rend me--burn!

For lo, my bosom open to your fury's stroke.

O brother, bid those vengeful goddesses depart

And go in peace down to the lowest shades of Hell.

And do thou leave me to myself, and let this hand

That slew thee with the sword now offer sacrifice

Unto thy shade.

Roused to the point of action by this vision, and still at the very

pitch of frenzy, she plunges her dagger into the first of her sons. (The

poet thus violates the canons of the classical drama in representing

deeds of blood upon the stage.)

But now hoarse shouts and the quick tramping of many feet are heard; and

well does Medea know their meaning.

What sudden uproar meets my ear?

'Tis Corinth's citizens on my destruction bent.

Unto the palace roof I'll mount, and there complete

This bloody sacrifice.

[_To her other son._] Do thou come hence with me;

But thee, poor senseless corse, within mine arms I'll bear.

Now gird thyself, my heart, with strength. Nor must this

deed

Lose all its just renown because in secret done;

But to the public eye my hand must be approved.

Medea disappears within, leading one son, terrified and reluctant, and

bearing the body of her other child in her arms. Jason and a crowd of

Corinthian citizens rush upon the stage. Stopping in front of his own

palace, he shouts:

Ho, all ye loyal sons who mourn the death of kings!

Come, let us seize the worker of this hideous crime.

Now ply your arms and raze her palace to the ground.

At this moment, though as yet unseen by those below, Medea emerges upon

the palace roof.

_Medea._ Now, now have I regained my regal power, my sire,

My brother! Once again the Colchians hold the spoil

Of precious gold, and by the magic of this hour

I am a maid once more! O heavenly powers appeased

At length! O festal hour! O nuptial day! On! on!

Accomplished is the guilt, but not the recompense.

Complete the task while yet thy hands are strong to act.

Why dost thou linger still? Why dost thou hesitate

Upon the threshold of the deed? Thou canst perform it.

Now wrath has died within me, and my soul is filled

With shame and deep remorse. Ah me, what have I done,

Wretch that I am? Wretch that thou art, well mayest thou

mourn,

For thou hast done it!--At that thought delirious joy

O'ermasters me and fills my heart which fain would grieve.

And yet, methinks, the act was almost meaningless,

Since Jason saw it not; for naught has been performed

If to his grief be added not the woe of sight.

_Jason._ [_discovering her._] Lo, there she stands upon the

lofty battlements!

Bring torches! Fire the house! That she may fall ensnared

By those devices she herself hath planned.

_Medea._ [_derisively._] Not so;

But rather build a lofty pyre for these thy sons;

Their funeral rites prepare. Already for thy bride

And father have I done the service due the dead;

For in their ruined palace have I buried them.

One son of thine has met his doom; and this shall die

Before his father's face.--

_Jason._ By all the gods, and by the perils of our flight,

And by our marriage bond which I have ne'er betrayed,

I pray thee spare the boy, for he is innocent.

If aught of sin there be, 'tis mine. Myself I give

To be the victim. Take my guilty soul for his.

_Medea._ 'Tis for thy prayers and tears I draw, not sheathe the

sword.

Go now, and take thee maids for wives, thou faithless one;

Abandon and betray the mother of thy sons.

_Jason._ And yet, I pray thee, let one sacrifice atone.

_Medea._ If in the blood of one my passion could be quenched,

No vengeance had it sought. Though both my sons I slay,

The number still is all too small to satisfy

My boundless grief.

_Jason._ Then finish what thou hast begun--

I ask no more--and grant at least that no delay

Prolong my helpless agony.

_Medea._ Now hasten not,

Relentless passion, but enjoy a slow revenge.

This day is in thy hands; its fertile hours employ.

_Jason._ O take my life, thou heartless one.

_Medea._ Thou bidst me pity--

Well--[_She slays the second child_]--'Tis done!

No more atonement, passion, can I offer thee.

Now hither lift thy tearful eyes, ungrateful one.

Dost recognize thy wife? 'Twas thus of old I fled.

The heavens themselves provide me with a safe retreat.

Twin serpents bow their heads submissive to the yoke.

For there suddenly appears in the air a chariot drawn by dragons.

Now, father, take thy sons; while I, upon my car,

With winged speed am borne aloft through realms of air.

_Jason._ [_calling after as she vanishes_].

Speed on through realms of air that mortals never see:

But heaven bear witness, whither thou art gone, no gods

can be.

3. ROMAN COMEDY

We have already said that the natural mimicry of the Italian peasantry

no doubt for ages indulged itself in uncouth performances of a dramatic

nature, which developed later into those mimes and farces, the

forerunners of Roman comedy and the old Medley-Satura. We have also

shown how powerfully Rome came under the influence of Greek literature

and Greek art; and how the first actual invasion of Rome by Greek

literature was made under Livius Andronicus, who, in 240 B. C., produced

the first play before a Roman audience translated from the Greek into

the Roman tongue. What the history of native comedy would have been, had

it been allowed to develop entirely apart from Greek influence, we shall

never know, since it did come powerfully under this influence, and

retained permanently the form and character which it then acquired.

When Rome turned to Greece for comedy, there were three models from

which to choose: the Old Athenian Comedy of Eupolis, Cratinus, and

Aristophanes, full of criticism boldly aimed at public men and policies,

breathing the most independent republican spirit; the Middle Comedy,

which was still critical, directed, however, more at classes of men and

schools of thought than at individuals; and New Comedy, the product of

the political decadence of Greece, written during a period (340-260

B. C.) when the independence which had made the trenchant satire of the

Old Comedy possible had gone out of Greece. These plays aimed at

amusement and not at reform. Every vestige of politics was squeezed out

of them, and they were merely society plays, supposed to reflect the

amusing and entertaining incidents of the social life of Athens. The

best known writers of New Comedy were Philemon, Apollodorus, and

Menander, only fragments of whose works have come down to us.

Which of these models did the Romans follow? There is some evidence in

the fragments of the plays of Naevius, a younger contemporary of

Andronicus, and who produced his first play in 235 B. C., that he wrote

in the bold spirit of the Old Comedy, and criticized the party policies

and leaders of his time. But he soon discovered that the stern Roman

character was quite incapable of appreciating a joke, especially when

its point was directed against that ineffably sacred thing, the Roman

dignity. For presuming to voice his criticisms from the stage the poet

was imprisoned and afterward banished from Rome.

Perhaps warned by the experience of Naevius, Roman comic poets turned to

the perfectly colorless and safe society plays of the New Comedy for

translation and imitation. They not only kept within the limitations of

these plays as to spirit and plot, but even confined the scene itself

and characters to some foreign city, generally Athens, and for the most

part were careful to exclude everything Roman or suggestive of Rome from

their plays.

Judging from the remaining fragments, there must have been many writers

of comedy during this period of first impulse; but of all these, the

works of only two are preserved to us. These are Titus Maccius Plautus,

who died in 184 B. C., and Publius Terentius Afer, commonly known as

Terence, who was born in 195 B. C., and died in 159 B. C. These two

writers have much in common, but there are also many important points of

difference. Plautus displays a rougher, more vigorous strength and a

broader humor; and, within the necessary limitations of which we have

spoken, he is more national in his spirit, more popular in his appeal.

Terence, on the other hand, no doubt because he was privileged to

associate with the select and literary circle of which Scipio and Laelius

were the center, was more polished and correct in style and diction. But

while he thus gains in elegance as compared with Plautus, he loses the

breezy vigor of the older poet.

