Not to be outdone in such attentions, Cleon offers his cloak, to keep his master from the cold; but Demus, who is already turning his fickle affections towards his new flatterer, rejects it—it stinks so abominably of leather. “That’s it,” says the other; “he wants to poison you; he tried it once before!”
The old gentleman has made up his mind that the new claimant is his best friend, and desires the Paphlagonian to give up his seal of office. The discarded minister begs that at least his employer will listen to some new oracles which he has to communicate. They promise that he shall be sovereign of all Greece, and sit crowned with roses. The new man declares that he has oracles too—plenty of them; and they promise that he shall rule not Greece alone, but Thrace, and wear a golden crown and robe of spangles. So both rush off to fetch their documents, while the Chorus break into a chant of triumph, as they prognosticate the fall of the great Demagogue before the antagonist who thus beats him at his own weapons.
The rivals return, laden with rolls of prophecy. Cleon declares he has a trunkful more at home; the Black-pudding-man has a garret and two outhouses full of them. They proceed to read the most absurd parodies on this favourite enigmatical literature. Here is one which Cleon produces:—
“Son of Erectheus, mark and ponder well
This holy warning from Apollo’s cell;
It bids thee cherish him, the sacred whelp,
Who for thy sake doth bite and bark and yelp.”
Demus shakes his head with an air of puzzled wisdom; he cannot make it out at all. “What has Erectheus to do with a whelp?” “That’s me,” says Cleon; “I watch and bark for you. I’m Tear’em, and you must make much of me.”[15] “Not at all,” says his rival; “the whelp has been eating some of that oracle, as he does everything else. It’s a defective copy; I’ve got the complete text here:”—
“Son of Erectheus, ’ware the gap-toothed dog,
The crafty mongrel that purloins thy prog;
Fawning at meals, and filching scraps away,
The whiles you gape and stare another way;
He prowls by night and pilfers many a prize
Amidst the sculleries and the—colonies.”—(F.)
“That’s much more intelligible,” remarks the master. Cleon produces another, about a lion, who is to be carefully preserved “with a wooden wall and iron fortifications:”—“and I’m the lion.” “I can give the interpretation of that,” says the other; “the wood and iron are the stocks that you are to put this fellow in.” “That part of the oracle,” says Demus, “at any rate, is very likely to come true.” And again he declares that his mind is made up; he shall make a change in his establishment forthwith. Once more Cleon begs a respite, until his master sees what nice messes he will bring him. The other assures him he has far better viands, all ready hot; and the sensual old Demus, licking his lips, will wait until he has made trial of both. While they are gone to fetch the dainties, the Chorus rallies him upon his being so open to the practices of his flatterers:—
Chorus.
“Worthy Demus, your estate
Is a glorious thing, we own;
The haughtiest of the proud and great
Watch and tremble at your frown;
Like a sovereign or a chief,
But so easy of belief,
Every fawning rogue and thief
Finds you ready to his hand;
Flatterers you cannot withstand;
To them your confidence is lent,
With opinions always bent
To what your last advisers say,
Your noble mind is gone astray.
Demus.