Plautus and Terence/Chapter 4

by William Lucas Collins

 

CHAPTER IV.

THE COMEDIES OF PLAUTUS.

I.—THE THREE SILVER PIECES.

The plot of this little comedy, which is confessedly borrowed from the Greek of Philemon, and is called in the original with perhaps more propriety "The Buried Treasure," is simple enough. Charmides, a rich citizen of Athens, has been half ruined by an extravagant son. He goes abroad, leaving this son and a daughter in charge of his old friend Callicles, begging him to do what he can to keep young Lesbonicus from squandering the little that is left of the family property. At the same time, he intrusts his friend with a secret. He has buried under his house a treasure—three thousand gold Philips.^[1] This, even if things come to the worst, will serve to provide a marriage portion for his daughter, in the event of his not living to return to Athens. Callicles has striven in vain to persuade the young man to mend his ways; Lesbonicus has gone on in the same course of extravagance, until he has nothing left but a small farm outside the city, and the house in which he lives—and where the treasure is buried. This house at last he offers for sale: and Callicles is only just in time to buy it in for himself, and so to preserve for his absent friend the precious deposit.

The action of the piece is introduced by a short allegorical 'Prologue,' in which Luxury introduces her daughter Poverty into the house of the prodigal, and bids her take possession: a very direct mode of enforcing its moral upon the audience. This moral, however, is by no means carried out with the same distinctness in the catastrophe.

So much of the story is told at the opening of the play by Callicles to a friend, who seems to have called purposely to tell him some disagreeable truths—as is the recognised duty of a friend. People are talking unpleasantly about his conduct: they say that he has been winking at the young man's extravagance, and has now made a good thing of it by buying at a low price the house which he is obliged to sell. Callicles listens with some annoyance, but at first with an obstinate philosophy. Can he do nothing, his friend asks, to put a stop to these evil rumours?

I can,—and I can not; 'tis even so;
As to their saying it,—that I cannot help;
I can take care they have no cause to say it.

But, on his old friend pressing him, he yields so far as to intrust him with the whole secret.

A suitor now appears for the hand of the young daughter of the absent Charmides. It is Lysiteles, a young man of great wealth and noble character, the darling of an indulgent father, who consents, though with some natural unwillingness, not only to accept her as a daughter-in-law without a portion, but even to go in person and request the consent of her brother Lesbonicus, who is known to be as proud as he is now poor, and who is very likely to make his own poverty an objection to his sister's marrying into a rich family, though the lover is his personal friend. The father has an interview with him, but can only obtain his consent to such a marriage on condition that his friend will accept with her such dowry as he can give—the single farm which he has retained in his own possession out of all the family estate, and from which his faithful slave Stasimus—the classical prototype of Scott's Caleb Balderstone—is contriving to extract a living for his young master and himself. This honest fellow is present during part of the interview, and is horrified to hear the prodigal generosity with which the ruined heir insists, in spite of all the other's attempts to decline it, upon dowering his sister with the last remains of his estate. At last he draws Philto—the suitor's father—aside on some pretence, and the following dialogue ensues:—

⁠Stasimus. I have a secret for your ear, sir—only you;
Don't let him know I told you.
⁠Philto. ⁠You may trust me.
⁠Stas. By all that's good in heaven and earth, I warn you,
Don't take that land—don't let your son set foot on it—
I'll tell you why.
⁠Phil. ⁠Well,—I should like to hear.
⁠Stas. Well, to begin with—(confidentially) the oxen,
⁠when we plough it,
Invariably drop down dead in the fifth furrow.
⁠Phil. (laughing). Stuff! nonsense!
⁠Stas. (getting more emphatic). People say there's devils in it!
The grapes turn rotten there before they're ripe.
⁠Lesbonicus (watching their conversation, and speaking to
⁠himself). He's humbugging our friend there, I'll be bound!
'Tis a good rascal, though—he's stanch to me.
⁠Stas. Listen again—in the very best harvest seasons,
You get from it three times less than what you've sown.
⁠Phil. An excellent spot to sow bad habits in!
For there you're sure they won't spring up again.
⁠Stas. There never was yet a man who had that land,
But something horrible always happened to him;
Some were transported—some died prematurely—
Some hung themselves! (pauses to watch the effect.) And look
⁠at him, now, there—(motioning towards his master).
⁠The present owner—what is he?—a bankrupt.
⁠Phil. (pretending to believe him). Well, heaven deliver me
⁠from such a bargain!
⁠Stas. Amen to that!—Ah! you might say 'deliver me,'
If you knew all. Why, every other tree
Is blasted there by lightning; all the hogs
Die of pneumonia; all the sheep are scabbed;
Lose all their wool, they do, till they're as bare
As the back of my hand is. Why, there's not a nigger
(And they'll stand anything) could stand the climate;
Die in six months, they all do, of autumn fever.
⁠Phil. (coolly). Ah! I daresay. But our Campanian fellows
Are much more hardy than the niggers. Still,
This land, if it's at all what you describe it,
Would be a fine place for a penal settlement,
To banish rascals to, for the public good.
⁠Stas. 'Tis just a nest of horrors, as it is;
If you want anything bad,—there you may find it.
⁠Phil. No doubt;—and so you may in other places.
⁠Stas. Now please don't let him know I've told you this!
⁠Phil. Oh—honour bright! I hold it confidential.
⁠Stas. Because, in fact, you see, he's very anxious
To be well rid of it, if he can find a man
That's fool enough to take it.—You perceive?
⁠Phil. I do: I promise you, it shan't be me.

Philto is unwilling either to accept the farm, or to hurt the feelings of Lesbonicus by the refusal—he will leave the two young friends, he says, to settle that matter between them. And poor old Stasimus is quite satisfied that his pious falsehood has saved this remnant of the family property.

Young Lysiteles is as reluctant to accept the offered marriage portion as his friend is determined, for his honour's sake, to give it: and the struggle between the two young men, which almost leads to a quarrel, gives occasion to a fine scene, though perhaps somewhat too wordy for our English taste. Lysiteles is the more hurt at his friend's obstinacy, because he has discovered his intention of quitting Athens, now that his patrimony is all gone, and taking service under some potentate in the East, the great field which was then open to young men of spirit and enterprise. Stasimus' despair, when he too learns this last resolution on the part of his young master, is highly comic: he will not desert him, even if he could, but he has no taste for a military life—wearing clumsy boots, and carrying a heavy buckler, and a pack on his shoulders.

But Callicles has heard of the proposed marriage, and will by no means allow his absent friend's daughter to go to her bridegroom dowerless, when there is money stored away specially for that object. But how is it to be done without discovering to the public the secret of the buried treasure, which is sure to confirm the suspicion of his underhand dealings? and which treasure if the young spendthrift once comes to know of, the rest of it will very soon follow the estate. If Callicles gives the money as out of his own pocket, people will only say that he was now doling out a part of some larger fund, left in his hands in trust, and which the girl and her brother ought to have had long ago. He adopts the scheme of hiring one of those unscrupulous characters who hung about the law courts at Athens, as they do about our own, ready to undertake any business however questionable, and to give evidence to any effect required—"for a consideration." This man shall pretend to have just landed from foreign parts, and to have brought money from Charmides expressly for his daughter's marriage portion. The required agent is soon found, and his services engaged by Callicles for the "Three Silver Pieces," which gives the name to the play. He is equipped in some outlandish-looking costume, hired from a theatrical wardrobe, and knocks at the door of Charmides' house (a small apartment in which is still occupied by his son) as though just arrived from sea. But at the door he meets no less a person than Charmides himself, who has just returned from his long absence, has noticed this strange-looking personage on his way from the harbour, and is much astonished to find him knocking at his own door. Still more surprised is he to hear that he is inquiring for his son Lesbonicus, and that he is bringing him a letter from his father. The scene between the pretended messenger and the returned traveller whose agent he professes to be,—the man's astonishment and embarrassment when he finds that he is talking to Charmides himself, and the consummate effrontery with which he faces the situation to the very last, long after he knows he is detected, is one of the most amusing scenes in Plautus, though unfortunately too long for insertion here. The impostor has not been prepared for any kind of cross-examination, and has even forgotten the name of Lesbonicus' father, from whom he asserts that he brings the money. His efforts to recover this name—which he says he has unfortunately "swallowed" in his hurry; his imaginary description of Charmides, who stands before him in person; the account he gives of his travels in countries he has never seen,—are all highly farcical. One argument in proof of the reality of his mission he advances triumphantly—the thousand gold pieces which he carries with him; if he did not know Charmides personally, would he ever have intrusted him with the money? At last his inquisitor announces himself—"I am Charmides—so hand me over my money." The other is staggered for the moment: "Bless my life!" he says to himself—"why, here's a greater impostor than I am!" But he soon recovers his coolness. "That's all very well," he replies; "but you never said a word about your being Charmides until I told you I had the gold. You are only Charmides for a particular purpose—and that "won't do."—"Well, but if I am not Charmides," says the father—not very cleverly—"who am I?"⁠"Nay," says his opponent—"that's your business; so long as you are not the person I don't intend you to be, you may be anything you please." As he is shrewd enough, however, to discover that Charmides is the person whom he claims to be, and as the latter threatens to have him cudgelled if he does not leave his door, he makes his exit at last not in the least crestfallen, and congratulating himself that, come what will, he has safely pocketed the Three Silver Pieces: he has done his best, he declares (as indeed he has), to earn them fairly, and can only go back to his employers and tell them that his mission has failed.