As an illustration of the society play of the New Comedy, we are giving

with some abridgment the _Phormio_ of Terence, which we have taken the

liberty of translating into somewhat free modern vernacular. This is

perhaps the best of the six plays of Terence which we have, and was

modeled by him after a Greek play of Apollodorus. It is named _Phormio_

from the saucy parasite who takes the principal role. The other

characters are two older men, brothers, Demipho and Chremes; two young

men, sons of these, Antipho and Phaedria; a smart slave, Geta; a

villainous slave-driver, Dorio; Nausistrata, wife of Chremes, and

Sophrona, an old nurse. The scene, which does not change throughout the

play, is laid in Athens. As for the plot, it will develop itself as we

read.

A shock-headed slave comes lounging in from the direction of the Forum

and stops in front of Demipho's house. He carries in his hand a purse of

money which, it appears, he has brought in payment of a debt:

Friend Geta paid me a call yesterday; I've been owing him a

beggarly balance on a little account some time back, and he wanted

me to pay it. So I've got it here. It seems that his young master

has gone and got married; and this money, I'm thinking, is being

scraped together as a present for the bride. Things have come to a

pretty pass, to be sure, when the poor must all the time be

handing over to the rich. What my poor gossip has saved up out of

his allowance, a penny at a time, almost starving himself to do

it, this precious bride will gobble up at one fell swoop, little

thinking how hard Geta had to work to get it. Pretty soon he will

be struck for another present when a child is born; for another

when its birthday comes around, and so on, and so on. The mother

will get it all; the child will be only an excuse. But here comes

Geta himself.

The private marriage of the young man Antipho, mentioned in this slave's

soliloquy, is one of the important issues of the play. The real

situation is revealed in the following conversation between the two

slaves. After the payment of the money and an interchange of civilities,

says the friend:

_Davus._ But what's the matter with you?

_Geta._ Me? Oh, you don't know in what a fix we are.

_Da._ How's that? _Ge._ Well, I'll tell you if you won't say anything

about it. _Da._ O, come off, you dunce, you have just trusted money

with me; are you afraid to lend me words? Besides, what good would it

do me to give you away? _Ge._ Well, listen then. You know our old

man's brother Chremes? _Da._ Well, I should say. _Ge._ And his son

Phaedria? _Da._ As well as I do you. _Ge._ Both the old men went away,

Chremes to Lemnos, and his brother to Cilicia, and left me here to

take care of their two sons. My guardian spirit must have had it in

for me. At first I began to oppose the boys; but there--my

faithfulness to the old men I paid for with my bones. Then I just

gave it up and let them do as they pleased. At first, my young master

Antipho was all right; but his cousin Phaedria lost no time in getting

into trouble. He fell in love with a little lute-player--desperately

in love. She was a slave, and owned by a most villainous fellow.

Phaedria had no money to buy her freedom with--his father had looked

out for that; so the poor boy could only feast his eyes upon her, tag

her around and walk back and forth to school with her. Antipho and I

had nothing else to do, so we watched Phaedria. Well, one day when we

were all sitting in the barber-shop across the street from the little

slave-girl's schoolhouse, a fellow came in crying like a baby. When

we asked him what the trouble was, he said: "Poverty never seemed to

me so dreadful before. Just now I saw a poor girl here in the

neighborhood crying over her dead mother. And there wasn't a single

soul around, not an acquaintance or a relative or any one at all to

help at the funeral, except one little old woman, her nurse. I did

feel sorry for the girl. She was a beauty, too." Well, he stirred us

all up. Then Antipho speaks up and says: "Let's go and see her; you

lead the way." So we went and saw her. She _was_ a beauty. And she

wasn't fixed up a bit either: her hair was all hanging loose, she was

bare-footed, unkempt, eyes red with weeping, dress travel-stained.

So she must have been an all-round beauty, or she couldn't have

seemed so then. Phaedria says: "She'll do pretty well." But

Antipho-- _Da._ O yes, I know, he fell in love with her. _Ge._ But do

you know how much? Wait and see how it came out. Next day he went

straight to the nurse and begged her to let him see the girl; but the

old woman wouldn't allow it. She said he wasn't acting on the square;

that the girl was a well-born citizen of Athens, and that if he

wanted to marry her he might do so in the legal way. If he had any

other object it was no use. Our young man didn't know what to do. He

wanted to marry her fast enough, but he was afraid of his absent

father. _Da._ Why, wouldn't his father have forgiven him when he came

back? _Ge._ What, he allow his son to marry a poor girl that nobody

knew anything about? Not much! _Da._ Well, what came next? _Ge._ What

next? There is a certain parasite named Phormio, a bold fellow--curse

his impudence! _Da._ What did he do? _Ge._ He gave this precious

piece of advice. Says he: "There is a law in Athens that orphan girls

shall marry their next of kin, and the same law requires the next of

kin to marry them. Now I'll say that you are related to this girl,

and will bring suit against you to compel you to marry her. I'll

pretend that I am her guardian. We'll go before the judges; who her

father was, who her mother, how she is related to you--all this I'll

make up on the spur of the moment. You won't attempt any defense and

of course I shall win the suit. I'll be in for a row when your father

gets back, but what of that? You will be safely married to the girl

by that time." _Da._ Well, that _was_ a jolly bluff. _Ge._ So the

youth was persuaded, the thing was done, they went to court, our side

lost the suit, and Antipho married the girl. _Da._ What's that? _Ge._

Just what I say. _Da._ O Geta, what will become of you? _Ge._ I'll be

blessed if I know. I'm sure of one thing, though: whatever happens,

I'll bear it with equanimity. _Da._ That's the talk! You've got the

spirit of a man! But what about the pedagogue, the little

lute-player's young man? How is he getting on? _Ge._ Only so so.

_Da._ He hasn't much to pay for her, I suppose? _Ge._ Not a red; only

his hopes. _Da._ Has Antipho's father come back yet? _Ge._ No. _Da._

When do you expect him? _Ge._ I'm not sure, but I have just heard

that a letter has been received from him down at the custom-house,

and I'm going for it now. _Da._ Well, Geta, can I do anything more

for you? _Ge._ No. Be good to yourself. Good-by.

We see from the foregoing conversation what the situation is at the

opening of the play, and can guess at the problems to be solved by the

development of the action: How shall Phaedria obtain the money with which

to buy his sweetheart? and how shall Antipho's father be reconciled to

the marriage so that he may not annul it or disown both the young people

upon his return?

The two cousins Antipho and Phaedria now appear, each envying the

seemingly happy lot of the other, and deploring his own. Antipho has

already repented of his hasty action, and is panic-stricken when he

thinks of the wrath of his father. While Phaedria can think only of his

friend's good fortune in being married to the girl of his heart. Geta's

sudden appearance from the direction of the harbor strikes terror into

Antipho, and both the cousins retire to the back of the stage. The

slave is evidently much disturbed, though the young men can catch only a

word now and then.

Desirous, yet fearful of knowing the worst, Antipho now calls out to his

slave, who turns and comes up to him.

_Antipho._ Come, give us your news, for goodness' sake, and be quick.

_Ge._ All right, I will. _Ant._ Well, out with it, then. _Ge._ Just

now at the harbor-- _Ant._ What, my-- _Ge._ That's right. _Ant._ I'm

done for!

Phaedria has not Antipho's fear-sharpened imagination to get Geta's news

from these fragmentary statements, and asks the slave to tell him what

it is all about.

