Æacus (to the false Bacchus) “What do you say to that?”
The false Bacchus. “Say? Lay on the lash; if he’s a god, of course he can’t feel.”
Bacchus. “And you’re a god too, you say. So you won’t mind taking blow for blow with me.”
The false Bacchus. “Quite right.” (To Æacus) “Lay on, and the first that cries out, you may be sure he’s not the real god.”
So the trial takes place. Both bear it bravely, till at last Æacus cries in perplexity. “I can’t make it out. I don’t know which is which. Well, you shall both come to my master and Queen Proserpine. They’re gods, and they ought to know their own kind.”
Bacchus. “An excellent idea; I only wish that you had thought of it before you gave me that beating.”
Things are now supposed to be set right. Bacchus goes to dine with Pluto and Proserpine; the slave is entertained by Æacus in the servants’ hall. While they are talking a tremendous uproar is heard outside; and Æacus explains to his guest that it is a rule in their country that the best poet or writer or artist should have a seat at the King’s table and a place at the King’s right hand. This honor Æschylus had held as the first of the tragic poets, but when Euripides came, all the crowd of pick-pockets and burglars and murderers, who were pretty numerous in these parts, had been so delighted with his twists and turns, that they were for giving him the first place; and on the strength of their support he had claimed the tragic throne.
“But had not Æschylus any friends?”
“O yes, among the respectable people; but respectable people are scarce down here, as they are up above.”
“What about Sophocles?”