The first person who meets Charmides on his return home is Stasimus. He has been drowning his dread of a military life in the wine-flagon, and has reached the sentimental stage of intoxication. His maundering moralities upon the wickedness and degeneracy of the present age, and the wickedness of the world in general, and his sudden recollection that while he is thus generalising upon questions of public interest his own particular back is in great danger, for having loitered at the wine-shop, are admirably given. His old master is all the while standing in the background, listening with much amusement to his soliloquy, and throwing in an occasional remark aside, by way of chorus. When at length he discovers himself, the joy of the faithful old tippler sobers him at once, and he proceeds to tell his master how affairs have been going on in his absence. Charmides is shocked to hear of the continued extravagance of his son, of his sale of the house, and the consequent loss of the buried treasure on which he had depended, and still more at the faithlessness of his friend,—who has not only taken no care to prevent this catastrophe, but has employed his knowledge of the secret to his own advantage in the most shameless manner, by becoming the purchaser of the house.

Of course such misunderstanding is soon cleared up. The father hears with joy of his daughter's approaching marriage, and thanks young Lysiteles warmly for his generous conduct, though he will not allow him—especially as he has made money during his absence abroad—to take into his house a portionless bride. But the young man has a favour to ask of much more importance: it is that Charmides will overlook and forgive the extravagance of his dear friend, his son,—who will, he assures him, do better in future. Somewhat reluctantly the father consents—he can refuse nothing at such a moment, and to so generous a petitioner. His judgment upon the offender forms a characteristic ending to the piece.

⁠Charm. If you'll reform, my old friend Charicles
Here oflfers you his daughter—a good girl;
Say, will you marry her?
⁠Lesbon. (eagerly). ⁠I will, dear father!
I will—and any one else besides, to please you.
⁠Charm. Nay—one's enough: though I am angry with ye,
I'll not inflict a double chastisement;
That were too hard.
⁠Callicles (laughing). Nay, scarcely, for his sins—
A hundred wives at once would serve him right.^[2]

 

II.—THE BRAGGADOCIO.

The hero—if he can be so called who is the very opposite of a hero—in this comedy is one of those swaggering soldiers of fortune who have already been briefly described. His name, which is a swagger in itself, is Pyrgopolinices—"Tower of Victory." He is in the pay of Seleucus, for whom he is at present recruiting; but he has also served, by his own account—

"On the far-famed Gorgonidonian plains,
Where the great Bumbomachides commanded—
Clytomestoridysarchides's son."^[3]

He is attended by his obsequious toady Artotrogus—"Bread-devourer"—who flatters his vanity and swears to the truth of all his bragging stories—"maintaining his teeth," as he says, "at the expense of his ears." The Captain's stories are of such an outrageously lying description as to be somewhat too improbable for the subject of legitimate comedy, and we can only suppose that in this kind of fun the taste of a Roman audience preferred a strong flavour. He affects to believe that not only do all the men dread his prowess, but that all the women are charmed with his person: and his companion and flatterer does his best to persuade him that it is so.

⁠Artotrogus. You saw those girls that stopped me yesterday?
⁠Pyrgopolinices. What did they say?
⁠Art. ⁠Why, when you passed, they asked me—
"What, is the great Achilles here?"—I answered,
"No—it's his brother." Then says t'other one—
"Troth, he is handsome! What a noble man!
What splendid hair!"
⁠Pyrg. ⁠Now, did they really say so?
⁠Art. They did indeed, and begged me, both of them,
To make you take a walk again to-day,
That they might get another sight of you.
⁠Pyrg. (sighing complacently). 'Tis a great nuisance being
⁠so very handsome!^[4]

This hero gentleman has just carried, off from Athens—by force, however, and not by the influence of his personal attractions—a young lady who is an object of tender interest to a gentleman of that city, who is at the time gone upon a voyage to Naupactus. His faithful slave Palestrio takes ship to follow him thither, but on his way falls into the hands of pirates, by whom he is sold, and, as it happens, taken to Ephesus and there purchased by Pyrgopolinices. He finds the lady shut up in half-willing durance in the Captain's house, and at once writes information of the fact to her Athenian lover, his master Pleusicles, who sails at once for Ephesus. On his arrival, he finds that an old friend of the family occupies the adjoining house: a jolly old bachelor, of thorough Epicurean tastes and habits, and quite ready to forward a lover's stratagem. By his good-natured connivance a door is broken through his house into the women's side of his neighbour's mansion, by which Pleusicles is enabled to hold communication with the object of his affections. But a servant of the Captain's, who has been specially charged to keep an eye upon the lady, happens to be running over the roof of the two houses in the pursuit of an escaped monkey, looks down through a skylight with the curiosity of his class, and is a witness of one of these stolen interviews between the lovers. How Philocomasium (for that is the lady's long Greek name^[5]) has found her way into the house next door is what he does not understand; but there she is, and he is determined to tell the Captain. First, however, he takes into his counsels his new fellow-servant, Palestrio, and confides to him his discovery. Palestrio tries to persuade him that his eyes have deceived him, but finding him obstinately convinced of their accuracy, invents a story of a twin-sister, who by a curious coincidence has just come to Ephesus and taken the house next door, where she allows a lover of her own to visit her. The chief fun of the piece, which is somewhat of a childish character, consists in the ingenuity with which Philocomasium, with the aid of Palestrio, contrives by a change of costume to play the double part of herself and the imaginary twin-sister; much to the bewilderment of the Captain's watchful and suspicious retainer, who is ignorant of the existence of the secret passage by which at her pleasure she flits from house to house.

The catastrophe is brought about by the absorbing vanity of the military hero. He is persuaded by the ready Palestrio that a lady in the neighbourhood, of great charms and accomplishments, has fallen violently in love with him, and that if only out of charity it behoves him to have compassion on her. She has a jealous husband, and dare not invite him to her house, but asks to be allowed to call upon him at his own. In order to have the coast quite clear, he sends off Philocomasium for a while, in charge of the trusty Palestrio, who willingly undertakes to escort her—with her mother and the twin-sister, as he thinks—really with her lover Pleusicles, who, in the guise of a shipowner, carries her off to Athens. The fate of the Captain is that of Falstaff, in the 'Merry Wives of Windsor.' As soon as the love-stricken lady—who is only a lady's-maid employed for the occasion—is ascertained to be paying her expected visit to this professional Adonis, his bachelor neighbour, from next door, enters in the character of the jealous husband, with a band of stout slaves, and beats him to a jelly.

III.—THE HAUNTED HOUSE (MOSTELLARIA).

The Latin name of this play means something like "The Goblin;" but perhaps the English title here given to it will better express the nature of the plot. A worthy citizen of Athens has been away for three years on a trading voyage to Egypt, and during his absence his son Philolaches, though a young man of amiable disposition, has gone altogether wrong, kept very dissolute and extravagant company, and spent the greatest part of his father's money. In this he has been aided and abetted by Tranio, his valet and factotum,—one of those amusing rascals who seem to take delight in encouraging their young masters in such things, though they feel it is at the risk of their own backs.

The youth is just sitting down to supper with some of his friends (one of whom has come to the party already drunk), when Tranio, who has been down to the harbour to buy fish, comes in with the startling intelligence of the father's return from sea; he has just got a glimpse of him as he landed. Philolaches feels that the evil day has come upon him at last. His first idea naturally is to get rid of his friends, have the supper-table cleared away, and make things look at least as quiet and respectable as possible. But his friend Callidamates is by this time so very drunk and incapable that it is impossible to hope to get him safely off the premises in time; especially as, in his drunken independence, the only notice he takes of the news is first to "hope the old gentleman's very well;" secondly, to advise his son, if he doesn't want him, to "send him back again;" and, lastly, to offer to fight him, then and there.

⁠Philolaches. Who's that asleep there? Wake him up,
⁠do, Delphium!
⁠Delphium. Callidamates! Callidamates—wake! (shaking him.)
⁠Call. (looking up drowsily). I am awake—all right.
⁠Pass us the bottle.
⁠Delph. Oh, do awake, pray do! His father's come—
From abroad, you know! (Shakes him again.)
⁠Call. (just opening his eyes). All right—hope 's pretty well.
⁠Phil. (angrily). He's well enough, you ass!—I'm very bad.
⁠Call. Bad! why,—what 's 'matter?
⁠Phil. ⁠Do get up, I say,
And go—my father's come.
⁠Call. (drowsily). ⁠Father's come, is he?
Tell him—go back again. What the deuce 's want here?
⁠Phil. (in despair). What shall I do? Zounds! he'll be
⁠here in a minute,
And find this drunken ass here in my company,
And all the rest of ye. And I've no time—
Beginning to dig a well when you're dying of thirst,—
That's what I'm doing; just beginning to think
What I'm to do, and here's my father come!
⁠Tranio (looking at Call.) He's put his head down and
⁠gone to sleep again!
⁠Phil. Will you get up? (shaking him.) I say,—my father's here!
⁠Call. (jumping up). Father here? where? Give me my
⁠slippers, somebody!
My sword, there!—polish the old gentleman off in no time.

—Act ii. sc. 2.

But Tranio proves equal to the occasion. He desires them all to keep quiet where they are, to let him lock the house up and take the key of the street-door, and go to meet his elder master with a story which he has ready for him. The good citizen makes his appearance in the next scene, congratulating himself heartily on having escaped the perils of this his first—and, as he is determined it shall be, his last—sea voyage.

Enter Theuropides—slaves following with his luggage.
⁠Tranio looking round a corner, and listening.
⁠Theu. I do return you hearty thanks, good Neptune,
For letting me out of your clutches safe and sound,
Though scarce alive; but if from this time forward
You catch me setting foot in your dominions,
I give you leave—free leave—that very instant,
To do with me—what you've just tried to do.
Avaunt! Anathema! I do abjure ye
From this same day! (looking back towards the harbour,
⁠and shaking his fist). I've trusted to ye once,
But never will I run such risk again.
⁠Tran. (aside). Zounds, Neptune, you've just made a great mistake—
Lost such a charming opportunity!
⁠Theu. Three years I've been in Egypt: here I am,
Come home at last!—How glad they'll be to see me!
⁠Tran. (aside). There's only one we had been more glad to see—
The man who brought us word that you were drowned.

Theuropides advances to his own door, at which he
⁠knocks, and looks up at the closed windows. Tranio
⁠comes forward.