_Geta._ I tell you that I have seen his father, your uncle. _Ant._

[_frantically_]. How shall I meet this sudden disaster? But if it has

come to this, Phanium [_his wife_], that I am to be separated from

you, then I don't want to live any longer. _Ge._ There, there,

Antipho, in such a state of things you ought to be all the more on

the watch. Fortune favors the brave, you know. _Ant._ [_with choking

voice_]. I'm not myself to-day. _Ge._ But you must be, Antipho; for

if your father sees that you are timid and meek about it, he'll think

of course that you are in the wrong. _Ant._ But, I tell you, I can't

do any different. _Ge._ What would you do if you had some harder job

yet? _Ant._ Since I can't do this, I couldn't do that. _Ge._ Come,

Phaedria, there's no use fooling with this fellow; we're only wasting

our time. Let's be off. _Phaed._ All right, come on. _Ant._ O say,

hold on! What if I pretend to be bold. [_Strikes an attitude_]. Will

that do? _Ge._ Stuff and nonsense. _Ant._ Well, how will this

expression do? _Ge._ It won't do at all. _Ant._ How is this? _Ge._

That's more like it. _Ant._ Is this better? _Ge._ That's just right.

Keep on looking that way. And remember to answer him word for word,

tit for tat, and don't let the angry old man get the better of you.

_Ant._ I--I--w-won't. _Ge._ Tell him you were forced to it against

your will-- _Phaed._ By the law, by the court. _Ge._ Do you catch

on?--But who is this old man I see coming up the street?

Antipho casts one look of terror down the street, cries: "It's father

himself, I just can't stay," and takes to his heels.

_Phaed._ Now, Geta, what next? _Ge._ Well, you're in for a row; and I

shall be hung up by the heels and flogged, unless I am much mistaken.

But what we were advising Antipho to do just now, we must do

ourselves. _Phaed._ O, come off with your "musts"! Tell me just what

to do. _Ge._ Do you remember how you said when we were planning how

to get out of blame for this business that "Phormio's suit was just

dead easy, sure to win"? Well, that's the game we want to work

now,--or a better one yet, if you can think of one. Now you go ahead

and I'll wait here in ambush, in case you want any help.

They retire to the back of the stage as Demipho enters from the

direction of the harbor. The old man is in a towering rage, for he has

heard the news, which by this time is all over town. After listening

awhile to his angry soliloquy, and interjecting sneering comments _sotto

voce_, Geta and Phaedria conclude that it is time to act. So Phaedria

advances to his uncle with an effusive welcome:

_Phaed._ My dear uncle, how do you do? _Demipho_ [_crustily_]. How are

you? But where is Antipho? _Phaed._ I'm so glad to see-- _Dem._ Oh, no

doubt; but answer my questions. _Phaed._ Oh, he's all right; he's here

in the house. But, uncle, has anything gone wrong with you? _Dem._

Well, I should say so. _Phaed._ What do you mean? _Dem._ How can you

ask, Phaedria? This is a pretty marriage you have gotten up here in my

absence. _Phaed._ Why, uncle, you aren't angry with him for that, are

you? _Dem._ Not angry with him, indeed? I can hardly wait to see him

and let him know how through his own fault his indulgent father has

become most stern and angry with him. _Phaed._ Now, uncle, if Antipho

has been at fault in that he wasn't careful enough of his purse or

reputation, I haven't a word to say to shield him from blame. But if

some one with malicious intent has laid a trap for him and got the

best of him, is that our fault, or that of the judges, who often

decide against the rich through envy, and in favor of the poor out of

pity? _Dem._ But how is any judge to know the justice of your case,

when you don't say a word in self-defense, as I understand he didn't?

_Phaed._ Well, in that he acted like a well-bred young man; when he

came before the judges, he couldn't remember a word of his speech

that he had prepared; he was so bashful.

Seeing that Phaedria is getting along so well, Geta decides to come

forward.

_Ge._ Hail, master! I'm very glad to see you home safe again. _Dem._

[_with angry irony_]. Hail! A fine guardian you are! A regular pillar

of the family! So you are the fellow that I left in charge of my son

when I went away?

Geta plays injured innocence, and wants to know what Demipho would have

had him do. Being a slave, he could neither plead the young man's cause

nor testify in his behalf.

_Dem._ O, yes; I admit all that. But even if the girl was never so

much related, he needn't have married her. Why didn't you take the

other legal alternative, give her a dowry, and let her find another

husband? Had he no more sense than to marry her himself? _Ge._ O, he

had sense enough; it was the dollars he lacked. _Dem._ Well, he might

have borrowed the money. _Ge._ Borrowed it? That's easier said than

done. _Dem._ He might have gotten it from a usurer on a pinch. _Ge._

Well, I do like that! As if any one would lend him money in your

lifetime!

The old man, beaten to a standstill, can only fall back upon his

obstinate determination, and vow that he won't have it.

_Dem._ No, no; it shall not be, it cannot be! I won't permit this

marriage to continue for a single day longer. Now, I want to see that

other fellow, or at least find out where he lives. _Ge._ Do you mean

Phormio? _Dem._ I mean that woman's guardian. _Ge._ I'll go get him

for you. _Dem._ Where is Antipho now? _Ge._ O, he's out somewhere.

_Dem._ Phaedria, you go hunt him up and bring him to me. _Phaed._ Yes,

sir; I'll go find him right away. _Ge._ [_leering at Phaedria as the

latter passes him_]. You mean you'll go to Pamphila [_Phaedria's

sweetheart_].

Demipho, left alone, announces that he will get some friends together to

advise him in the business, and prepare him for his interview with

Phormio. The act ends with the prospect pretty dark for Antipho, and

with no plan of action formed in his behalf.

We are now introduced, at the opening of the second act, to the actor of

the title role, the keen-witted, reckless parasite, Phormio. He is

accompanied upon the stage by Geta, who is telling him the situation.

Geta beseeches Phormio to come to their aid, since he is, after all,

entirely responsible for the trouble. Phormio remains buried in thought

awhile, and then announces that he has his plans formed, and is ready to

meet the old man.

[_Enter Demipho and three friends from the other side of the stage.

Demipho is talking to his friends._]

_Dem._ Did you ever hear of any one suffering more outrageous

treatment than I have? I beg you to help me. _Ge._ [_apart to

Phormio_]. My, but he's mad! _Phor._ You just watch me now; I'll stir

him up. [_Speaking in a loud enough tone to be overheard by

Demipho_]. By all the powers! Does Demipho say that Phanium isn't

related to him? Does Demipho say so? _Ge._ Yes, he does.

Demipho is caught by this bait, as Phormio had intended, and says to his

friends in an undertone:

I believe this is the very fellow I was seeking. Let's go a little

nearer.

Phormio continues in a loud voice to berate Demipho for his neglect of

the supposed relative, while Geta noisily takes his master's part.

Demipho now interrupts this sham quarrel, and after snubbing Geta, he

turns with mock politeness to Phormio.

_Dem._ Young man, I beg your pardon, but will you be kind enough to

tell me who that friend of yours was that you are talking about, and

how he said I was related to him? _Phor._ O, you ask as if you didn't

know. _Dem._ As if I didn't know? _Phor._ Yes. _Dem._ And I say that

I _don't_ know. Now do you, who say that I do, refresh my memory.

_Phor._ Didn't you know your own cousin? _Dem._ O, you make me tired.

Tell me his name. _Phor._ The name? Why, certainly.

But now the name by which he had heard Phanium speak of her father has

slipped from his mind, and he is forced to awkward silence. Demipho is

quick to see his embarrassment:

Well, why don't you speak? _Phor._ [_aside_]. By George! I'm in a

box! I have forgotten the name. _Dem._ What's that you say? _Phor._

[_aside in a whisper to Geta_]. Say, Geta, if you remember that name

we heard the other day, tell it to me. [_Then determining to bluff it

out, he turns to Demipho_]. No, I won't tell you the name. You are

trying to pump me, as if you didn't know it already. _Dem._

[_angrily_]. I pump you? _Ge._ [_whispering_]. It's Stilpho. _Phor._

[_to Demipho_]. And yet what do I care? It's Stilpho. _Dem._ Who?

