in the whole range of French comedy: still we must confess that the copy does not please us so much as the original. There is a charm in the carelessness and freedom of the Grecian's dishabille, which is wanting in the full-dress of the Frenchman. There is a mechanic air too in the studied breaks and balances of the latter's versification, which, though pleasing at first, becomes at last fatiguing. It appears as if the poet had composed the air and the music of his verses first, and put the words to them afterwards.

The committal of the dog, in this humorous comedy of the Wasps,' has been imitated by Jonson in the Staple of News, and indeed no writer seems to have had Aristophanes more directly in his eye than our learned Ben. One great point of resemblance which we find between them, is Jonson's imitation of the Grecian poet in the continual introduction of himself upon the stage, the sarcasms upon his fellow-writers, and his praises and dispraises of the actors. These were topics which the Greek comedians never failed to present, and indeed particular parts of the chorus, called the Commatium and the Parabasis, were appropriated to these very purposes. These diatribes are exceedingly entertaining and curious, and exhibit a striking picture of the keenness and acrimony with which the writers of them pursued each other. The interludes of Censure, Mirth and Tuttle, serve much the same purpose in Jonson's Staple of News. His witty introduction to that singular exhibition of low humour, Bartholomew Fair, with many other! passages, might be produced as specimens of the same kind. Another point of resemblance is their love of allegorical persons, and a sort of metaphysical wit, where the same thing that is predicated of the person, will also apply to the passion or affections of the mind, of which the character is the predicament personified.

Our article has reached a great length, but we shall not be thought to have done justice to our author, if we do not exhibit some of those reflections on the female sex, from which a celebrated father of the church is said to have drawn his own invectives on the same subject. It must, however, be acknowledged, in justice to the gallantry of the poet, that he very seldom particularises any of the female sex, as he does those of his own, but arraigns their vices in the gross. The Ecclesiazusæ is a burlesque upon Utopian forms of government, and may be safely recommended to the wild lovers of reform. It turns upon a project concerted by some Athenian dames, who accoutre themselves in the habiliments of their husbands, and who, repairing in this disguise to the ecclesia, or parliament-house, vote that the administration of public affairs should be put into the hands of the women. In a previous meeting, one of the lady-speakers supposes herself to be a man addressing the assembly, and she assigns the following humorous reasons

for

for the propriety of expecting a better government of the state, when managed by females.

In all things they excel us; chief in this,
A reverence of old fashions: To a woman,
They dip their fleeces in hot water,-'twas
The mode in former days; fry their fish, sitting,
'Twas so of yore; bear weights upon their heads,
'Tis a most reverend custom, Here's no change,
No innovation, no new-fangled doctrine;
And well was it for Athens, when old ways
Were yet in vogue! We, fools, must needs, forsooth,
Turn theorists, experimentalists;

And what's the consequence? the city's ruin!
They run to festivals, so did their grandams;
Ill-treat their husbands,-'tis an ancient practice;
House a gallant,-it was their mothers' use;
Keep the tid-bits for him,-'tis an old fashion;
Love a brisk glass,-antiquity is for them;
Another thing-tut! they have precedent.-
What need of more? Commit the reins to them;
And question not th' event: my life upon't,

You'll find yourselves the happiest men on earth.

In the Thesmophoriazusæ he is not less pleasant upon the sex. The thesmophoria were festivals held in honour of Ceres, at which none but freeborn women were allowed to be present. It had been intimated to Euripides, that the ladies, irritated by his reflexions upon the sex, intended to consider, during this festival, what revenge they should inflict upon him. The poet, aware that these were enemies not to be despised, goes in a great fright to Agatho the poet, to consult what should be done. Mnesilochus, his father-in-law, accompanies Euripides, proposes to borrow a woman's garb of Agatho, and engages, in that disguise, to join the women who are celebrating the mysteries, and to speak stoutly in defence of his son-in-law. The scheme is approved, and the following scene admits the readers to the sitting. The meeting is conducted with all the mock solemnity of a general Athenian assembly. The herald proclaims silence by the sacred expression of Ευφημείτε, ευφημείτε! prays that the meeting may turn out to the benefit of the state and the parties concerned, and wishes that whoever of the lady-speakers should deserve best of the Athenian people, and her own sex, may be rewarded with the prize of victory. The chorus follows with a grave hymn; and the business commences with the usual interrogation, Whose pleasure is it to speak?'Upon this Sostrata rises, and, after a short preface, observes that there was no crime of which the poet had not accused them. Nothing can be conceived more truly comic than the medley of humour

and

and satire in which the long string of offences is brought forward
to justify her accusation. A second speaker follows with fresh
complaints, when Mnesilochus, who sees the storm rising, gets up,
as he had promised, to mitigate or avert its fury. He begins,
Sad tales these, by my troth! I marvel not

That they have touch'd you to the quick, and rous'd
All that is woman in you. I profess,

As I'm a mother, and regard my offspring,
I hate the man to madness:-and yet, ladies,
Now we're alone, and none can overhear us,
"Twere not amiss, methinks, to check our spleen,
And view the matter calmly. He has brought
A scantling of our faults upon the stage,

Such as might reach his hearing,. or his knowledge,
No peccadilloes, neither: what of that!
Are there not others that he wots not of?
For my part, ladies, l'ın no innocent.