⁠Tran. Who's this? who ventures near this house of ours?
⁠Theu. Why, this is my man Tranio!
⁠Tran. ⁠O, dear master,
O, welcome home! I am so glad to see you—
Are you quite well?
⁠Theu. ⁠Quite, as you see (knocks again).
⁠Tran. ⁠Thank heavens!
⁠Theu. But you,—are ye all mad?
⁠Tran. ⁠Why so?
⁠Theu. ⁠Because
Here you are walking about, and nobody in.
(Knocks and kicks at the door.) Not a soul seems to hear.
⁠Will nobody open? (Kicks again.)
I shall kick the door down presently.
⁠Tran. (shuddering and shrieking). O—O—Oh!
Don't ye do that, dear master—don't ye, don't ye!

—Act ii. sc. 2.

Then Tranio begins his story. The house is haunted. There is a ghost there, of a man who was murdered in it by the last owner for the sake of his gold, and buried under the floor. This ghost had come to young Philolaches in his sleep, nearly frightened him out of his senses, and warned him to quit his premises at once. Pluto would not admit him into the Shades, he said, because he had not been properly buried, and so he was obliged to live in this house, and he wanted it all to himself. So they had shut it up, Tranio tells the father, and left the ghost in possession; and, for the present, his son is gone into the country. Just in the agony of the tale, a noise is heard inside—the party there are not keeping so quiet as they ought.

⁠Tran. (pretending to he frightened, and catching his
⁠master by the arm.)
Hush-sh! (Listening.)
⁠Theu. (trembling). Eh! what was it?
⁠Tran. (looking aghast at Theu.) Was it him, d'ye think?
(Listening at the key-hole) I heard a knocking.
⁠Theu. ⁠Eh! my blood runs cold!
Are the dead men coming from Acheron to fetch me?
⁠Tran. (aside). Those fools will spoil it all, if they're not quiet.
⁠Theu. What are you saying to yourself, sir—eh?
⁠Tran. Go from the door, sir, pray—run, do, I beg you!
⁠Theu. (looking round in terror). Where shall I run to?
⁠why don't you run yourself?
⁠Tran. (solemnly). Well—I've no fear—I keep an honest conscience.
⁠Callidamates (inside). Hallo there, Tranio! (Theuropides runs off.)
⁠Tran. (going close to the door, and whispering). Don't
⁠call me, you fool!
(Aloud, as to the ghost.) Don't threaten me—it wasn't I kicked
⁠the door.
⁠Theu. (putting his head round the corner). O dear!
⁠what is it? why do you shake so, Tranio?
⁠Tran. (looking round). Was it you called me?—Well,
⁠so help us heaven,
I thought it was the dead man scolding me
For making all that rapping at his door.
But why do you stand there? why don't you do
What I just told you?
⁠Theu. (clasping his hands). O dear! what was that?
⁠Tran. Run, run! don't look behind you—and cover your head up!

[Theuropides runs off with his cloak over his head.

—Act ii. sc. 2.

There may not be very much wit in the scene, but it is a fair specimen of the style in which Plautus seems to have excelled. It is full of bustle and spirit, and would act, as is the case with so many of his scenes, far better than it reads. If any reader will imagine the two characters in the hands of say Mr Keeley and Mr Buckstone, he will perhaps admit that it would be sufficiently laughable even if it were put exactly as it is upon the stage of a modern minor theatre.

The "Ghost" is left, for the present, in undisturbed possession. But Tranio's plan is nearly frustrated at the outset; for, as he is following his master down the street, they meet a money-lender to whom the son is indebted, and who is come to demand his interest. The old gentleman overhears the conversation between the creditor and Tranio, who vainly tries to prevent him from bawling out his complaints of non-payment. He succeeds, however, in persuading the father that his son has only been borrowing in order to pay the deposit-money upon the purchase of a house (which he has been driven to buy in consequence of the Ghost's occupation of the old one), and which is, as he assures him, a most excellent bargain. Theuropides is naturally anxious to see the new house at once; and Tranio, almost in despair, declares that it is that of their next-door neighbour, Simo, whom he sees just coming out of his Moor on his way to the Forum. Tranio goes up to this person and requests permission for his master to look over the house, which he wishes to copy, as a model of admirable contrivance, in some new buildings which he is about to make on his own ground. The owner, much flattered, begs them to walk over it "just as though it were their own;" an expression which rather amuses Theuropides, as he is about to make it his own in reality by paying the rest of the purchase-money. Tranio adroitly whispers to him not to say a word about the sale, "from motives of delicacy:" poor Simo, he assures him, has been obliged to part with his family property owing to reduced circumstances, and the whole transaction is naturally a sore subject to him. Theuropides takes the hint at once, praising his servant at the same time for his thoughtfulness and good feeling. He is charmed with the house, with the terms of the purchase, and with the business-like habits of his excellent son.

But the father's dream is speedily dispelled. He meets in the street, near his own door, a slave of the young gentleman who is at this moment sleeping off his debauch in his son's apartments, and who has come, in obedience to the prudent orders issued beforehand upon such occasions, to convey his master home. Theuropides would fain persuade him that there is some mistake; he must have come to the wrong house; this has been shut up and unoccupied for some time; and his son Philolaches is quite unlikely to keep the kind of company to which this roysterer belongs. But the slave knows his business better, and in defence of his own assertions tears the veil somewhat rudely from the old gentleman's eyes. If he could be supposed to have any doubts remaining, they are removed by a second interview with his neighbour Simo, who laughs at the notion of his house having been sold without himself being aware of it. It only remains for the deluded father to take vengeance on Tranio, and this he will set about at once. One favour he will ask of Simo—"Lend me a couple of stout slaves, and a good whip or two;"—and, thus provided, he goes in quest of the culprit.

Tranio discovers that all is lost except his spirit. That still keeps up: and he appears to have propped it with an extra cup or two. His soliloquy, in the hands of a good actor, would no doubt be effective. He has succeeded in getting the revellers out of the house before the angry father comes into it; but they have now lost all faith in him as an adviser, and what step he is to take next is by no means clear even to himself.

TRANIO (solus).

The man who loses heart when things go crooked,
In my opinion, he's not worth a rap—
What a "rap" means, now, blest if I can tell!
Well—when the master bid me fetch the young one—
Out of the country (laughs to himself), ha, ha! Well, I went—
Not into the country—to the garden-gate;
And brought out the whole lot of 'em—male and female.
When I had thus safely withdrawn my troops
Out of their state of siege, I called a council—
A council of war, you know—of my fellow-rascals;
And their very first vote was to turn me out of it.
So I called another council—of myself;
And I am doing—what I understand
Most people do in awkward circumstances—
Make 'em as much more awkward as they can.

—Act v. sc. 1.

His master comes to look for him, followed by two slaves carrying whips and fetters, whom he keeps in hiding for the present in the background; but Tranio, quite aware of what is in store for him, takes refuge at the family altar, and will listen to no persuasions to come away. From this vantage-ground he holds an argument with his master; persuades him that his prodigal son has done nothing out of the way—only what other young men of spirit do; and when Theuropides vents his wrath against such a shameful piece of deception in a slave, gravely advises him to hold his tongue at all events on that point. With his grey hairs, he surely ought to have been wiser; if people once come to know how he has allowed himself to be duped, they will infallibly work him into a plot for the next new comedy.

Tranio gets off at last, by the intercession of Callidamates, who has sobered himself sufficiently to come forward and express repentance on the part of his young friend, and to entreat that all may be forgotten and forgiven; offering, handsomely enough, to pay off out of his own pocket the little debt to the money-lender. Tranio assures his master that he will not lose much by forgiving him this time—the whipping which he is longing to give now need only be a pleasure deferred, inasmuch as he is quite certain to do something to deserve one to-morrow. Which very characteristic witticism brings down the curtain.

Upon this comedy Regnard, who perhaps ranks next to Molière of the French comic dramatists, founded his play, in one act, of 'Le Rétour Imprévu;' and Fielding's 'Intriguing Chambermaid' is little more than a translation of it. But Dunlop remarks that neither the French nor the English adapters have availed themselves of the hint which Plautus left for them, of a telling scene in which the previous occupant of the "Haunted House" might be charged by the excited father with the murder of his imaginary guest.

IV.—THE SHIPWRECK (RUDENS).

This is a play of a different character in many respects, and comes nearer to what we should call a melodramatic spectacle than anything else. The Latin title is simply "The Rope"—given to it because the rope of a fisherman's net is an important instrument in the dénouement. But the whole action turns upon a shipwreck, and this is the title preferred by some English authorities.

The prologue, which is in a higher strain than Plautus commonly aspires to, is spoken in the character of Arcturus,—the constellation whose rising and setting was supposed to have very much to do with storms. The costume in which he appears is evidently brilliant and characteristic.

Of his high realm, who rules the earth and sea
And all mankind, a citizen am I.
Lo, as you see, a bright and shining star,
Revolving ever in unfailing course
Here and in heaven: Arcturus am I hight.
By night I shine in heaven, amidst the gods;
I walk unseen with men on earth by day.
So, too, do other stars step from their spheres,
Down to this lower world; so willeth Jove,
Ruler of gods and men; he sends us forth
Each on our several paths throughout all lands,
To note the ways of men, and all they do;^[6]
If they be just and pious; if their wealth
Be well employed, or squandered harmfully;
Who in a false suit use false witnesses;
Who by a perjured oath forswear their debts;—
Their names do we record and bear to Jove.
So learns He day by day what ill is wrought
By men below; who seek to gain their cause
By perjury, who wrest the law to wrong;
Jove's court of high appeal rehears the plaint,
And mulcts them tenfold for the unjust decree.
In separate tablets doth he note the good.
And though the wicked in their hearts have said,
He can be soothed with gifts and sacrifice,
They lose their pains and cost, for that the god
Accepts no offering from a perjured hand.