_Phor._ [_shouting it at him_]. Stilpho, I say. Did you know him?

_Dem._ No, I didn't, And I never had a relative of that name. _Phor._

No? Aren't you ashamed of yourself? Now if he had left a matter of

ten talents-- _Dem._ Confound your impudence! _Phor._ You would be the

first to come forward, with a very good memory, and trace your

connection with him for generations back. _Dem._ Well, have it as you

say. Then when I had come into court. I should have told just how she

was related to me. Now you do the same. Come, how is she related to

me? _Phor._ I have already explained that to those who had a right to

ask--the judges. If my statement was false then, why didn't your son

refute it? _Dem._ Don't mention my son to me! I can't possibly

express my disgust at his folly. _Phor._ Then do you, who are so

wise, go before the magistrates and ask them to reopen the case.

[_This, according to the law of Athens, was impossible._]

Demipho has twice been completely beaten in a war of words--once by Geta

and now by Phormio. He chokes down his rage as best he can, and now

makes a proposition to his enemy. He is still too angry to express

himself very connectedly.

_Dem._ Although I have been outraged in this business, still, rather

than have a quarrel with such as you, just as if she were related to

me, since the law bids to give her a dowry, take her away from here,

and make it _fui minae_. _Phor._ Ho! ho! ho! Well, you _are_ a

cheerful idiot! _Dem._ What's the matter? Have I asked anything

wrong? Or can't I get even what is my legal right? _Phor._ Well,

really now, I should like to ask you, when you have once married a

girl, does the law bid you then to give her some money and send her

packing? On the contrary, it is for the very purpose that a citizen

of Athens may not come to shame on account of her poverty, that her

next of kin is bidden to take her to wife. And this purpose you are

attempting to thwart. _Dem._ Yes, that's just it--"her next of kin."

But where do I come in on that score? _Phor._ O pshaw! don't thresh

over old straw. _Dem._ Sha'n't I? I vow I shall not stop until I have

accomplished my ends.

After further badgering and bear-baiting on the part of Phormio, Demipho

finally falls back upon his dogged determination as before, and gives

his ultimatum:

See here, Phormio, we have said enough. Unless you take immediate

steps to get that woman away, I'll throw her out of the house. I have

spoken, Phormio.

Phormio is not to be outdone in bluster, and adopting Demipho's formula,

as well as his tone and gestures, he says:

And if you touch that girl except as becomes a free-born citizen,

I'll bring a cracking suit against you. I have spoken, Demipho.

So saying, he turns and swaggers off the stage, much to the secret

delight of Geta, the impotent rage of Demipho, and the open-mouthed

amazement of the three friends.

Demipho now appeals to his friends for advice as to how to proceed in

this crisis; but they are so obsequious in their manner, and so

contradictory in their advice, that Demipho is in greater perplexity

than before, and decides to take no action at all until his brother

Chremes comes home. He accordingly leaves the stage in the direction of

the harbor, his three friends having already bowed themselves out.

This temporary disposition of Antipho's case is fittingly followed by

the appearance of the young man himself in self-reproachful soliloquy

that he should have run away and left his young wife in the lurch. Geta

appears, and tells Antipho all that has passed in his absence, much to

Antipho's gratitude and relief, though he sorely dreads the return of

his uncle, who, it seems, is to be the arbiter of his destiny.

Phaedria and his troubles now claim the center of the stage. As Antipho

and Geta stand talking, they hear a pitiful outcry, and looking up, they

see a black-browed, evil-faced, typical stage villain, who we presently

discover is Dorio, the slave-driver who owns Phaedria's sweetheart.

Things have evidently come to a crisis with that young man. He is

following Dorio, and imploring him to wait three days until he can get

money enough to buy his sweetheart. But Dorio says he has a customer who

offers cash down. After much entreaty, however, he tells Phaedria that if

the money is forthcoming before to-morrow morning he will consider the

bargain closed. So there Phaedria's business is brought to a head, and

the attention of us all must be at once turned to what has suddenly

become the paramount issue. What is to be done? Phaedria is too

hysterical to be of any help in the matter, and Antipho tells the

faithful and resourceful Geta that he must get the money somehow. Geta

says that this is liable to be a pretty difficult matter, and doesn't

want to undertake it, but is finally persuaded by Phaedria's pitiful

despair to try. He asks Phaedria how much money he needs.

_Phaed._ Only six hundred dollars. _Ge._ Six hundred dollars! Whew!

she's pretty dear, Phaedria. _Phaed._ [_indignantly_]. It's no such

thing! She's cheap at the price. _Ge._ Well, well! I'll get you the

money somehow.

The third act gives a picture of the situation from the point of view of

the two old men, Demipho and Chremes, for the latter has just returned

from Lemnos, and now comes upon the stage fresh from his travels, in

company with his brother. We now discover for the first time what is

probably the real reason for the opposition to Antipho's marriage to the

orphan girl.

_Dem._ Well, Chremes, did you bring your daughter with you, for whose

sake you went to Lemnos? _Chr._ No, I didn't. _Dem._ Why not? _Chr._

When her mother saw that I was delaying my coming too long, and that

my negligence was harming our daughter, who had now reached a

marriageable age, she simply packed up her whole household, and came

here to hunt me up--so they told me over there. And then I heard from

the skipper who brought them that they reached Athens all right.

_Dem._ Have you heard what has happened to my son while I was gone?

_Chr._ Yes, and it's knocked all my plans into a cocked hat. For if I

make a match for my daughter with some outsider, I'll have to tell

him categorically just how she comes to be mine, and who her mother

is. I was secure in our proposed match between her and Antipho, for I

knew that my secret was as safe in your hands as in my own; whereas

if an outsider comes into the family, he will keep the secret as long

as we are on good terms; but if we ever quarrel, he will know more

than is good for me [_looking around cautiously, and speaking with

bated breath_]; and I'm dreadfully afraid that my wife will find it

out in some way. And if she does, the only thing left for me to do is

to take myself off and leave home; for my soul is the only thing I

can call my own in this house.

From this it develops that Chremes has had a wife and daughter in

Lemnos, and now lives in wholesome fear of his too masterful Athenian

spouse.

Geta now comes upon the stage in fine spirits, loud in his praises of

the shrewdness of Phormio, with whom he has just concluded a scheme for

getting the money. He is in search of Demipho, and is surprised to find

Chremes on hand as well. Meanwhile, Antipho has come cautiously upon the

stage in search of Geta, just as the latter goes boldly up to the two

old men. As yet unseen by any one, Antipho retires to the back of the

stage, and overhears the following conversation:

_Ge._ O, how do you do, good Chremes! _Chr._ [_crustily_]. How are

you? _Ge._ How are things with you? _Chr._ One finds many changes on

coming back, as is natural enough--very many. _Ge._ That's so. Have

you heard about Antipho? _Chr._ The whole story. _Ge._ [_to

Demipho_]. O, you've been telling him? [_To Chremes_]. It's a shame,

Chremes, to be taken in that way! _Dem._ I have been discussing the

situation with him. _Ge._ I've been thinking it over, too, and I

think I have found a way out of it. _Chr._ How's that, Geta? _Dem._ A

way out of it? _Ge._ [_in a confidential tone_]. Just now when I left

you, I chanced to meet Phormio. _Chr._ Who's Phormio? _Ge._ That

girl's-- _Chr._ O, I see. _Ge._ I thought I'd test the fellow, so I

got him off alone, and said: "Now, Phormio, don't you see that it's

better to settle this matter in a friendly way than to have a row

about it? My master is a gentleman, and hates a fuss. If it wasn't

for that he would have sent this girl packing, as all his friends

advised him to do." _Ant._ [_aside_]. What in the world is this

fellow getting at? _Ge._ "Do you say that the law will make him

suffer for it if he casts her out? Oh, we've looked into that point.

