A whale's ill savour, loins, that, Lamia-like,
Had never known the luxury of water,

These, with a camel's hinder parts, made up

Th' uncouth, distasteful compound, &c.-WASPS, 1030.

The comedy which our poet composed for the express purpose of bringing this obnoxious but dangerous demagogue before the people, is called the Knights. It is a strain of coarse but very powerful humour throughout, and will remind the English reader of the facetious history of John Bull by the Dean of St. Patrick. There is in fact a very close resemblance between these two writers; and had Swift turned his thoughts to the stage, and been allowed the privileges of the "old comedy," we are of opinion that the Greek poet would have been his model. The two writers are alike distinguished by their bitter satire; they have the same love for homely imagery, the same tendency to revel in those ideas which most people sedulously exclude from their thoughts: the Attic bard too possesses a slight portion of that misanthropic contempt for his species which so strongly marks the English wit, and both evince the same public spirit, and the same talent for pointing out the true interests of their country by comparisons so familiar, that the meanest understandings cannot mistake them. The character of Demus, by which the poet collectively characterized the Athenian populace, is so evident a prototype of Swift's John Bull, that our readers, we think, will not be displeased to see a translation of it. The play opens with a ludicrous dialogue between the two distinguished Athenian generals, Demosthenes and Nicias, who complain bitterly of the miseries which they had undergone since the introduction of a Paphlagonian tanner (Cleon) into the service of their common master, Demus. They talk at first of going over to the enemy: upon second thoughts, however, they determine to lay their case before the spectators; and Nicias having first begged the audience to show by their looks whether the subject was agreeable, and they, we suppose, assenting, his companion begins as follows:-and never, surely, was "the sovereign people" depicted with greater force and humour.

With reverence to your worships, 'tis our fate
To have a testy, crossgrain❜d, bilious, sour
Old fellow for our master; one much giv'n
To a bean diet; somewhat hard of hearing:
Demus, his name, Sirs, of the parish Pnyx, here.
Some three weeks back or so, this lord of ours
Brought home a lusty slave from Paphlagonia,

Alluding to the beans which the Athenians, who were a nation of judges, made use of in their courts. The poet continually ridicules the fondness of his countrymen for attending these courts.

Fresh from the tan-yard, tight and yare, and with
As nimble fingers and as foul a mouth

As ever yet paid tribute to the gallows.
This tanner-Paphlagonian (for the fellow
Wanted not penetration) bow'd and scrap'd,

And fawn'd and wagg'd his ears and tail, dog-fashion;
And thus soon slipp'd into the old man's graces.
Occasional douceurs of leather-parings,

With speeches to this tune, made all his own.
"Good Sir, the court is up-you've judg'd one cause,
"Tis time to take the bath; allow me, Sir
This cake is excellent-pray sup this broth-
This soup will not offend you, though crop full-
You love an obolus ;* pray, take these three-
Honour me, Sir, with your commands for supper”-
Sad times meanwhile for us! With prying looks,
Round comes my man of hides, and, if he finds us
Cooking a little something for our master,
Incontinently lays his paws upon it,

And, modestly, in his own name presents it!
Then, none but he, forsooth, must wait at table;
(We dare not come in sight;) but there he stands
All supper time, and, with a leathern fly-flap,
Whisks off the advocates; anon the knave
Falls to his oracles, and, when he sees
The old man plunged in mysteries to the ears,
And scared from his few senses, marks his time,
And enters on his tricks. False accusations
Now come in troops; and, at their heels, the whip':
Meanwhile, the rascal shuffles in among us,
And begs of one, brow-beats another, cheats
A third, and frightens all. My honest friends,
These cords cut deep, you find it-I say nothing,
Judge you between your purses and your backs.
I could, perhaps"-We take the gentle hint,
And give him all: if not, the old man's foot
Plays such a tune upon our hinder parts,
That flogging is a jest to 't, a mere flea-bite.

It would lead us too far to enter into the humorous scenes which follow; suffice it to observe, that in consequence of this play, Cleon was condemned to pay a fine of five talents: and the poet thus records his victory, in the Acharnians.

Out, out, upon it: I am sick, heart-sick:

My joys are few, heav'n knows! some three or four:

This is bitter. The Athenian populace were paid three oboli, every time they Attended the court to sit as judges. This drew them thither in crowds, and together, with their fondness for litigation, forms, as we have just observed, an inexhaustible source of satire for Aristophanes.

But for my plagues, they come in whole battalions,
In numbers numberless, like ocean's waves.-

Yet, I have had my touches too of joy.

Pure, genuine joy-when was't? stay, stay-'twas when
I saw those same five talents, dropping from
The full gorg'd maw of Cleon. O, the sight

Was milk and honey to me!

Let it be remembered, to the poet's honour, that his vengeance ceased with the life of Cleon. In the Clouds, he observes, with honest pride,

I struck the living Cleon to the heart,

When all his pomp of greatness was upon him;

'But never spurn'd I at his lifeless corse.