After this fine exordium, so unlike the ordinary tone of the writer that we may be sure he is here translating from a great original, the prologue goes on to set forth the story of the piece. The speaker gives the audience some description of the opening scene, and a key to the characters. It is the tradition of the commentators, and the wording of the prologue corroborates it, that the mounting of this piece, both in scenery and machinery, was very costly and elaborate. It opens, like Shakspeare's 'Tempest,' with a storm—or rather on the morning after.^[7] The sea forms the background; on one side is the city of Cyrene in the distance, on the other, a temple of Venus, with a cottage near. This cottage is the residence of Dæmones, once a citizen of Athens, but who, having lost his property and met with other troubles, has left his native country and settled down here in retirement. He and his slaves are come out to look to the repairs of their cottage, which has suffered by the storm. A boat appears struggling through the waves in the distance, which, as it gets nearer, is seen to contain two girls, who after great danger (described by one of the slaves, who is watching, in a passage which a good actor would no doubt make sufficiently effective) make good their landing among the rocks, and meet at last upon the stage, each having thought the other lost. One of them is Palæstra: a free-born girl of Athens, but stolen and sold, as she tells us, in her infancy. Pleusidippus, a young Athenian, had seen her at Cyrene, fallen violently in love with her, and made proposals to the slave-merchant for her ransom. But that worthy individual, thinking that he could make a better bargain for such wares in Sicily, had just set sail for that island, carry ing Palæstra and her fellow-captives with him, when the whole party are wrecked here on the coast, just going out of harbour.

The two girls, drenched as they are, take refuge in the Temple of Venus, where they ask the protection of the Priestess. That good lady is the very model of an ecclesiastical red-tapist. Though they tell their sad story, she objects that they ought to have come in the proper garb of supplicants—in a white robe, and bringing with them a victim; and is hardly satisfied with poor Palæstra's explanation of the great difficulty which a young woman who had narrowly escaped drowning herself would find in carrying a white dress and a fat lamb with her.

Labrax, the slave-dealer, whom every one hoped had been drowned according to his deserts, has also escaped from the wreck and got ashore. Not without the loss, however, of all his money, which has gone to the bottom, and with it a small case of jewellery, family tokens belonging to Palæstra, of which he had obtained possession. He hears that the two girls who are his property are hidden in the temple, and proceeds to drag them thence by force. He is met there, however, by a servant of young Pleusidippus, who is in search of his master, and who runs to Dæmones's cottage for help. The owner comes out with two stout slaves, rescues Palæstra and her companion, and leaves Labrax in custody, the slaves standing over him with cudgels, until the case can be investigated. Pleusidippus soon arrives upon the scene, his servant having hurried to inform him of the state of affairs—that his dear Palæstra has escaped from the wreck, and taken refuge in the temple, from which Labrax would have dragged her but for the timely interference of a very worthy old gentleman. The young man hauls the slave-dealer off, with very little ceremony, before the nearest magistrate, to answer both for his breach of contract and his attempt at sacrilege. And with this scene ends the third act of the drama.

Then there is an interval of time before the commencement of the fourth act. Gripns, one of Dæmones's slaves, has been out fishing. He has taken no fish; but has had a haul which will prove, he hopes, to be of more importance. He has brought up in his net a heavy wallet, and feels certain that it contains gold; enough, no doubt, to purchase his freedom, and to make him a rich man for the rest of his life besides. His soliloquy, as to what he will do with all his riches, reminds us not a little of the dream of Alnaschar.

Now, this shall be my plan—I'm quite determined:
I'll do it cunningly; I'll go to my master,
With just a little money from time to time,
To buy my freedom: then, when I am free,
I'll buy a farm—I'll build a house—I'll have
A great many slaves. Then I shall make a fortune
By my big merchant-ships. I shall be a prince,
And talk to princes. Then I'll build a yacht,
Just for a fancy, and like Stratonicus
Sail round the seaport towns.^[8] When my renown
Spreads far and wide, then—then, I'll found a city;
I'll call it "Gripè," in memory of my name
And noble acts; I'll found an empire there.
I do resolve great things within this breast (striking his chest);
But for the present, I must hide my windfall.

(Takes his breakfast out of his scrips and looks at it.)

But more's the pity that so great a man
Must for to-day have such a sorry breakfast!

—Act iv. sc. 2.

Before he has time to hide his booty, Trachalio, the slave of Pleusidippus, who has been watching all Gripus's proceedings, comes up, and wants to claim half-shares in the contents. The dialogue between the two has some amusing points, though it is rather too much spun out for modern taste. Trachalio declares that he knows the person to whom the wallet formerly belonged; Gripus replies that he knows to whom it belongs now, which is of much more importance—it belongs to him. All that he catches belongs to him, clearly; nobody ever disputed it before. Trachalio argues that this is not a fish. It is a fish, declares Gripus; "all's fish that comes to the net"—using our proverb in almost so many words. This sort of fish doesn't grow in the sea, says the other. Gripus declares that it does—only the species, he is sorry to say, is very seldom caught. He is a fisherman, and knows a good deal more about fish, he should hope, than a landsman. Trachalio protests it is with him a matter of conscience: since he has seen the wallet fished up, unless he goes and tells the owner, he shall be as great a thief as Gripus; but he is willing to share that responsibility, provided he shares the prize. They very nearly come to blows about it; but at last Trachalio proposes to submit the dispute to arbitration; and as the cottage of Dæmones is close at hand, they agree that he shall decide as to the disposal of the property—Trachalio not being aware of Gripus's connection with the old gentleman, and Gripus hoping that his master will surely give an award in his favour.

When the wallet is opened, it is found to contain, besides valuable property belonging to Labrax, the precious casket containing Palæstra's family relics: and, by desire of Dæmones, she describes the articles which ought to be in it, in order to prove her claim to its ownership. To his joy and surprise, one of these relics, a small toy implement, bears his own name, and another that of his wife. Palæstra is their long-lost daughter, stolen in her childhood, and thus restored. Of course she is handed over to her lover Pleusidippus, a free woman.

The disposal of the claims to the rest of the wallet's contents hardly meets our notions of dramatic justice. Dæmones retains in his possession the prize which poor Gripus has fished up, in order to restore it to its owner; not only without any hint of salvage-money, but with the addition of a long moral lecture to his slave upon honesty. This is all very well; but the subsequent proceedings serve to show that if it was a characteristic of the slave to be always ready to cheat his master, the master had also his peculiar idea of honesty as between himself and his slave. Gripus meets Labrax lamenting for his lost wallet, and as a last hope of making something out of his good luck, agrees to inform him of the whereabouts of the missing treasure for the consideration of a talent of good money paid down. Dæmones, when he comes to hear of the arrangement, ratifies it so far as this: Gripus is his property; therefore, what is Gripus's is his. Labrax has to pay the talent into the hands of Dæmones, who applies half to the ransom of his daughter's friend and companion in misfortune, and allows the other half as the price of Gripus's freedom. The reply which that personage makes previously to his master's lecture on morality seems to show that he took it for about as much as it was worth.

Ah! so I've heard the players on the stage
Rehearse the very finest moral sentiments,
And with immense applause; showing quite clearly
All that a wise man ought to do: and then
The audience would go home, and not a soul of 'em
Would follow that grand preaching in their practice.^[9]

The play called Cistellaria—"The Casket"—turns upon the same incidents—the loss of a daughter when young, and her discovery by her parents by means of a casket of trinkets which had been attached to her person.^[10] The copies of this play are very imperfect, and there is a want of interest in the scenes. One passage, in which Halisca, the slave who has dropped the casket in the street and returns to look for it, appeals pathetically to the audience, to know whether any of them have picked it up, and will restore it, and so save her from a whipping, may remind a modern reader of Molière's Harpagon looking among the audience for the thief of his money. The despairing taunt with which she turns away, after pausing for some reply—

"'Tis no use asking—there's not one among ye
Does aught but laugh at a poor woman's troubles"—

is strong presumptive evidence that the spectators at a Roman comedy were almost exclusively men.

V.—THE CAPTIVES.

This pretty little drama is quite of a different complexion from the rest. The author tells us, in his prologue, that we are not to expect to find here any of the old stock characters of comedy, who, as he is free to confess, are not always of the most reputable kind. The interest is, in fact, rather pathetic than comic, and the plot is of the simplest kind. Almost the only comic element is supplied by the speaker of the prologue, who has a joke or two for the audience, of a very mild and harmless kind. The principal characters in the play appear to have been grouped in a kind of tableau on the stage while the prologue was delivered, in this as in some other plays. The prologist informs the audience that the two captives who stand in chains on his right and left, are Philocrates, a young noble of Elis, and his slave Tyndarus. There is war between Elis and the Ætolians; and these two prisoners, recently taken in battle, have been purchased amongst others by Hegio, a wealthy citizen of Ætolia, whose own son is now, by the fortune of war, a prisoner in Elis. The father is sparing no cost in purchasing such captives of rank and birth as are brought to Ætolia and sold as slaves, in the hope of being able thus to effect an exchange for his son. He feels the loss of this son all the more, because his younger brother was carried off in his infancy by a revengeful slave, and he has never seen him since. "Do you understand, now?" says the speaker to the audience—"I hear a gentleman standing up at the back of the gallery say 'no.' Then come a little nearer, sir, if you please; I'm not going to crack my voice in bawling to you at that distance. And if you've not money enough to pay for a seat, you've money enough to walk out, which I recommend you to do. And now—you gentlemen that can afford to pay for your seats,—have the goodness to listen, while I continue my story." He goes on, after the fashion which has been noticed as common in such prologues, to sketch in brief the whole plot. He begs, however, to assure the audience, confidentially, that they need not be alarmed because there is a war going on in this play between Elis and Ætolia. He promises them—quite in the spirit of Bottom and his company of players—that they "will leave the killing out;" all the battles shall be fought behind the scenes. It would never do for them, he says, a company of poor comedians, to encroach upon the domain of tragedy. If any gentleman present wants a fight, he must get one up on his own account—and it shall go hard but that the present speaker will find a match for him, if he be so inclined. He concludes by asking their favourable verdict in the dramatic contest:—

And so I make my bow. Sirs, fare ye well;
Be gentle judges of our comedy,
As ye are—doubtless—valorous hearts in war.