I tell you you'll sweat for it if you ever get into a law-suit with

that man. He's a regular corker. But suppose you do win out; it's not

a matter of life and death, but only of damages. Now here, just

between ourselves, how much will you take, cash down, to take this

girl away and make us no more trouble." _Ant._ [_aside_]. Good

heavens, is the fellow crazy? _Ge._ "For I know that if you make any

sort of an offer, my master is a good fellow, and will take you up in

a minute." _Dem._ Who told you to say that? _Chr._ There, there, we

couldn't have gained our point better. _Ant._ [_aside_]. I'm done

for! _Dem._ Well, go on with your story. _Ge._ At first the fellow

was wild. _Chr._ Come, come, tell us how much he wants. _Ge._ How

much? Altogether too much. Said he: "Well, a matter of twelve hundred

dollars would be about right." _Dem._ Confound his impudence! Has he

no shame? _Ge._ That's just what I said. Said I: "What if he were

marrying off an only daughter? Small gain it's been to him not to

have raised a girl. One has been found to call for a dowry just the

same." Well, to make a long story short, he finally said: "I've

wanted from the first to marry the daughter of my old friend, as was

right that I should; but, to tell you the honest truth, I've got to

find a wife who will bring me in a little something, enough to pay my

debts with. And even now, if Demipho is willing to pay me as much as

I am getting from the other girl to whom I am engaged, I'd just as

soon turn around and marry this girl of yours." _Dem._ What if he is

over his head in debt? _Ge._ Says he: "I have a little farm mortgaged

for two hundred dollars." _Dem._ Well, well! Let him marry her; I'll

give him that much. _Ge._ "And then there's a bit of a house

mortgaged for two hundred more." _Dem._ Ow! that's too much. _Chr._

No, that's all right. Let him have that two hundred from me. _Ge._

"Then I must buy a little maid for my wife," says he, "and I've got

to have a little more furniture, and then there's all the wedding

expenses. Put all that down at an even two hundred more." _Dem._ [_in

a rage_]. Then let him bring as many suits as he wants to. I won't

give a cent. What, is the dirty fellow making game of me? _Chr._ O,

do please keep still! I only ask that you have your son marry that

girl that we know of. This girl is being sent off for my sake; so

it's only right that I should pay for it. _Ge._ Phormio says to let

him know as soon as possible if you are going to give Phanium to him,

in order that he may break his engagement with the other girl; for

her people have promised the same dowry. _Chr._ Well, we will give it

to him, so let him break his other engagement and marry the girl.

_Dem._ And a plague on him into the bargain! _Chr._ [_to Demipho_].

Very fortunately, I have brought some money with me--the rent I have

collected from my wife's Lemnian estate. I'll take it out of that,

and tell her that you needed it.

The two old men go into Chremes' house; and now Geta finds himself

confronted by the indignant Antipho, who has hardly been able to contain

himself during this (to him) inexplicable dialogue, in which his wife

was being coolly bargained away. It is only with the greatest difficulty

that Geta can make the angry bridegroom appreciate the ruse by which the

money has been obtained for Phaedria's use. In the end Antipho goes off

to tell the news to Phaedria. Demipho and Chremes now come out, the

former with a bag of money in his hand. He wants it understood that no

one can cheat him; he is going to be very business-like and have ample

witness to the transactions. Chremes' only desire is that the business

may be settled as soon as possible. Demipho now tells Geta to lead the

way to Phormio, and they start toward the Forum. Chremes' troubles are

only in part allayed. His Lemnian daughter's marriage with Antipho seems

now safely provided for, but where _is_ his Lemnian daughter and her

mother? That they are here in Athens fills him with terror. He paces

back and forth in deep thought, muttering:

Where _can_ I find those women now, I wonder?

And just at this moment out from Demipho's house comes old Sophrona,

Phanium's nurse, who also seems to be in great distress:

O, what _shall_ I do? Where shall I find a friend in my distress, or

to whom shall I go for advice? Where get help? For I'm afraid that my

young mistress is going to get into trouble from this marriage that I

persuaded her into. I hear that the young man's father is very much

put out about it. _Chr._ [_aside_]. Who in the world is this old

woman coming out of my brother's house? _So._ But want made me advise

her as I did, though I knew that the marriage was a bit shaky, in

order that for awhile at least we might be sure of our living. _Chr._

[_aside in great excitement_]. By Jove! unless I'm much mistaken, or

my eyes don't see straight, that's my daughter's nurse! _So._ And I

can't get any trace of the man who is her father. _Chr._ [_aside_].

Shall I go up to her, or shall I wait until I understand better what

she's talking about? _So._ But if I could only find him now, I'd have

nothing to fear. _Chr._ [_aside_]. It _is_ Sophrona; I'll speak to

her. [_Calling softly_]. Sophrona! _So._ Who is this I hear calling

my name? _Chr._ Look here, Sophrona. _So._ [_finally looking the

right way_]. My goodness gracious! Is this Stilpho? _Chr._ No. _So._

No? _Chr._ [_drawing her cautiously away from the vicinity of his

house_]. Say, Sophrona, come away a little from that door, will you?

And don't you ever call me by that name again. _So._ O, my goodness,

aren't you the man you always said you were? _Chr._ Sh! _So._ What

makes you so afraid of that door? _Chr._ I've got a savage wife shut

up there. I gave you the wrong name on purpose, that you might not

thoughtlessly blurt it out in public sometime, and so let my wife

here get wind of it. _So._ And so that's the reason why we poor women

could never find you here. _Chr._ Tell me now what business you have

with this household from which you have just come out. Where are

those women? _So._ [_with a burst of tears_]. O dear me! _Chr._ How?

What's that? Aren't they alive? _So._ Your daughter is. But the

mother, sick at heart over this business, is dead. _Chr._ That's too

bad! _So._ And then, considering that I was just a lonely old woman,

in a strange city without a cent of money, I think I did pretty well

for the girl, for I married her off to the young man the heir of this

family here. _Chr._ What, Antipho? _So._ Why, yes! _Chr._ You don't

mean to say he's got two wives? _So._ O gracious, no! This is the

only one. _Chr._ But what about that other girl who is said to be

related to him? _So._ Why, this is the one. _Chr._ [_beside himself

with joy and wonder_]. You don't mean it! _So._ That was a cooked up

scheme that her lover might marry her without a dowry. _Chr._ Thank

heaven for that! How often things come about by mere chance that you

wouldn't dare hope for! Here I find my daughter happily married to

the very man I had picked out for her! What my brother and I were

taking the greatest pains to bring about, here this old woman,

without any help from us, all by herself, has done. _So._ But now,

sir, we've got to bestir ourselves. The young man's father is back,

and they say he's in a terrible stew about it. _Chr._ O, there's no

danger on that score. But, for heaven's sake, don't let any one find

out that she's my daughter. _So._ Well, no one shall find it out from

me. _Chr._ Now you follow me, we'll talk about the rest inside.

[_They go into Demipho's house._]

Demipho and Geta appear in a brief scene, in which the former

grumblingly comments upon the bargain which they have just made with

Phormio. He disappears into his brother's house. Geta, left alone,

soliloquizes upon the situation and sums it up so far as it is known to

him. As he disappears into Demipho's house, the latter is seen coming

out of his brother's house with his brother's wife, Nausistrata, whom in

fulfilment of his promise he is taking in to see Phanium in order to

reconcile the bride to the new arrangements that have been made for her.

