In his singular comedy of the Frogs,
Aristophanes deplores the decline of the
tragic drama. Bacchus is represented as a
cowardly voluptuary; but by an amusing
contradiction, he is furnished with the lion's
skin and hero's club of Hercules. Euripides
is dead, and the god swears that there is no
one now on earth who can coin such fine
phrases as he did, no one who can spout,

Some daring high-built rhyme like this you know,
Æther Jove's cottage or the Foot of Time,
Or 'twas my tongue that swore, but not my mind.

In vain does Hercules remind him that there
are ten thousand other poets as good as he.
He answers, "the good ones are all dead, the
bad yet live," and announces his intention of
at once proceeding to that place which is
never mentioned to ears polite, and bringing
back his dear Euripides.

"I've got your clothes on my back," he
says to Hercules, "and am ready to start.
Which is the quickest way?"

"Hang yourself!" replies the demigod.

"Ah! that's a gallows bad way," cries the
self-styled son of mighty Jug (Jove).

"Well, try the beaten path—a mortar."

"Hemlock, I suppose? That's a cold,
chilly way."

"Do you want a quick one all down hill?"
asks Hercules.

"Yes, by Jove; I never was good at
walking."

"Climb to the top of the tower, then,
where you can see the Torch Race; and when
they give the signal to be off, then—be off
accordingly."

"Where?"

"Down below."

"Why, I should dash my brains out!
That'll never do."

Bacchus at last decides to go the road
Hercules had gone before, and receives some
instructions from the hero for finding the old
ferryman with a little punt, who takes people
over for twopence. "That twopence does
the business all the world over!" exclaims
the god, and sets off. Soon after we find him
rowing himself over the lake, where he is
greeted by a chorus of frogs, who welcome
the divine boatman with their sweet sounding
song of Brekekekex, coax coax. Presently,
he discovers Euripides and Æschylus in the
shades below. The wit-combat between the
two poets is very amusing, but only scholars
can appreciate it. The victory remains with
Æschylus. whom Bacchus determines to take
with him when he returns to earth, and
when Euripides reproaches Bacchus for
breaking his promise, the god answers the
taunt with a happy allusion to the poet's own
verse: "My tongue did swear, but I choose
Æschylus."

In one of his plays, Aristophanes takes
literally a bird's-eye view of life and the
world. The Athenians were fond of building
speculative and political castles in the air.
This light and ethereal style of architecture
is not yet obsolete in our own or in a
neighbouring country, and we may like to see how
the old Greek poet treated its unsubstantial
pageantry, when the contractors were not
French or English, but Athenian. In his
Birds, then, he introduces us into the kingdom
of the wildest phantasy, and presents us with
a sort of Arabian Nights Entertainment in
which birds talk, and walk, and fight, and
build. We birds, they say, are a much older
family than you men. The beautiful Love,
with golden wings, was a bird, and we are
his eldest and favourite children. Hoopoe
is king of the birds; the nightingale is
queen. They had been mortals once, known
to men as Tereus and Philomela; but after
that sad domestic affair, had acquired a
sort of winged immortality. Two old
Athenians, fairly worn out with the troubles
and vexations of civic life, and willing
to do anything for peace and quietness,
leave their restless law-loving fellow-
citizens, and arrive at the residence of King
Hoopoe.

"Knock your head against the rock, and
make it a double knock," says one of the
pilgrims.

"Hollo, hollo!" cries his friend.

"What do you mean with your hollo? You
should cry hoop for a Hoopoe."

An attendant now appears.

The king has just finished his meal of
myrtle-berries and ants, and is now comfortably
asleep. His servant Runningbird, however,
calls his Majesty. "Open—the forest,"
exclaims a voice, and with magnificent
plumage and a tremendous beak enters King
Hoopoe. The strangers inform him that
they are desirous of consulting him, and tell
him why!—

    Because you were a man, the same as us,
    And found yourself in debt, the same as us,
    And did not like to pay, the same as us,
    And after that you changed into a bird,
    And ever since have flown and wander'd far
    Over the land and seas, and have acquired
    All knowledge that a bird or man can learn.

Queen Nightingale calls the birds to
council, for the strangers have advised them
to concentrate and build a city. The birds,
who are pecking, hopping, picking, popping
among the barley newly sown, obey the
summons. At first they are alarmed, and
accuse their king of treason to the state. He
introduces the two old men as connections of
his wife, for Philomela was an Athenian, and
tells them, that out of love for the birds and
their way of living, they are come to dwell
among them, and that they are fellows of
infinite wit, and quite capable of doing the
state service.

Charmed with this new prospect of feathering
their nests, the birds bid the travellers
speak for the public weal. The strangers
propose to build a city in the air, or what
was the air once; but—