The interest of the drama lies in the generous devotion of the slave Tyndarus to his young master. Hegio has ascertained that his captive Philocrates is the only son of a man of great wealth, and hopes that by sending a message to the father he may enlist his interest at Elis in making search for his own son among the Ætolian prisoners there, and sending him home in exchange for Philocrates. But this latter has, at the suggestion of Tyndarus, exchanged clothes with him, and the slave, who is nearly of the same age, and of noble presence, personates the master. Under this mistake Hegio sends the slave (as he thinks) to Elis to negotiate there with the father of Philocrates the release of his son. But it is really the young noble who is sent, and Tyndarus who personates him remains a prisoner in his place. There is a fine passage in which the disguised slave appeals to Hegio for generous treatment during his captivity.

As free a man as was your son, till now,
Was I; like him, the hapless chance of war
Robbed me of liberty; he stands a slave
Among my people, even as here I stand
Fettered before you. There is One in heaven,
Be sure of it, who sees and knows all things
That all men do. As you shall deal with me,
So will He deal with him. He will show grace
To him who showeth grace; He will repay
Evil for evil. (Hegio appears moved.) Weep you for your son?
So in my home my father weeps for me.

The parting between Tyndarus and his master gives rise to another scene which would be highly effective in the hands of good actors. The two young men had been brought up together, it must be remembered, from childhood, had played the same games, gone to the same school, and served in the same campaign. There is an equality of feeling between them, which even the miserable conditions of slavery have not been able to prevent. Philocrates, speaking as Tyndarus, asks the latter if he has any message to send home to his father

⁠Tyndarus (as Philocrates). Say I am well; and tell him
⁠this, good Tyndarus,
We two have lived in sweetest harmony,
Of one accord in all things; never yet
Have you been faithless, never I unkind.
And still, in this our strait, you have been true
And loyal to the last, through woe and want,
Have never failed me, nor in will nor deed.
This when your father hears, for such good service
To him and to his son, he cannot choose
But give you liberty. I will insure it,
If I go free from hence. 'Tis you alone,
Your help, your kindness, your devoted service
Shall give me to my parents' arms again.
⁠Philocrates (as Tyndarus). I have done this: I'm glad
⁠you should remember;
And you have well deserved it: (emphatically) for if I
Were in my turn to count up all the kindness
That you have shown to me, day would grow night
Before the tale were told. Were you my slave,
You could have shown no greater zeal to serve me.

—Act ii. sc. 3.

Hegio is touched by the affection shown by the young pair; and Tyndarus is treated as liberally as a prisoner can be. But there is another prisoner of war of whom Hegio has heard, who knows this young man Philocrates and his family, and is anxious to have an interview with him, which Hegio good-naturedly allows. This man at once detects the imposture; and though Tyndarus attempts for a time (in a scene which must be confessed to be somewhat tedious) to maintain his assumed character in spite of the other's positive assertions, he is convicted of the deception, and ordered by the indignant Hegio to be loaded with heavy chains, and taken to work in the stone-quarries; which would seem to have been as terrible a place of punishment in Greece as we know they were in Sicily. In vain does Tyndarus plead his duty to his master: in vain does he appeal to Hegio's feelings as a father—

⁠Tyn. Think, now—if any slave who called you master,
Had done this for your son, how you had thanked him!
Would you have grudged him liberty, or no?
Would you have loved him above all the rest?
Nay—answer me.
⁠He. ⁠I grant it.
⁠Tyn. ⁠Oh, why then
Are you thus wroth with me for doing likewise?
⁠He. Your faith to him was treachery to me.
⁠Tyn. What! would you ask that one brief night and day
Should give you claim on a poor captive's service
Just fallen within your power, to cancel his
With whom I lived and whom I loved from childhood?
⁠Heg. Then seek your thanks from him.—Lead him away.

In vain does his fellow-captive, whose evidence has brought down Hegio's wrath upon him, plead on his behalf. Tyndarus is dragged off to the quarries, preserving his calmness of demeanour to the last.

Well—death will come—thy threats can reach no further;
And though I linger to a long old age,
Life's span of suffering is but brief.—Farewell!
I might find plea to curse thee—but—farewell!

—Act iii. sc. 5.

The dénouement comes rapidly. There is a long supposed interval between the third and the two last brief acts of the drama,—which in a modern play would be rather termed scenes. Philocrates returns from Elis, and brings with him Hegio's son Philopolemus, whom he has ransomed from captivity. But he has not forgotten his faithful Tyndarus, and has come in person to insure his liberation. But this is not all. He has also met with the runaway slave who, twenty years ago, had stolen from his home the younger son of Hegio. When this man is now cross-examined by his old master, it is discovered that he had fled to Elis, and there sold the child to the father of Philocrates, who had made a present of him to his own boy, as was not unusual, to be a kind of live toy and humble playfellow. It is this very Tyndarus, who now stands before his father loaded with chains and haggard with suffering of that father's infliction. The noble nature displayed by the captive is explained by his noble blood.

No one will deny that it is a pretty little drama, with a good deal of quiet pathos in it. But (if we have the piece complete, which may be doubtful) whatever pathos a modern audience would find in these last scenes would be due to such force of expression and by-play as could be thrown into them by clever actors; they are very bald indeed in the reading. The claim which the speaker of the brief epilogue makes for the play, that its morality is of the purest and simplest, is well deserved. It contains, strange to say, no female character whatever. For these and other reasons 'The Captives,' in spite of the lack of comic element, used to be a very favourite selection with English schoolmasters, in the days when the performance of a Latin comedy by the elder scholars seems to have formed part of the annual routine in most of our large schools. Yet, strange to say, there is no record of it having ever been performed at Westminster. Perhaps the absence of those distinctly comic characters and situations which are made so telling in the annual performance by the Queen's Scholars has been the reason of its neglect.

VI.—THE TWO MENÆCHMI.

This comedy deserves notice not so much for its own merits—for whatever they might have appeared to a Roman audience, they are not highly appreciable by our taste—but because upon it Shakspeare founded his 'Comedy of Errors.' It appears to have been the only work of Plautus which had at that time been translated into English, which may account for its being the only one from which Shakspeare seems to have borrowed. The plot is improbable in the highest degree, though admitting some farcical situations. It all turns upon the supposed resemblance between two twin-brothers—so strong as to deceive their servants, their nearest friends, and even their wives. Antipholus of Ephesus and Antipholus of Syracuse are but reproductions of Menæchmus of Epidamnus and Menæchmus Sosicles—the twins of Plautus's comedy, who were separated in their youth, and whose marvellous likeness, which makes it impossible to distinguish between them, leads to the series of ludicrous mistakes and entanglements which are at last set right by their personal meeting on the stage. Shakspeare has added the pair of Dromios, who, like their masters, are duplicates of each other: thereby increasing the broad fun of the piece, such as it is, and not materially increasing the improbability. The use of masks upon the Roman stage made the presentation of the likeness comparatively easy; whereas in the English play all has to depend upon exact similarity of costume and the making up of the faces of the two actors, which is not always satisfactory. The incidents in the Latin play are not so amusing as in Shakspeare's version of it, and the morals much more objectionable.

VII.—AMPHITRYON.

'Amphitryon' is also founded on a famous case of mistaken identity. It is termed by Plautus a "tragi-comedy;" which does not mean that there is anything in it to which we should apply the word "tragic," but merely that the introduction of gods amongst the characters gives it some of the features of classic tragedy. In saying that it is a dramatic version of the myth of Jupiter and Alcmena, enough has been said to indicate that the morality in this case is that common to pagan mythology. This did not prevent it from being acted at Westminster so late as 1792. There are well-known French and English imitations of it: the 'Amphitryon' of Molière and 'The Two Sosias' of Dryden. It must he said, at least, in favour of the great French dramatist, that the morality in his play is higher than that of the original. 'Amphitryon,' however, has some wit, which is more than can be well said for the 'Menæchmi.' Here, too, it is possible that we have the original of the two Dromios in Shakspeare's comedy. For, as Jupiter has assumed the character and likeness of Amphitryon, so he has directed Mercury to put on the resemblance of Sosia, Amphitryon's body-slave. The scene in which poor Sosia, sent by his master (who has just returned from his campaign) to announce his arrival to his wife Alcmena, is met at the door by his double in the person of Mercury, is very comically drawn. It has the defect of being, at least to our modern taste, somewhat too prolonged, and only a portion of it can be given here. Mercury insists upon it that he is the true and original Sosia, gives the other a drubbing as an impudent impostor, and threatens to give him a worse if he does not at once take himself off. Sosia becomes extremely puzzled as to his own identity when his rival, in reply to his questions, shows an intimate knowledge of all his master's movements during the late campaign, and especially in the matter of a gold cup presented to him out of the spoils, which is secured in a casket under Amphitryon's own seal—which seal, however, this duplicate Sosia can describe perfectly.