And just at this moment Chremes comes rushing out of his brother's

house; he calls to Demipho, not seeing in his excitement that

Nausistrata is also on the stage.

_Chr._ Say, Demipho! Have you paid the money yet? _Dem._ Yes, I've

tended to that. _Chr._ Well, I wish you hadn't. [_Aside as he sees

his wife_]. Gracious! There's my wife! I almost said too much. _Dem._

Why do you wish it, Chremes? _Chr._ O, that's all right. _Dem._ What

do you mean? Have you talked with the girl on whose account I'm

taking Nausistrata in? _Chr._ Yes, I've had a talk with her. _Dem._

Well, what does she say? _Chr._ She can't be disturbed. _Dem._ Why

can't she? _Chr._ O, because--they're so fond of each other. _Dem._

What difference does that make to us? _Chr._ A great deal. And

besides, I've found that she's related to us, after all. _Dem._

What's that? You're off your base. _Chr._ No, I'm not. I know what

I'm talking about. I remember all about it now. _Dem._ Surely, you

_are_ crazy. _Naus._ I beg you won't do any harm to a relative.

_Dem._ She's no relative. _Chr._ Don't say that. She gave the wrong

name for her father. That's where you make your mistake. _Dem._

Nonsense! Didn't she know her own father? _Chr._ Yes, she knew him.

_Dem._ Well, then, why didn't she tell his right name? _Chr._ [_apart

to Demipho, in low, desperate tones_]. Won't you ever let up? Won't

you understand? _Dem._ How can I, if you tell me nothing? _Chr._ O,

you'll be the death of me. _Naus._ I wonder what it's all about.

_Dem._ I'll be blest if I know. _Chr._ Do you want to know? I swear

to you there's no one nearer to her than you and I. _Dem._ Good

gracious! Let's go to her, then. Let's all together get to the bottom

of this business. [_He starts toward his house with Nausistrata_].

_Chr._ I say, Demipho! _Dem._ Well, what now? _Chr._ [_angrily_].

Have you so little confidence in me as that? _Dem._ Do you want me to

take your word for it? Do you want me to seek no further in the

matter? All right, so be it. But what about the daughter of our

friend? What's to become of her? _Chr._ She'll be all right. _Dem._

Are we to drop her, then? _Chr._ Why not? _Dem._ And is Phanium to

remain? _Chr._ Just so. _Dem._ Well, Nausistrata, I guess we will

excuse you. [_Exit Nausistrata into her own house_]. Now, Chremes,

what in the world is all this about? _Chr._ Is that door tight shut?

_Dem._ Yes. _Chr._ [_leading his brother well out of earshot of the

house_]. O Jupiter! The gods are on our side. My daughter I have

found--married--to your son! _Dem._ What? How can that be? _Chr._ It

isn't safe to talk about it here. _Dem._ Well, go inside then. _Chr._

But see here, I don't want even our sons to find this out. [_They go

into Demipho's house._]

Antipho has seen Phaedria's business happily settled, and now comes in,

feeling very gloomy about his own affairs. His deep dejection serves as

a happy contrast to the fortunate turn of his affairs which we have just

witnessed. In his unsettled state he starts off to find the faithful

Geta, when Phormio comes on the stage, in high spirits over his success

in cheating the old men out of their money in behalf of Phaedria. It is

his own role now, he says, to keep well in the background. Now the door

of Demipho's house opens and out rushes Geta, shouting and

gesticulating:

O luck! O great good luck! How suddenly have you heaped your choicest

gifts on my master Antipho this day! _Ant._ [_apart_]. What can he

mean? _Ge._ And freed us all from fear! But what am I stopping here

for? I'll throw my cloak over my shoulder and hurry up and find the

man, that he may know how things have turned out. _Ant._ [_aside_].

Do you know what this fellow is talking about? _Pho._ No, do you?

_Ant._ No. _Pho._ No more do I. _Ge._ I'll run over to Dorio's house.

They are there now. _Ant._ [_calling_]. Hello, Geta! _Ge._ [_without

looking back_]. Hello yourself! That's an old trick, to call a fellow

back when he's started to run. _Ant._ I say, Geta! _Ge._ Keep it up;

you won't catch me with your mean trick. _Ant._ Won't you stop? _Ge._

You go hang. _Ant._ That's what will happen to you, you rogue, unless

you hold on. _Ge._ This fellow must be one of the family by the way

he threatens. But isn't it the man I'm after--the very man? Come here

right off. _Ant._ What is it? _Ge._ O, of all men alive you are the

luckiest! There's no doubt about it, Antipho, you are the pet child

of heaven. _Ant._ I wish I were. But please tell me how I am to

believe it. _Ge._ Isn't it enough if I say that you are fairly

dripping with joy? _Ant._ You're just killing me. _Pho._ [_coming

forward_]. Why don't you quit your big talk, Geta, and tell us your

news. _Ge._ O, you were there, were you, Phormio? _Pho._ Yes, I was;

but hurry up. _Ge._ Well, then, listen. Just now, after we gave you

the money in the Forum, we went straight home; and then my master

sent me in to your wife. _Ant._ What for? _Ge._ Never mind that now,

Antipho; it has nothing to do with this story. When I am about to

enter the woman's apartments, the slave-boy Mida runs up to me,

plucks me by the coat and pulls me back. I look around, and ask him

what he does that for; he says, it's against orders for any one to go

to the young mistress. "Sophrona has just taken the old man's brother

Chremes in there," he says, "and he's in there with 'em now." As soon

as I heard that, I tiptoed toward the door of the room--got there,

stood still, held my breath and put my ear to the key-hole. So I

listened as hard as I could to catch what they said. _Ant._ Good for

you, Geta! _Ge._ And then I heard the finest piece of news. I declare

I almost shouted for joy! _Ant._ What for? _Ge._ What do you think?

_Ant._ I haven't the slightest idea. _Ge._ But, I tell you, it was

the grandest thing! Your uncle turns out to be--the father

of--Phanium--your wife! _Ant._ What? How can that be? _Ge._ He lived

with her mother secretly in Lemnos. _Pho._ Nonsense! Wouldn't the

girl have known her own father? _Ge._ Be sure there's some

explanation of it, Phormio. You don't suppose that I could hear

everything that passed between them, from outside the door? _Ant._

Now I think of it, I too have had some hint of that story. _Ge._ Now

I'll give you still further proof: pretty soon your uncle comes out

of the room and leaves the house, and before long he comes back with

your father, and they both go in. And now they both say that you may

keep her. In short, I was sent to hunt you up and bring you to them.

_Ant._ [_all excitement_]. Well, why don't you do it then? What are

you waiting for? _Ge._ Come along. _Ant._ O my dear Phormio, good-by!

_Pho._ Good-by, my boy. I declare, I'm mighty glad it's turned out

well for you.

Antipho and Geta hurry away to Demipho's house, while Phormio retires up

a convenient alley to await future developments.

The only problem now remaining on Phormio's side is how to keep the

money that has been given him by the old men, so that Phaedria may not be

again embarrassed; on the side of the old men the problem is to get back

their money. How the poet treats us to the liveliest scene of all after

the more important matters have been settled, is now to be seen. Demipho

and Chremes come upon the stage, congratulating each other upon the

happy turn which their affairs have taken.

_Dem._ I ought to thank the gods, as indeed I do, that these matters

have turned out so well for us, brother. _Chr._ Isn't she a fine

girl, just as I told you? _Dem._ Yes, indeed. But now we must find

Phormio as soon as possible, so as to get our six hundred dollars

back again before he makes away with it.

