“Æac. (to Bac.) Come, you—put down your bundles, and make ready.
And mind—let me hear no lies.
Bac. I’ll tell you what—
I’d advise people not to torture me;
I give you notice—I’m a deity;
So mind now—you’ll have nobody to blame
But your own self.
Æac. What’s that you’re saying there?
Bac. Why, that I’m Bacchus, Jupiter’s own son;
That fellow there’s a slave (pointing to Xanthias).
Æac. (to Xanthias). Do you hear?
Xan. I hear him:
A reason the more to give him a good beating;
If he’s immortal, he need never mind it.”—(F.)
Æacus proceeds to test their divinity, by administering a lash to each of them in turn; but they endure the ordeal so successfully, that at last he gives it up in despair.
“By the Holy Goddess, I’m completely puzzled!
I must take you before Proserpine and Pluto—
Being gods themselves, they’re likeliest to know.
Bac. Why, that’s a lucky thought!—I only wish
It had happened to occur before you beat us.”—(F.)
There is an interval of choral song, with a political bearing, during which we are to suppose that Bacchus is being entertained at the infernal court, while Xanthias improves his acquaintance with Æacus in the servants’ hall, or whatever might be the equivalent in Pluto’s establishment. The conversation between the two is highly confidential. “Your master seems quite the gentleman,” says Æacus. “Oh! quite,” says Xanthias”—he does nothing but game and drink.” They find that life “below stairs” is very much the same in Tartarus as it is in the upper regions; and both agree that what they enjoy most is listening at the door, and discussing their masters’ secrets with their own friends afterwards. While the two retainers are engaged in this interesting conversation, a noise outside attracts the new-comer’s attention. “Oh,” says Æacus, “it’s only Æschylus and Euripides quarrelling. There’s a tremendous rivalry going on just now among these dead people.” He explains to his guest that special rank and precedence, with a seat at the royal table, is accorded in the Shades to the artist or professor who stands first in his own line. Æschylus had held the chair of tragedy until Euripides appeared below: but now this latter has made a party in his own favour—“chiefly of rogues and vagabonds”—and has laid claim to the chair. Æschylus has his friends among the respectable men; but respectable men are as scarce in the Shades—“as they are in this present company,” observes Æacus, with a wave of his hand towards the audience.[49] So Pluto (who appears a very affable and good-humoured monarch) has determined that there shall be a public trial and discussion of their respective merits. Sophocles has put in no claim on his own behalf. The tribute which his brother dramatist here pays him is very graceful: “The first moment that he came, he went up straight to Æschylus and saluted him, and kissed his cheek, and took his hand quite kindly, and Æschylus edged a little from his seat, to give him room.”
But—if Euripides is elected against Æschylus, Sophocles will challenge his right. The difficulty is to find competent judges, Æschylus has declined to leave the decision to the Athenians—he has no confidence in their honesty or their taste. [A bold stroke of personal satire, we might think, from a candidate for the dramatic crown of the festival, as against those whose verdict he was awaiting; the author was perhaps still smarting (as Brunck suggests) from the reception his “Clouds” had met with: but he knew his public—it was just the thing an Athenian audience would enjoy.] It had been already proposed to get Bacchus, as the great patron of the drama, to sit as judge in this controversy, so that his present visit has been most opportune; and whichever of the rival poets he places first, Pluto promises to allow his guest to take back to earth with him.
The contest between the rival dramatists takes place upon the stage, in full court, with Bacchus presiding, and the Chorus encouraging the competitors. It is extended to some length, but must have been full of interest to a play-loving audience, thoroughly familiar with the tragedies of both authors. Some of the points we can even now quite appreciate. Æschylus, in the hands of Aristophanes, does not spare his competitor.
“A wretch that has corrupted everything—
Our music with his melodies from Crete,
Our morals with incestuous tragedies.
. . . . . . . . . .
I wish the place of trial had been elsewhere—
I stand at disadvantage here.
Bac. As how?
Æs. Because my poems live on earth above,
And his died with him, and descended here,
And are at hand as ready witnesses.”—(F.)
Euripides retorts upon his rival the use of “breakneck words, which it is not easy to find the meaning of”—a charge which some modern schoolboys would be quite ready to support. The two poets proceed, at the request of the arbitrator, each to recite passages from their tragedies for the other to criticise: and if we suppose, as we have every right to do, that the voice and gestures of some well-known popular tragedian were cleverly mimicked at the same time, we should then have an entertainment of a very similar kind to that which Foote and Matthews, and in later days Robson, afforded to an English audience by their remarkable imitations.
After various trials of skill, a huge pair of scales is produced, and the verses of each candidate are weighed, as a test of their comparative value. Still Bacchus cannot decide. At last he puts to each a political question—perhaps the question of the day—which has formed the subject of pointed allusion more than once in the course of the play. Alcibiades, long the popular favourite, has recently been banished, and is now living privately in Thrace;—shall he be recalled? Both answer enigmatically; but the advice of the elder poet plainly tends to the policy of recall, which was no doubt the prevailing inclination of the Athenians. In vain does Euripides remind Bacchus that he had come there purposely to bring him back, and had pledged his word to do so. The god quotes against him a well-known verse from his own tragedy of ‘Hippolytus,’ with the sophistry of which his critics were never tired of taunting him—
It was my tongue that swore.