⁠Sosia (aside). He beats me there. I must look out. it seems,
For a new name. Now where on earth could this fellow
Have been, to see all that? I'll have him yet;
Things that I did by myself, with no one near—
What I did in the tent—it can't be possible
He'll tell me that. (Aloud.) Now look—if you be Sosia
What was I doing in my master's tent,
That day they'd such hard fighting in the front?
Come—tell me that, my friend—and I'll give in.
⁠Mercury (slily). There was a cask of wine: I filled a pitcher—
⁠Sos. (to himself). He's not far out.
⁠Mer. ⁠Filled it with good red wine—
As honest stuff as ever grew in grape.
⁠Sos. Marvellous!—unless this chap was in the cask!—
Fact—I did fill the pitcher—and drank it too.
⁠Mer. How now? have I convinced you I am Sosia?
⁠Sos. (puzzled). D'ye say I'm not?
⁠Mer. ⁠How can you be, if I am?
⁠Sos. (half crying). I swear by Jove I am Sosia—it's no lie.
⁠Mer. I swear by Mercury it is: Jove won't believe you;
He'd trust my word far sooner than your oath.
⁠Sos. Who am I then, I ask you, if not Sosia?
⁠Mer. That I can't tell you—but you can't be Sosia,
So long as I am: when I've done with the name,
Then you may take it. Now be off with you,
Name or no name, unless you want a thrashing.
⁠Sos. Upon my life, now that I look at him,
And recollect myself—(I take a peep
Into my master's glass occasionally)
It strikes me that there is an uncommon likeness. (Ex-
⁠amines Mercury furtively.)
The broad-brimmed hat and surcoat—just the same;
He looks as like me as I do myself!
Legs—feet—proportions—short-cropped hair—bull-neck—
Eyes—nose—lips—cheeks—the very chin and beard—
The whole of him is me! the very ditto!
I wonder whether he's got whip-marks on his back—
If so, the copy's perfect.^[11] (Cogitating.) Still—it seems,
When I consider on't, I must be I:
I'm the same man I was; I know my master—
I know his house,—there 'tis. I've got my senses;
(Pinching himself.) And I can feel. No; I will not believe
A word this fellow says. I'll knock again. (Goes up to the door.)
⁠Mer. (rushing up). Hallo! where now?
⁠Sos. ⁠Home, to be sure.
⁠Mer. ⁠Be off—
Be off like lightning, if you'd keep whole bones!
⁠Sos. Mayn't I give master's message to his lady?
⁠Mer. To his—by all means; only not to ours:
If you provoke me more, I'll break your head.
⁠Sos. (running away). No—no! I'll go! Poor devil that I am!
Where did I lose myself? when was I changed?
How did I lose my corporal capacity?
Did I forget myself, when I went abroad,
And leave myself at home here, by mistake?
For he's got what was me, there's no doubt of it;
All the outside, I mean, that I used to have.
Well—I'll go back again and tell my master.
Perhaps he won't own me! The gods grant he don't!
I shall be free then, even if I'm nobody.

—Act i. sc. 1.

The scene in which the pilot of the ship is unable to decide between the false Amphitryon and the true, when at last they are brought upon the stage together, is probably only a "restoration" of the mutilated work of Plautus. Molière has substituted Sosia for the pilot, and makes him decide in favour of the false pretender. The convincing argument which confirms him in this decision has passed into a proverb, better known perhaps in itself than in its context. Jupiter, in his assumed character of Amphitryon, is made to reserve the disputed identity for the verdict of the Thebans in full assembly: meanwhile he invites all the company present to dinner:—

"Sosia. Je ne me trompais, Messieurs, ce mot termine
⁠Toute l'irrésolution;
⁠Le véritable Amphitryon
⁠Est l'Amphitryon où l'on dîne."^[12]

VIII.—THE POT OF GOLD (AULULARIA).

The prologue to this comedy is spoken in the character of the "Lar Familiaris," as the Romans called him—a sort of familiar spirit supposed to be attached to every Roman household, who had his own little altar near the family hearth, and whose business it was, if duly cultivated, to look after the family fortunes,—a private "Robin Goodfellow." He informs the audience that the owners of the establishment over which he presides at present have been a generation of misers. The grandfather had buried under the hearth a "Pot of Gold," intrusting the secret only to him, the Lar, and praying him to see to its safe keeping; and too covetous, even at his death, to disclose this secret to his son. The son was rather worse than his father, grudging the Lar his sacrifices even more than the old man had; and therefore, the Lar saw no good reason for discovering the treasure to him. And now the grandson, Euclio, is as bad as either father or grandfather. But he has a daughter; rather a nice young woman, the Lar considers: she is constantly paying him little attentions, bringing incense, and wine, and garlands, and suchlike, to dress his altar: and as the Lar must have seen a good deal of her, and the audience is never allowed to see her at all, they have to take his word for her attractions. She will be expecting a husband soon: and the family guardian has fixed upon one for her—Lyconides, nephew to one of their next-door neighbours, Megadorus. But as he has some reason to know that the young man would not be acceptable to her father, he will contrive that the uncle shall ask the girl in marriage for himself, and afterwards resign in his nephew's favour. And he has made known to Euclio the secret of the buried treasure, in the hope that out of it he will provide a liberal dowry for the young lady who is so zealous in her household devotions.

But Euclio has no intention of using the gold in that or in any other fashion. It becomes his one delight, and his perpetual torment. He leaves it buried in its hiding-place: but he is in continual terror lest it should be discovered. He scarcely dares move from home, lest when he returns he should find it gone. Every noise that he hears, he fancies proceeds from some attempt to carry off his treasure. He leads his poor old housekeeper, his one slave Staphyla, a wretched life, from his perpetual worrying. When his neighbour Megadorus comes to ask the hand of his daughter in marriage, he is sure that it is because he has heard in some way of the gold. His continual protest is that he is miserably poor. One of the most ludicrous situations is the dilemma in which he finds himself placed, when upon some occasion a dole of public money is announced for the poorer citizens. If he does not attend and claim his share, his neighbours will think he is a rich man, and be sure to try to hunt out his money: if he goes to the ward-mote to receive it, and has to wait perhaps some time for the distribution, what may not have become of his darling "Pot" during his absence? Acute critics have said, apparently with truth, that in Euclio we have the pure miser; who has no desire to increase his store, no actual pleasure in the possession, no sense of latent power in the gold which he treasures, but who is a very slave to it in the terror of losing it.

Euclio, though much alarmed at first as to the probable motives of Megadorus's request, consents to give him his daughter; still, however, under protest that he is a very poor man, which the other fully believes. He can give no dowry with her; but Megadorus is prepared to take her without; he will even provide out of his own purse all the expenses of the wedding-feast, and will send in to Euclio's house both the provisions and the cooks required for the occasion.

But the cooks, when they come, and begin to busy themselves in the house, are a source of continual agony to the miser. He hears one of them call for a "larger pot:" and he rushes at once to the protection of his gold. He finds his own dunghill-cock scratching about the house; and he is sure that these new-comers have trained him to discover the buried treasure, and knocks the poor bird's head off in his fury. In the end he drives them all off the premises under a shower of blows, and only when he has in their absence dug up the precious pot, and got it safe under his cloak, will he allow them to come back again. When the bridegroom expectant, in the joy of his heart, invites him to drink with him, he feels satisfied that his intention is to make him drunk, and so to wring from him his secret.

The miser carries off the pot, and proceeds to bury it afresh in the temple of Faith, placing it under that goddess's protection. He finds that this proceeding has been watched by a slave belonging to Megadorus, and carries the gold off again to the sacred grove of Sylvanus, where he buries it once more. This time, however, the slave takes his measures successfully, by getting up into a tree; and when Euclio is gone, he unearths the pot, and carries it off rejoicing. The discovery of his loss almost drives the miser frantic: and the scene is worth extracting, if only because Molière has borrowed it almost entire in the well-known soliloquy of Harpagon in 'L'Avare.' It shall be given in as literal a prose version as it will bear, in order to its more ready comparison with the French imitation.

EUCLIO (solus, rushing on the stage).

I'm ruined! dead! murdered!—where shall I run? Where shall I not run to? Stop him there, stop him!—Stop whom! Who's to stop him? (Striking his forehead in despair.) I can't tell—I can see nothing—I'm going blind. Where I'm going, or where I am, or who I am, I cannot for my life be sure of! (Wringing his hands, and appealing to the audience.) Oh pray—I beseech you, help me! I implore you, do! Show me the man that stole it! Ah! people put on respectable clothes, and sit there as if they were all honest! (Addressing a spectator in the front seats.) What did you say, sir? I can believe you, I'm sure—I can see from your looks you're an honest man. (Looking round on them all.) What is it? Why do you all laugh? Ah, I know you all! There are thieves here, I know, in plenty! Eh! have none of them got it? I'm a dead man! Tell me then, who's got it?—You don't know? Oh, wretch, wretch that I am! utterly lost and ruined! Never was man in such miserable plight. Oh, what groans, what horrible anguish this day has brought me! Poverty and hunger! I'm the most unhappy man on earth. For what use is life to me, when I have lost all my gold? And I kept it so carefully!—Pinched myself, starved myself, denied myself in everything! And now others are making merry over it,—mocking at my loss and my misery! I cannot bear it!

—Act v. sc. 2.^[13]

The scene which follows between the miser and the young man Lyconidcs, who has anticipated his uncle in the love of the miser's daughter, has also been borrowed by Molière. Lyconides comes to confess that he has stolen the young lady's affections; but Euclio is so full of his one great loss, that he persists in interpreting all Lyconides's somewhat incoherent language to imply that he is the thief of the gold. The play upon the Latin word olla, which means "pot," and is also the old form of illa, "she," helps the equivoque materially. But the French version is far more amusing; and the words of Harpagon, when, in reply to Valère's talk about "la passion que ses beaux yeux m'ont inspirée," he exclaims in bewilderment, "Les beaux yeux de ma cassette!"^[14] has passed, like so many of Molière's lines, into a favourite proverb.

This play is imperfect, and we only know what the catastrophe was from the brief sketch in the metrical prologue, which Priscian the grammarian is said to have affixed to each of these comedies. The lover recovers the pot of gold for its owner; and—by some miraculous change in the miser's nature—is presented with it as a dowry for the daughter. The later scenes have indeed been supplied by more than one ingenious "restorer;" but such restorations are unsatisfactory at the best.

Besides the admirable adaptation of this comedy in the French, no less than three English dramatists, Fielding, Shadwell, and Wycherley, have each a comedy called 'The Miser,' the plot and materials of all which are borrowed more or less from Plautus.

 

IX.—THE TRICKSTER (PSEUDOLUS).