Phormio now walks across the stage in a lordly way without seeming to

see the old men, and goes straight to Demipho's door, upon which he raps

loudly and calls to the attendant within:

If Demipho is at home. I want to see him, that-- _Dem._ [_stepping up

from without_]. Why, we were just coming to see you, Phormio. _Pho._

On the same business, perhaps? _Dem._ Very likely. _Pho._ I supposed

so. But why were you coming to me? It's absurd. Were you afraid that

I wouldn't do what I had promised? No fear of that. For, however poor

I may be, I have always been particularly careful to keep my word.

And so I have come to tell you, Demipho, that I am ready; whenever

you wish, give me my wife. For I put all my own private

considerations aside, as was quite right, when I saw that you wanted

this so much. _Dem._ [_who does not know quite what to say_]. But my

brother here has asked me not to give her to you. "For," says he,

"what a scandal there will be if you do that! At the time when she

could have been given to you honorably it was not done; and now it

would be a disgrace to cast her off." Almost the same arguments that

you yourself urged upon me not long ago. _Pho._ Well, you _have_ got

gall! _Dem._ What do you mean? _Pho._ Can't you see? I can't even

marry that other girl now; for with what face could I go back to her

after I had once thrown her over? _Chr._ [_prompting Demipho, sotto

voce_]. "Then I find that Antipho is unwilling to to let his wife

go"--tell him that. _Dem._ And then I find that my son objects to

letting his wife go. But come right over to the Forum, if you please,

Phormio, and sign this money back to me again. _Pho._ How can I, when

I have already used it to pay my debts with? _Dem._ Well, what then?

_Pho._ [_pompously_]. If you are willing to give me the girl you

promised for my wife, I'll marry her: but if you want her to stay

with you, why, the dowry stays with me, Demipho. For it isn't right

that I should lose this on your account, when it was for the sake of

your honor that I broke with the other girl who was offering the

same dowry. _Dem._ Go be hanged, with your big talk, you jail-bird!

Do you suppose that I don't see through you and your tricks? _Pho._

Look out, I'm getting hot. _Dem._ Do you mean to say you would marry

this girl if we gave her to you? _Pho._ Just try me and see. _Dem._

[_with a sneer_]. O yes, your scheme is to have my son live with her

at your house. _Pho._ [_indignantly_]. What do you mean? _Dem._ Come,

give me that money. _Pho._ Come, give me my wife. _Dem._ [_laying

hands on him_]. You come along to court with me. _Pho._ You'd better

look out! If you don't stop-- _Dem._ What will you do? _Pho._ I?

[_Turning to Chremes_]. Perhaps you think that I take only poor girls

under my protection. I'll have you know I sometimes stand as patron

to girls with dowries too. _Chr._ [_with a guilty start_]. What's

that to us? _Pho._ O nothing. I knew a woman here once whose husband

had-- _Chr._ O! _Dem._ What's that? _Pho._ Another wife in

Lemnos-- _Chr._ I'm a dead man. _Pho._ By whom he had a daughter; and

he's bringing her up on the quiet. _Chr._ I'm buried. _Pho._ And

these very things I'll tell his real wife. _Chr._ Good gracious,

don't do that! _Pho._ Oho! You were the man, were you, Chremes?

_Dem._ [_in a rage_]. How the villain gammons us! _Chr._ You may go.

_Pho._ The deuce you say! _Chr._ Why, what do you mean? We are

willing that you should keep the money. _Pho._ Yes, I see. But what,

a plague! do _you_ mean? Do you think you can guy me by changing your

minds like a pair of silly boys? "I won't, I will--I will, I won't,

again--take it, give it back--what's said is unsaid--what's been

agreed on is no go"--that's your style. [_He turns to go away_].

_Chr._ [_apart_]. How in the world did he find that out? _Dem._ I

don't know, but I'm sure I never told any one. _Chr._ Lord! it seems

like a judgment on me! _Pho._ [_gleefully, aside_]. I've put a spoke

in their wheel! _Dem._ [_aside_]. See here, Chremes, shall we let

this rascal cheat us out of our money and laugh in our faces besides?

I'd rather die first. Now make up your mind to be manly and resolute.

You see that your secret is out, and that you can't keep it from your

wife any longer. Now what she is bound to learn from others it will

be much better for her to hear from your own lips. And then we will

have the whip hand of this dirty fellow. _Pho._ [_overhearing these

words, aside_]. Tut! tut! Unless I look out, I'll be in a hole.

They're coming at me hard. _Chr._ But I am afraid that she will never

forgive me. _Dem._ O, cheer up, man. I'll make you solid with her

again, more especially since the mother of this girl is dead and

gone. _Pho._ Is _that_ your game? I tell you, Demipho, it's not a bit

to your brother's advantage that you are stirring me up. [_To

Chremes_]. Look here, you! When you have followed your own devices

abroad, and haven't thought enough of your own wife to keep you from

sinning most outrageously against her, do you expect to come home and

make it all up with a few tears? I tell you, I'll make her so hot

against you that you can't put out her wrath, not if you dissolve in

tears. _Dem._ Confound the fellow! Was ever a man treated so

outrageously? _Chr._ [_all in a tremble_]. I'm so rattled that I

don't know what to do with the fellow. _Dem._ [_grasping Phormio's

collar_]. Well _I_ do. We'll go straight to court. _Pho._ To court,

is it? [_Dragging off toward Chremes' house_]. This way, if you

please. _Dem._ [_hurrying toward his own house_]. Chremes, you catch

him and hold him, while I call my slaves out. _Chr._ [_holding off_].

I can't do it alone; you come here and help.

Demipho comes back and lays hold of Phormio, and all engage in a violent

struggle mingled with angry words and blows. Phormio is getting the

worst of it, when he says:

Now I'll have to use my voice. Nausistrata! Come out here! _Chr._

Stop his mouth. _Dem._ [_trying to do so, without success_]. See how

strong the rascal is. _Pho._ I say, Nausistrata! _Chr._ Won't you

keep still? _Pho._ Not much.

Nausistrata now appears at the door of her house; Phormio, seeing her,

says, panting but gleeful:

Here's where my revenge comes in. _Naus._ Who's calling me? [_Seeing

the disordered and excited condition of the men_]. Why, what's all

this row about, husband? Who is this man? [_Chremes remains

tongue-tied_]. Won't you answer me? _Pho._ How can he answer you,

when, by George, he doesn't know where he is? _Chr._ [_trembling with

fear_]. Don't you believe a word he says. _Pho._ Go, touch him; if he

isn't frozen stiff, you may strike me dead. _Chr._ It isn't so.

_Naus._ What is this man talking about, then? _Pho._ You shall hear;

just listen. _Chr._ You aren't going to believe him? _Naus._ Good

gracious, how can I believe one who hasn't said anything yet? _Pho._

The poor fellow is crazy with fear. _Naus._ Surely it's not for

nothing that you are so afraid. _Chr._ [_with chattering teeth_].

Wh-wh-who's afraid? _Pho._ Well then, since you're not afraid, and

what I say is nothing, you tell the story yourself. _Dem._ Scoundrel!

Shall he speak at your bidding? _Pho._ [_contemptuously_]. O you!

you've done a fine thing for your brother. _Naus._ Husband, won't you

speak to me? _Chr._ Well--_Naus._ Well? _Chr._ There's no need of my

talking. _Pho._ You're right; but there's need of her knowing. In

Lemnos-- _Chr._ O don't! _Pho._ unbeknown to you-- _Chr._ O me! _Pho._

he took another wife. _Naus._ [_screaming_]. My husband! Heaven

forbid. _Pho._ But it's so, just the same. _Naus._ O wretched me!