My slips have not been one, nor two, nor three :
That which sits heaviest on me, is the trick

I play'd my spouse, when but three days a bride-
Euripides ne'er said a word of this ;

Nor how, when better men are not at hand,
A slave or muleteer will serve the purpose.
He said, I grant ye, Phædra was a wanton;
But what is that to us? He never told,

How Pornè spread her cloak before her husband,
Bad him admire the colour, and the texture,
While the gallant avail'd him of the screen,
And slipt away unnoticed! I could mention
A matron here, who feign'd a pregnancy,

And bought a child, while her good man was trotting
From street to street, kind heart! to fetch a midwife!--
Home comes a pitcher, with a chopping boy:
The signal given, "Retire!" the lady cries.
The child, 'tis true, was kicking ripe, but then,
The pitcher's belly was the sufferer.
The proud and happy simpleton pack'd off,
The pitcher's mouth is open'd, and the child
Raises a lusty squall: with that, the beldame,
(Malicious hag!) purveyor of the bantling,
Runs out, and with a grin upon her face,
"Joy, joy, sir! you've a giant to your son!
So like papa! eyes, lips, --then, such a nose!
A fir cone 's nothing to it." Not a word

Of this, dropt from the poet.

The two remaining plays of Aristophanes, the Acharnians and the Peace, will serve to illustrate what we have advanced of the political purposes to which his comedies were applied. They

were

were both written during the Peloponnesian war; the Acharnians in the sixth, and the Peace in the thirteenth year of that cala mitous period, and both contain the strongest exhortations to a general pacification.

he

The plot of the former, which is sufficiently improbable, turns upon a separate treaty of peace, which Dicæopolis makes for himself, exclusively, with the Lacedemonians, and the indignation thereby excited in his townsmen. Aristophanes does not forget his old friend Euripides; but humorously introduces Dicæopolis to him, with a request that he would lend him the beggarly dress of Telephus, or some other tragic character, that he may plead his cause with more effect before the enraged Acharnians. The parabases of this play are written in a high style of patriotic virtue ; they pourtray with much humour the claptraps of the theatres and other public assemblies of the day, and boldly ascribe the origin of the war to the resentment of Pericles at an indignity offered to his favourite mistress Aspasia.-The same object is pursued in the Peace, though with more dramatic effect. Trygæus, a worthy citizen, being much troubled with the afflictions which the Peloponnesian war had brought upon Greece, determines to go to heaven and expostulate with Jupiter upon the subject. For this purpose, after some ineffectual attempts by other means, procures an enormous beetle, which he had been informed from Esop's Fables, was the only winged creature that had ever reached the skies, and on the back of this new steed, he mounts up to heaven. There he meets with Mercury, who at first treats him rather scurvily; but being softened with a little present of butcher's meat, informs him, that Jupiter was not at home, and that the other gods had also quitted their apartments, which were now occupied by the god Polemos, who had thrown the Lady Peace, of whom he was in quest, into a deep pit, the mouth of which was covered with large stones, that no one might get to her. Two allegorical personages, War and Tumult, are then introduced upon the stage, with a prodigious mortar, in which, it seems, it was their amusement to pound the cities that fell under their resentment. One of them goes out to fetch a pestle, and Trygæus takes advantage of his absence, to collect a band of clowns and artisans, and drag up Peace from her place of confinement. This scene furnishes the poet with some sarcastic observations upon the different states of Greece. Trygæus then descends with his prize to earth, meeting with nothing by the way but the souls of a few dithyrambic poets, who were taking the air in search of food for their effusions. The remaining part of the play is employed in laughing at the soothsayers, armourers and others, who had an interest in continuing the war. There is a quaint homeliness, a rude but heartfelt joy, in the

exultation

exultation of the Chorus at the recovery of Peace, which is far

from unpleasant.

Happy I, that know no care,

Helm, nor shield, nor coarse camp-fare!
Wars to me, no pleasure give :-
Then alone, I seem to live,
When, a merry day to make,
My fire-side seat, at home, I take:
There, with friends, the hours to pass,
Brimming high the sparkling glass;
On the hearth a beech-log lying,
On the embers chick-pease frying,
While the crackling wood betrays,
The drying heats of summer days.-
Then, if Thratta's cheek I press,
While my wife retires to dress,
If her rosy lip I touch,

Oh, Jove! 'tis rapture over much.

In troth, it is a super-dainty thing,

When seeding time is o'er, and rain, thank heaven,
Falls without stint, to see a friend drop in,
And in a frank, and hearty way, salute us.
'When shall we make a day, Comarchidas?'
There's nothing like a cup of chirping liquor,
When Jove, as now, takes care to drench our fields,
And set our crops a-growing. Bustle, maids;
Fry us some beans,-three bushels, do you hear?
And add a little wheat; 'twill mend the compound.
And let us taste your figs, dame. Run to Manes,
He's in the vineyard, tell him 'tis no time
For pruning now, when every thing is dripping.
Step you, girl, for some thrushes. There should be,
Unless the cat have trick'd us, (and I heard
A strange, suspicious noise, among the dishes,)
Some beastings, and a slice or two of hare-
Beg a few myrtle boughs of Eschines;
And, in your way, call on Charinades,
Inform him, 'tis a holyday with us,
And that the glass is waiting.-

O'tis sweet, when fields are ringing
With the merry crickets' singing,
Oft to mark, with curious eye,
If the vine tree's time be nigh:
Hers is not the fruit whose birth"
Costs a throe to mother earth.
Sweet it is, too, to be telling,
How the luscious figs are swelling;
Then to riot, without measure,
In the rich, nectareous treasure,