This comedy would deserve special notice, if only because it was, if we may trust Cicero, the "darling" of Plautus. An author, however, is not an infallible judge of his own works; and though the action of the piece is very busy and lively, and the tricks of Pseudolus fairly amusing, few modern readers would be likely to select it as their favourite. Probably it might act better than it reads. Its plot is the old story of money which has to be raised in some way for the ransom of a slave-girl out of the hands of the dealer, and the humour consists entirely in the devices of Pseudolus to procure it for his young master. But one of the early scenes contains such a graphic picture of one of these hateful traffickers in human flesh and blood, that portions of it may be worth presenting to the reader.

Enter Ballio, the slave-dealer, and four flogging-slaves,
⁠all armed with whips: other slaves following.

Come out, here! move! stir about, ye idle rascals!
The very worst bargain that man ever made,
Not worth your keep! There's ne'er a one of ye
That has thought of doing honest work.
I shall never get money's worth out of your hides,
Unless it be in this sort (lays about them with the whip).
⁠Such tough hides too!
Their ribs have no more feeling than an ass's—
You'll hurt yourself long before you'll hurt them.
And this is all their plan—these whipping-posts—
The moment they've a chance, it's pilfer, plunder,
Rob, cheat, eat, drink, and run away's the word.
That's all they'll do. You'd better leave a wolf
To keep the sheep, than trust a house to them.
Yet, now, to look at 'em, they're not amiss;
They're all so cursedly deceitful.—Now—look here;
Mind what I say, the lot of ye; unless
You all get rid of these curst sleepy ways,
Dawdling and maundering there, I'll mark your backs
In a very particular and curious pattern—
With as many stripes as a Campanian quilt,
And as many colours as an Egyptian carpet.
I warned you yesterday; you'd each your work;
But you're such a cursed,—idle,—mischievous crew—(gives
⁠one of them a cut at each word)
That I'm obliged to let you have this as a memorandum.
Oh! that's your game, then, is it? So you think
Your ribs are as hard as this is? (Shows his whip.) Now, just look!
(Turning to his whipping-slaves). They're minding something
⁠else! Attend to this,
(Striking one of the others.) Mind this, now, will you?
⁠Listen, while I speak.
You generation that were born for flogging;
D'ye think your backs are tougher than this cow-hide?
(Lays about him with it.) Why, what's the matter? Does
⁠it hurt? O dear!—
That's what slaves get when they won't mind their masters.

—Act i. sc. 2.

There was a highly comic element in this, we may be sure, to an audience of Roman freemen. Even if there were, as it is certain there must have been, present in the theatre, many who had been slaves themselves, and whose fathers had been in slavery, and many who were slaves still, we may feel only too sure that their laugh was amongst the loudest. Among the curses of modern slavery has been the selfish disregard of human suffering which it encouraged not only amongst the masters but amongst the slaves themselves; and it is well known that a negro overseer has often shown far more cruelty towards those of his own colour than the white owner of the plantation.

The slave Pseudolus, who is the hero of this piece, and from whom Molière seems to have borrowed in some degree his character of Mascarille in 'L'Etourdi,' is somewhat of a more intellectual rascal than others of his type who appear in these comedies. He looks upon successful roguery as a highly intellectual accomplishment.

Just as the poet, when he takes his pen,
Seeks things which upon earth have no existence,
And straightway finds them, and makes that like truth
Which is but very falsehood; thus will I
In my way be a poet; these gold pieces
Which are not, shall be; genius shall create them.

The scene in which he meets his master Simo, who is looking for him in order to make some inquiries as to the late discreditable goings-on of his son, in which he thinks with some justice that Pseudolus has been aiding and abetting, is a good specimen of cool effrontery. Simo is accompanied by his friend Callipho, and Pseudolus sees them coming.

⁠Pseudolus (to himself). A bold behaviour in a doubtful cause
Is half the victory. (Bowing profoundly to Simo.) Sir,
⁠my best respects—
They are my master's due. (Bowing to Callipho.) My
⁠second best,
Such as are left me, sir, I offer you.
⁠Simo (gruffly). Good morning. Where may you be going, eh?
⁠Pseud. I'm standing still, sir, as you might observe
(striking an attitude).
⁠Si. Look at the fellow's posture, Callipho!
Stands like a lord there!
⁠Callipho. ⁠Well, he's not afraid;
That's a good sign.
⁠Pseud. ⁠I hold, sir, that the slave
Who has an honest conscience (lays his hand on his heart)
⁠should feel proud,
Especially in the presence of his master.
⁠Si. Hark to him! Now he'll so philosophise,
And choke you with a flood of clever words,
You'd think he was not Pseudolus, but Socrates.^[15]
⁠Pseud. You hold me in contempt, sir—that I know;
You do not trust me; ah! you'd have me be
A rascal; no, sir—I'll be honest still.

—Act i. sc. 5.

His master asks him whether he can answer honestly a few questions about his son: and Pseudolus assures him that his replies shall be "as the oracles of Delphi." His son has got into trouble? Yes. Owes money? Yes. He, Pseudolus, is trying to procure it for him? Yes. Probably intending, by some tricks or cajolery, to extract it out of his—the father's—pocket? Pseudolus confesses that he had such intention. And, after some satirical compliment from Simo upon his candour, and thanks for having thus put him on his guard, he coolly assures his master that he retains this intention still, and is confident of succeeding in it. Nay, more—when Simo challenges him to try, he will undertake not only to get from him the money required for the ransom of the young person upon whom his son has set his heart, but to get her away from her present owner without any ransom at all. It ends in a promise from Simo to make him a present of the sum required, if he succeeds in his design upon Ballio the slave-dealer. The old gentleman, however, gets so uneasy on the subject, that he succeeds in "hedging" his own stake in the matter by telling Ballio of the plot which is laid for him, and making a wager with him to the same amount that Pseudolus will beat him in spite of all precautions. He does; and his master—who is evidently as proud of possessing such a clever slave as some people are of a specially mischievous child—hands him over the money; with the less reluctance, because he gets recouped at the expense of the wretched Ballio, who loses both his slave and his wager. Pseudolus liberally offers to return his master half, if he will join him at a supper which he has ordered in celebration of his double triumph; and Simo, in accordance with that curious combination of familiarity and despotism which has been remarked as pervading all the relations between master and slave, accepts the invitation at once, although Pseudolus is very far from sober when he gives it. Simo suggests that he should also invite the audience; but Pseudolus replies that none of them have ever yet invited him. If, however, they will now signify their approval of the comedy, he will give them an invitation—to-morrow.

The plays named 'Epidicus' and 'Bacchides' both turn upon incidents very similar to the preceding, the clever and unscrupulous slave being the leading character in both. They call for no particular notice here; unless it be to mention that the 'Epidicus' must have been, like the play just noticed, a special favourite with its author, since he makes one of the characters in his 'Bacchides' say that he "loves it as well as his own life;"^[16] and that this latter play, like the 'Pseudolus,' appears to have suggested to Molière some points in his 'L'Etourdi.' One of its scenes^[17] has also (as Thornton thinks) been imitated by him in 'Les Fourberies de Scapin.'

X.—THE YOUNG CARTHAGINIAN (PŒNULUS).

This play has an interest apart from any literary merit, because, written as it was during the Second Punic War, it has some Carthaginians introduced into it. We may conclude that the sketches were such as Plautus judged likely to meet the popular taste; and if so, they are creditable to the Roman contemporary estimate of their powerful enemies. With the exception of a joke or two about long trailing foreign dresses, and their being "pulse-eaters,"—just as we used to affect to believe that Frenchmen lived upon frogs,—and a hit in the prologue at the proverbial "Punic faith," which on a Roman's tongue meant Punic faithlessness, there is nothing derogatory to their national character in this impersonation of the Carthaginians by the Roman dramatist. The elder of the two, who is introduced under a very historical name—Hanno—is a highly straightforward and unselfish character, who at once gives up to his cousin, Agorastocles, the "young Carthaginian," as soon as he discovers their relationship, the property which had been left to himself by the young man's father, in the belief of his son's death. Agorastocles himself is neither better nor worse than the Athenian (or, as they really are, Roman) youths who figure in the comedies. And as for Adelphasium—Hanno's lost daughter, with whom the hero of the piece has fallen passionately in love in her position as a slave—there is more character in her than in any one of the heroines (the word must be used because there is no other to be found) of Plautus or of Terence. It is difficult to separate her from the very disagreeable interlocutors in the dialogues in which she takes a part: but the quiet way in which she treats her sister's love of finery, and her half-affected indifference to the flatteries of her lover, and disregard of all his raptures so long as he fails in his promise of obtaining her freedom, mark her out very distinctly from most of the female characters in Plautus. There is an amusing scene in which her lover, finding that she will not listen to him, begs his servant Milphio, in whose rhetorical powers he feels more confidence, to plead his cause with her. Milphio consents to do it—warning his master, at the same time, that he may possibly think his ambassador too energetic. So the young man listens in the background, while Milphio, speaking on his behalf, entreats Adelphasium, in the most approved style of lovers' language, to have some pity upon his unfortunate master. He throws himself so heartily into his commission, that the Carthaginian listens to his rapturous expressions with dismay, and at last can endure it no longer. He rushes forward, and seizes his ambassador by the collar, wholly regardless of the presence of the lady and her sister, who look on with much amusement.

