They surround and hustle the representative of Cleon, who calls in vain for his partisans to come to his assistance. The Black-pudding man takes courage, and comes to the front; and a duel in the choicest Athenian Billingsgate takes place, in which the current truths or slanders of the day are paraded, no doubt much to the amusement of an Athenian audience—hardly so to the English reader. The new champion shows himself at least the equal of his antagonist in this kind of warfare, and the Chorus are delighted. “There is something hotter, after all, than fire—a more consummate blackguard has been found than Cleon!” From words the battle proceeds to blows, and the Paphlagonian retires discomfited, threatening his antagonist with future vengeance, and challenging him to meet him straightway before the Senate.[11]
The Chorus fill up the interval of the action by an address to the audience; in which, speaking on the author’s behalf, they apologise on the ground of modesty for his not having produced his previous comedies in his own name and on his own responsibility, and make a complaint—common to authors in all ages—of the ingratitude of the public to its popular favourites of the hour. Thence the chant passes into an ode to Neptune, the tutelary god of a nation of seamen, and to Pallas Athene, who gives her name to the city. And between the pauses of the song they rehearse, in a kind of recitative, the praises of the good old days of Athens.
“Let us praise our famous fathers, let their glory be recorded,
On Minerva’s mighty mantle consecrated and embroidered.
That with many a naval action, and with infantry by land,
Still contending, never ending, strove for empire and command.
When they met the foe, disdaining to compute a poor account
Of the number of their armies, of their muster and amount:
But whene’er at wrestling matches they were worsted in the fray,
Wiped their shoulders from the dust, denied the fall, and fought away.
Then the generals never claimed precedence, or a separate seat,
Like the present mighty captains, or the public wine or meat.
As for us, the sole pretension suited to our birth and years,
Is with resolute intention, as determined volunteers,
To defend our fields and altars, as our fathers did before;
Claiming as a recompense this easy boon, and nothing more:
When our trials with peace are ended, not to view us with malignity,
When we’re curried, sleek and pampered, prancing in our pride and dignity.”[12]—(F.)
From these praises of themselves—the Knights—they pass on, in pleasant banter, to the praises of their horses,—who, as the song declares, took a very active part in the late expedition against Corinth, in which the cavalry, conveyed in horse-transports, had done excellent service.
“Let us sing the mighty deeds of our illustrious noble steeds:
They deserve a celebration for their service heretofore,—
Charges and attacks,—exploits enacted in the days of yore:
These, however, strike me less, as having been performed ashore.
But the wonder was to see them, when they fairly went aboard,
With canteens, and bread, and onions, victualled and completely stored,
Then they fixed and dipped their oars, beginning all to shout and neigh,
Just the same as human creatures,—‘Pull away, boys! pull away!
Bear a hand there, Roan and Sorrel! Have a care there, Black and Bay!’
Then they leapt ashore at Corinth; and the lustier younger sort
Strolled about to pick up litter, for their solace and disport:
And devoured the crabs of Corinth, as a substitute for clover,
So that a poetic Crabbe[13] exclaimed in anguish—‘All is over!
What awaits us, mighty Neptune, if we cannot hope to keep
From pursuit and persecution in the land or in the deep?’”—(F.)
As the song ends, their champion returns triumphant from his encounter with Cleon in the Senate. The Knights receive him with enthusiasm, and he tells for their gratification the story of his victory, which he ascribes to the influence of the great powers of Humbug and Knavery, Impudence and Bluster, whom he had piously invoked at the outset. He had distracted the attention of the senators from his rival’s harangue by announcing to them the arrival of a vast shoal of anchovies, of which every man was eager to secure his share. In vain had Cleon tried to create a diversion in his own favour by the announcement that a herald had arrived from Sparta to treat of peace. “Peace, indeed, when anchovies are so cheap!—never.” Then rushing into the market, he had bought up the whole stock-in-trade of coriander-seed and wild onions—seasoning for the anchovies—and presented them with a little all round. This won their hearts completely. “In short,” says this practical politician, “I bought the whole Senate for sixpennyworth of coriander-seed!” A tolerably severe satire upon the highest deliberative assembly at Athens.
But Cleon is not conquered yet. Rushing on the stage in a storm of fury, he vows he will drag his rival before People himself. There no one will have any chance against him; for he knows the old gentleman’s humour exactly, and feeds him with the nice soft pap which he likes. “Ay,” says the other—“and, like the nurses, you swallow three mouthfuls for every one you give him.” He is perfectly willing to submit their respective claims to the master whose stewardship they are contending for. So both knock loudly at Demus’s door; and the impersonation of the great Athenian Commons comes out—not in very good case as regards dress and personal comforts, as may be gathered from the dialogue which follows; his majordomo has not taken over-good care of him, after all.
The rival claimants seize him affectionately by either arm, and profess their attachment; while he eyes them both with a divided favour, like Captain Macheath in our comic opera. “I love you,” says the Paphlagonian: “I love you better,” says the other. “Remember, I brought you the Spartans from Pylos.”[14] “A pretty service,” says the Black-pudding-man,—“just like the mess of meat once I stole which another man had cooked.” “Call a public assembly, and decide the matter, then,” says Cleon. “No—not in the assembly—not in the Pnyx,” begs the other; “Demus is an excellent fellow at home, but once set him down at a public meeting, and he goes wild!”
To the Pnyx, however, Demus vows they must all go; and to that place the scene changes. There the contest is renewed: but the interest of the political satire with which it abounds has passed away, in great measure, with the occasion. Some passages in this battle of words are more generally intelligible, as depending less upon local colour, but they are not such good specimens of the satirist’s powers. The new aspirant to office is shocked to find that Demus is left to sit unprotected on the cold rock (on which the Pnyx was built), and produces a little padded cushion of his own manufacture—a delicate attention with which the old gentleman is charmed. “What a noble idea!” he cries: “Do tell me your name and family—you must surely come of the patriot stock of Harmodius, the great deliverer of Athens!” Then his zealous friend notices the condition of his feet, which are actually peeping through his sandals, and indignantly denounces the selfishness of his present steward:—
“Tell me whether
You, that pretend yourself his friend, with all your wealth in leather,
Ever supplied a single hide to mend his reverend, battered
Old buskins?
Dem. No, not he, by Jove; look at them, burst and tattered!
B.-P.-S. That shows the man! now, spick and span, behold my noble largess!
A lovely pair, bought for your wear, at my own cost and charges.
Dem. I see your mind is well inclined, with views and temper suiting,
To place the state of things—and toes—upon a proper footing.
B.-P.-S. But there now, see—this winter he might pass without his clothing;
The season’s cold—he’s chilly and old—but still you think of nothing;
Whilst I, to show my love, bestow this waistcoat as a present,
Comely and new, with sleeves thereto, of flannel, warm and pleasant.
Dem. How strange it is! Themistocles was reckoned mighty clever;
With all his wit he could not hit on such a project ever;
Such a device! so warm! so nice! in short it equals fairly
His famous wall, with port and all, that he contrived so rarely.”—(F.)