_Pho._ And by her he had a daughter--also unbeknown to you. _Naus._

By all the gods, a shameful and evil deed! _Pho._ But it's so, just

the same. _Naus._ It's the most outrageous thing I ever heard of.

[_Turning her back on Chremes_]. Demipho, I appeal to you; for I am

too disgusted to speak to him again. Was _this_ the meaning of those

frequent journeys and long stays at Lemnos? Was _this_ why my rents

ran down so? _Dem._ Nausistrata, I don't deny that he has been very

much to blame in this matter; but is that any reason why you should

not forgive him? _Pho._ He's talking for the dead. _Dem._ For it

wasn't through any scorn or dislike of you that he did it. And

besides, the other woman is dead who was the cause of all this

trouble. So I beg you to bear this with equanimity as you do other

things. _Naus._ Why should I bear it with equanimity? I wish this

were the end of the wretched business; but why should I hope it will

be? Am I to think that he will be better now he's old? But he was old

before, if that makes any difference. Or am I any more beautiful and

attractive now than I was, Demipho? What assurance can you give me

that this won't happen again?

Phormio now comes to the front of the stage and announces in a loud

official voice to the audience:

All who want to view the remains of Chremes, now come forward! The

time has come.--That's the way I do them up. Come along now, if any

one else wants to stir up Phormio. I'll fix him just like this poor

wretch here.--But there! he may come back to favor now. I've had

revenge enough. She has something to nag him with as long as he

lives. _Naus._ But I suppose I have deserved it. Why should I recount

to you, Demipho, all that I have been to this man? _Dem._ I know it

all, Nausistrata, as well as you. _Naus._ Well, have I deserved this

treatment? _Dem._ By no means! but, since what's been done can't be

undone by blaming him, pardon him. He confesses his sin, he prays for

pardon, he promises never to do so again: what more do you want?

_Pho._ [_aside_]. Hold on here; before she pardons him, I must look

out for myself and Phaedria. Say, Nausistrata, wait a minute before

you answer him. _Naus._ Well? _Pho._ I tricked Chremes out of six

hundred dollars; I gave the money to your son, and he has used it to

buy his wife with. _Chr._ [_angrily_]. How? What do you say? _Naus._

[_to Chremes_]. How now? Does it seem to you a shameful thing for

your son, a young man, to have one wife, when you, an old man, have

had two? Shame on you! With what face will you rebuke him? Answer me

that? [_Chremes slinks back without a word_]. _Dem._ He will do as

you say. _Naus._ Well, then, here is my decision: I'll neither pardon

him, nor promise anything, nor give you any answer at all, until I

have seen my son. And I shall do entirely as he says. _Pho._ You are

a wise woman, Nausistrata. _Naus._ [_to Chremes_]. Does that suit

you? _Chr._ Does it? Indeed and truly I'm getting off well--[_aside_]

and better than I expected. _Naus._ [_to Phormio_] Come, tell me your

name. What is it? _Pho._ Mine? It's Phormio; I'm a great friend to

your family, and especially to Phaedria. _Naus._ Phormio, I vow to you

I am at your service after this, to do and to say, so far as I can,

just what you want. _Pho._ I thank you kindly, lady. _Naus._ No,

upon my word, you've earned it. _Pho._ Do you want to begin right

off, Nausistrata, and do something that will both make me happy and

bring tears to your husband's eyes? _Naus._ That I do. _Pho._ Well,

then, invite me to dinner. _Naus._ With all my heart, I do. _Dem._

Come then, let's go inside. _Chr._ Agreed; but where is Phaedria, my

judge? _Pho._ I'll soon have him here.

And so ends this merry play, as the whole party moves toward Chremes'

house, where, let us hope, all family differences were forgotten in the

good dinner awaiting them.

Meanwhile the man before the curtain reminds us that we still have a

duty to perform:

Fare you well, my friends, and give us your applause.

SUMMARY AND QUESTIONS FOR REVIEW

_The Roman Drama_, as illustrated by the works of the early tragedians,

from 240 to the first century B. C.: Andronicus Naevius, Ennius,

Pacuvius, Accius. The later tragedians to the close of the first century

A. D.: Pollio, Varius, Ovid, Maternus, Secundus, Lucan, and Seneca. The

writers of comedy, second century B. C.: Plautus and Terence.

1. How did the civilization of Rome in 454 B. C. compare with that of

Greece? 2. How did Rome's conquest of the Greek colonies in Italy help

the development of Italian literature? 3. How did the First Punic War

affect this development? 4. Who was the "first professor of Latin on

record"? 5. From what sources were the subjects of the old Roman

tragedies taken? 6. How did the Roman spirit differ from that of the

Greek? 7. Why did the Romans fail to develop a truly national tragedy?

8. What four names besides that of Andronicus are representative of the

old Roman tragedy? 9. What qualities of Accius do we find in the

fragments of his writings which remain? 10. What is true of the writers

of tragedy after Accius? 11. Why have the tragedies of Seneca special

interest? 12. What are their defects? 13. What their strong qualities?

14. Why did the plays of Seneca have such an influence in England? 15.

What is the outline of the story of Medea? 16. How does it illustrate

Seneca's defects of style? 17. Quote passages which illustrate his skill

in epigram. 18. In graphic description. 19. In pathos and passion. 20.

In subtile analysis of character and motive. 21. Describe the three

great types of Greek comedy. 22. What result followed the attempts of

Naevius to write in the spirit of Old Comedy? 23. What two writers alone

of comedy are known to us from their works? 24. What are the chief

characteristics of _Phormio_ of Terence?

BIBLIOGRAPHY

1. OLD ROMAN TRAGEDY.

RIBBECK, _Die Roemische Tragoedie_.

WORDSWORTH, _Fragments and Specimens of Early Latin_, pp. 567 and

following.

SIMCOX, _History of Latin Literature_, Vol. I, pp. 31-44.

SELLAR, _Roman Poets of the Republic_, pp. 47-150.

TYRRELL, _Latin Poetry_, pp. 32-42.

CONINGTON, _Miscellaneous Writings_, Vol. I, pp. 294-347.

MOULTON, _The Ancient Classical Drama_, pp. 203-222.

2. LATER ROMAN TRAGEDY AND SENECA.

TEUFFEL, _History of Roman Literature_ (translated by Warr), Vol. II,

pp. 48-52.

NEWTON (and others), _Seneca, his Tenne Tragedies Translated into

Englysh_ (Spenser Society reprint, 1887).

CONINGTON, _Miscellaneous Writings_, Vol. I, pp. 385-411.

CUNLIFFE, _The Influence of Seneca on Elizabethan Tragedy_.

PATIN, _Etudes sur les Tragiques Grecs; Euripides_. The work has many

valuable comparisons between Euripides and Seneca.

TYRRELL, _Latin Poetry_, pp. 269-272.

SIMCOX, _History of Latin Literature_, Vol. II, pp. 24-28.

WARD, _History of English Dramatic Literature_, Vol. I, pp. 189 and

following.

MERIVALE, _History of Rome Under the Empire_, Vol. VI, pp. 382 and

following.

MOMMSEN, _History of Rome_, Vol. II, pp. 527-538.

3. ROMAN COMEDY.

MOMMSEN, _History of Rome_, Vol. II, pp. 503-526.

SIMCOX, _History of Latin Literature_, Vol. I, pp. 45-61.

SELLAR, _Roman Poets of the Republic_, pp. 153-220.

TYRRELL, _Latin Poetry_, pp. 43-58.

MOULTON, _The Ancient Classical Drama_, pp. 377-423.