⁠Agorastocles. Now am I not worth purchase at three farthings,
If I don't break that scoundrel's head.—Come here, sir!
⁠(seizes Milphio.)
There's for your "sweets,"—and "dears,"—and "pretty
⁠darlings"—(beats him at each word).
Here's "heart's delight" and "lovely charmer" for you!
⁠(beats him again.)
⁠Milphio. Oh, master, master! it's rank sacrilege!
You're beating an ambassador!
⁠Agor. I'll beat him
More yet.—"Kiss her all day," sir, could you?
I daresay! (striking him again.) "Nestling of your bosom," is she?
⁠Mil. (roaring and rubbing his shoulders). Oh! that's enough!
⁠Agor. ⁠Was that the fashion, sirrah,
In which I meant you to address the lady?
⁠Mil. Why, what was I to say, then?
⁠Agor. ⁠Say, you rascal?
Why, this—"Light of my master's eyes—queen of his soul—
Breath of his life—joy of his heart,"—and so on:
Instead of that, sir, in your cursed impudence,
You've been calling her your darling all the time!
⁠Mil. Oh! now I see! (goes up to Adelphasium, and
⁠begins again.)
⁠I implore you, gracious madam,—
Joy of his heart—but my abomination—
Queen of his soul—but enemy of my ribs—
His pet, my pest—his angel, but my devil—
Light of his eyes—but black as night to me—
Don't be so very cross to him,—if you can help it.
⁠Adelphasium (laughing and turning away). Go hang
⁠yourself! you and your master too!
⁠Mil. I shall lead a precious life of it, I see, through you;
I've got a back already in your service
Whealed like an oyster-shell.
⁠Adel. ⁠It's your own back
That you think most of, I suspect; not him,
Or how he cheats me with deceitful promises.

When Hanno has discovered that these two sisters are the long-lost daughters in search of whom he has journeyed to Calydon, he determines to play upon their feelings for a while—in the most unnecessary and unlikely fashion—by pretending to them that he merely comes to claim them as his slaves. And here, again, there are little touches on the part of Adelphasium which almost redeem the scene from tediousness. Hanno pretends to summon the girls before the magistrate, in order to prove his claim; and the lover, who is present, and helps (though with evident impatience) to humour the father's jest, asks him if he shall at once make Adelphasium his prisoner. She has heard him address the stranger as his "cousin;" and the fine scorn with which, as she draws back from his eager arm, she exclaims—

"Said you this person was your kinsman, sir?"

could not fail to be effective from the lips of a clever actress. So, too, when she requests to know the nature of Hanno's claim to her, and the lover, eager to put an end to the equivoque, says that all shall be told if she will but accompany the stranger, she scornfully replies—

"What! does my own dog bark at me?"

it is not difficult to sympathise with the young Carthaginian's intense admiration of her as she stands there defying him. He vows that for her sake Jupiter would soon "send Juno packing;" and when at last she throws her arms round her father's neck, he laments that Apelles and Zeuxis died too soon—they had never such a subject for their pencil. These are by far the most life-like pair of lovers in any comedy of either Plautus or Terence. Granted that he is a little foolish, and she something of a coquette,—that does not make the characters either less natural or less entertaining.

Nevertheless, all this absurd mystification on the part of the father does make this scene tedious, as are some others in the play. Hanno carries on his heavy joke so long, that at last his young cousin, who is impatient for the recognition of his dear Adelphasium, appeals to him by pointing to the audience:—

"Sir, cut it short—these gentlemen are thirsty."

There is no symptom of relenting disclosed on the part of Adelphasium towards her suitor, even after her true position as a free-woman has been secured; but, as Hanno unhesitatingly promises her hand in marriage to her new-found cousin, and daughters in the comic drama are very dutiful on such points, we are left to conclude that his constancy is rewarded. Mr Dunlop—whose critical judgment is entitled to so much respect—has pronounced this to be the dullest of all the author's productions. Plot there certainly is none; and the heavy badinage of the excellent Hanno is enough to put any critic out of temper. But there is certainly more point in the dialogue than in most of the comedies of Plautus.

The play has a special interest for scholars, independently of any literary merit. It is supposed to contain the only existing specimen of the Carthaginian language, in which Hanno is made to speak when first he appears upon the stage.^[18] There are eighteen lines of it (some of them, however, containing a mixture of Latin words), besides a few scattered phrases. This philological curiosity has naturally much exercised the ingenuity of the learned. Scaliger, Petit, and others, consider the language to be merely a variation of Hebrew, and in Pareus's edition of Plautus the lines are printed in Hebrew characters. Others have sought to identify it with Chinese, Persian, or Coptic. Some modern philologers incline to consider it a mere unmeaning jargon, invented by Plautus for the occasion; and the frequent admixture of Latin words and terminations in the last lines of the passage (as though the writer were tired of keeping up the farce) certainly lends some countenance to this view. The vocalisation of some of the words bears no slight resemblance to Welsh. But the question of the affinities of language is not one to be discussed here.

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The remaining Comedies may be dismissed with brief notice. The stock characters—the parasite, the military swaggerer, and the cunning slave—reappear upon the stage in very similar combinations, and in less respectable company. 'Stichus,' which is in other respects deficient in interest, having no plot whatever, and which some authorities do not consider to have been written by Plautus, deserves notice as containing the pretty female character of Pamphila (or Pinacium, as she is called in some copies), the exemplary young wife who maintains her fidelity to her absent husband in spite of the strong probabilities of his death or desertion. In vain has her father urged upon her and his other daughter, in accordance, no doubt, with the feeling of society on such points, the propriety of unprotected young women in their circumstances marrying again. Their husbands have now been absent, ostensibly on a trading voyage, for above three years, and have sent no word home. But Pamphila will listen to no such suggestion, and encourages her sister in steady resistance to all temptations to such breach of their first vows. Of course both husbands return home in due time, enriched by the profits made in their foreign voyages; and such is the whole story of this brief and inartistic drama, remarkable only for its pleasant companion pictures of the two young wives. Six more plays make up the list of Plautus's surviving comedies, and if these had not survived, we should certainly have had no loss. Their names are 'Casina'—which seems to have furnished Beaumarchais with part of the plot of his 'Mariage de Figaro'—'Curculio,' 'The Ass-dealer' (Asinaria), 'The Churl' (Truculentus), 'The Merchant,' and 'The Persian.' The morality of all these is of the very lowest, and the three last are stupid besides.

---

1. Gold coins struck by the Macedonian kings, and worth about two guineas apiece.
2. This is the only comedy of Plautus which has been presented by Westminster scholars of late years. When it was acted in 1860, the humorous modern Latin Epilogue which now always follows the play (and which is really a short farce in itself) took an especially happy turn, A project was then on foot for removing the School to a different site, and Lesbonicus is introduced in this epilogue as offering to sell the old College premises; while "College John," as the scholars' official is always called, in the character of the slave Stasimus, endeavours to prevent the sale by enlarging upon the horrors of the Thames water and the squalor of Tothill Fields. The negotiation is stopped by the entrance of the Ghost of Dr Busby, who informs them of a treasure which he had buried under the old foundations. They proceed eagerly to dig, and the treasure proves to be—a gigantic rod! which is exhumed and displayed in triumph to the audience. This is, the old Master declares, the real key to honours—the "golden bough" of classic fable—
   ⁠"Aurea virga tibi est, portas quæ pandit honorum."
3. We need not go far to seek the original of the opening lines of 'Bombastes Furioso,' where the hero asks—
   ⁠"Aldibarontiphoskifornio,
   ⁠How left you Chrononhotonthologos?"
4. So Le Capitan Matamore, in Corneille's 'L'Illusion Comique'—
   ⁠"Ciel qui sais comme quoi j'en suis persecuté!
   ⁠Un peu plus de repos avec moins de beauté."
5. These Greek female names are anything but euphonious to English ears. But we must remember that what seems to us a harsh termination was softened away in the Latin pronunciation, and that in its Greek form it was a diminutive; so that names ending in "ion" conveyed to their ear a pet sound, as in our Nellie, Bessie, &c.
6. The same idea occurs in a well-known passage in Homer:—
   ⁠"Gods in the garb of strangers to and fro
   ⁠Wander the cities, and men's ways discern;
   ⁠Yea, through the wide earth in all shapes they go,
   ⁠Changed, yet the same, and with their own eyes learn
   ⁠How live the sacred laws, who hold them, and who spurn."
   ⁠Odyss. xvii. 485 (Worsley's Transl.)
7. Possibly the storm was represented on the stage during the delivery of the prologue, before the action of the piece began.
8. Stratonicus was treasurer to Philip and Alexander, and probably thought himself a greater man than either of his masters. The allusion to Alexandria in "Gripè" is obvious.
9. A portion of this comedy appears to have been performed as an afterpiece in the Dormitory at Westminster in 1798, when a very clever "Fisherman's Chorus," written in rhyming Latin, by the well-known "Jemmy Dodd," then Usher, was introduced.—See Lusus Alt. Westm., i. 177.
10. Parents had no hesitation in "exposing" a child whose birth was for any reason inconvenient; leaving it to die, or be picked up by some charitable stranger, as might be. But it was held a sin to do this without leaving something valuable on the child's person: and jewels, or other articles by which it might possibly be recognised afterwards, were often fastened to its clothes.
11. Molière has improved upon this passage, in the scene in which Sosia tells his master of the beating which he has just received from his own double, and how he was at last convinced that this latter was the real man:—

    ⁠"Longtemps d'imposteur j'ai traité ce moi-même;
    ⁠Mais à me reconnaître enfin il m'a forcé:
    ⁠J'ai vu que c'était moi, sans aucune stratagème;
    ⁠Des pieds jusq'à la tête il est comme moi fait,—
    ⁠Beau, l'air noble, bien pris, les manières charmantes!"
    ⁠—Amphit., act ii. sc. 1.

12. Dunlop shows, however, that this is really borrowed from an older comedy on the same subject by Rotrou—'Les Deux Sosies'—which the later author has laid under contribution in other scenes. Sosia's words in Rotrou's play are—"Point, point d'Amphitryon où l'on ne dîne point."
13. Compare Molière's 'L'Avare,' act iv. sc. 7.
14. 'L'Avare,' act v. sc. 1.
15. This reputation for "sophistry" seems to have followed Socrates from the pages of Aristophanes to those of his brother dramatist.
16. Bacch., act ii. sc. 2.
17. Act iii. sc. 3.
18. Act v. sc. 1.