Perhaps the burlesque of the two well-known commanders bemoaning themselves in this parody of popular music does not imply more childishness on the part of an Athenian audience than the nigger choruses and comic operas of our own day. But, as Demosthenes, the stronger character of the pair, observes at last--“crying’s no good.” They must find some remedy. And there is one which occurs to him,--an effectual one--but of which the very name is terrible, and not safely to be uttered. It lies in a word that may be fatal to a slave, and is always of ill omen to Athenian ears. At last, after a fashion quite untranslatable, they contrive to say it between them--“Run away.” The idea seems excellent, and Demosthenes proposes that they should take the audience into their confidence, which accordingly they do,--begging them to give some token of encouragement if the plot and the dialogue so far please them:-- “_Dem. (to the audience.)_ Well, come now! I’ll tell ye about it--Here are we, A couple of servants--with a master at home Next door to the hustings. He’s a man in years, A kind of a bean-fed,[8] husky, testy character, Choleric and brutal at times, and partly deaf. It’s near about a month now, that he went And bought a slave out of a tanner’s yard, A Paphlagonian born, and brought him home,-- As wicked a slanderous wretch as ever lived. This fellow, the Paphlagonian, has found out The blind side of our master’s understanding, With fawning and wheedling in this kind of way: ‘Would not you please go to the bath, sir? surely It’s not worth while to attend the courts to-day.’ And--‘Would not you please to take a little refreshment? And there’s that nice hot broth--and here’s the threepence You left behind you--and would not you order supper?’ Moreover, when we get things out of compliment As a present for our master, he contrives To snatch ’em and serve ’em up before our faces. I’d made a Spartan cake at Pylos lately, And mixed and kneaded it well, and watched the baking; But he stole round before me and served it up:[9] And he never allows us to come near our master To speak a word; but stands behind his back At meal times, with a monstrous leathern fly-flap, Slapping and whisking it round, and rapping us off. Sometimes the old man falls into moods and fancies, Searching the prophecies till he gets bewildered, And then the Paphlagonian plies him up, Driving him mad with oracles and predictions. And that’s his harvest. Then he slanders us, And gets us beaten and lashed, and goes his rounds Bullying in this way, to squeeze presents from us: ‘You saw what a lashing Hylas got just now; You’d best make friends with me, if you love your lives.’ Why then, we give him a trifle, or, if we don’t, We pay for it; for the old fellow knocks us down, And kicks us on the ground.”--(F.)