It is more than time to turn to the volume which has called forth these remarks. We have reason to think that the writer of the preface is mistaken in saying that excepting the duplicate versions of the Clouds and Plutus, by White and Theobald, no other translations of Aristophanes have been attempted in England, be sides those before us. A translation of the Plutus was published by Thomas Randolph, the author of the Muse's Looking Glass, in 1651, under the quaint title of Hey for Honesty! Down with Knavery! This was succeeded by another quarto translation, in 1659, with the signature of H. H. B. A folio translation of the Clouds, by Stanley, may be found, we believe, in the History of Philosophy, Lond. 1708. Our wishes, we frankly confess, incline us to hope, that the writer is also somewhat incorrect in say ing, that Aristophanes "begins to form a prominent part in the lecture books of our universities." We doubt whether it be so at Oxford; we are quite sure that it is not so at Cambridge. The fact is, that Aristophanes, though a great wag, is, at times, also a very wicked one; and it is not every one who plunges into mire, that has the good fortune, like the "essayist" in the Dunciad, to "bear no tokens of the sable streams," on emerging from it.

The present volume contains poetic versions of the Clouds and the Frogs, by Mr. Cumberland and Mr. Dunster; and prose translations of the Plutus, by Fielding and Young, conjointly; and of the Birds, "by a member of one of the universities." They are of such different degrees of merit, that the compound reminds us of the tyrant in Virgil, who bound together the living and the dead. Mr. Cumberland's is infinitely superior to the rest; it has naturalized Aristophanes among us, as far as it goes, and we question whether any other language can boast a translation at once so easy and so spirited. Mr. Cumberland never made a more fortunate hit than when he undertook the remains of the comic

poets: it settled his reputation upon a firmer basis than any of his original works; and his version of the Clouds formed an excellent finale to his smaller attempts of the same kind. To say the truth, he seems fully sensible of the value of what he had done; for he is very careful to mention the length of time which the undertaking required, and to hint that, after soliching the assistance of many learned men, he was left to accomplish it single-handed.

The whole of this play is a masterpiece of dramatic skill, wit and effect:* the translation is so well supported throughout, that we might pitch upon any passage indiscriminately, and produce it as a specimen of the inimitable skill of the translator. If Mr. Cumberland fail anywhere, it is in the odes or chorusses, for he was not a very successful rhymer. We could produce a few instances where he has translated rather too freely, and a very few where he has either mistaken, or not quite equalled, his original; but we will not lessen the general excellence of his performance by any remarks upon smaller errors.

The plot of the Plutus is, we presume, familiar to the reader, having been given in one of the papers of the Spectator. It is translated with a close and servile adherence to the text, and will be the farthest of all things from reminding the reader of the author of Tom Jones. It is singular, that Fielding's humour, which shone so powerfully in the prose epic, should desert him whenever he attempted the drama. There is scarcely one of his comedies that does him credit but the Miser; and this play, with the exception of the character of Marianne, is taken from the Avare of Molière. Next to a literal translation of the text, Fielding's aim seems to have been to expose the mistranslations of Mad. Dacier, and her faithful copyist, Theobald. The lady certainly mistakes her author very frequently; and Theobald, as his witty persecutor remarks, shows that it was much easier to translate from the French than from the original. The notes are in

* It has been attempted in the enlarged edition of Brumoy's Greek Theatre, to prove a close resemblance, both in the subject and the conduct of the pieces, between the Clouds of Aristophanes and the Lettres Provinciales of Pascal; but we do not think with much success. Both writers, it is true, combat the sophists and false philosophers of the times, and their compositions are both models of writing in their respective ways. The "Probalisme" of Pascal may also be compared with the Dicæus and Adicus of Aristophanes. But here we think the comparison must end. If the two writers drew their weapons from the same armoury, they were at least of a very different temperament. Aristophanes applies to one person what were the scattered opinions of many. Pascal ascribes to the Jesuits collectively, tenets which, according to Voltaire, were maintained only by a few. The light raillery of Aristophanes cannot be compared with the powerful irony of Pascal, nor the open scoffs and undisguised effrontery of the Athenian, with the bitter humility and stinging reserve of the Frenchman. We disbelieve Aristophanes, and are amused; we place implicit confidence in Pascal, and are shocked. Aristophanes, in the true spirit of comedy, touches chiefly upon points of behaviour which are to be avoided; Pascal mixes with his ridicule of what is wrong, the sublimest exhortations and persuasions to what is right; the former therefore excites unmixed gayety, while even the laughter of the latter inclines us to be serious.

general good, and evince that the translators had a keen perception of the beauties of their author, though they have done little towards making the reader partake of their feelings of enjoyment. The Plutus is a proof of what we advanced above-that Aristophanes might be considered as an ethic writer. Whoever will turn his thoughts to the various effects which the want, or the attainment of wealth has upon the human mind in its several situations, will find them here thrown into action; and instantly recognise them in the person or the conduct of the living Plutus, and those more immediately about him.

"The Frogs" was written, according to Frischlinus, with a view of averting the popular odium which had been drawn upon our poet by the tragedy of Palamedes, in which Euripides had covertly reproached the Athenians with the unjust murder of Socrates. To relish thoroughly the wit and humour of this diverting comedy, it is necessary that the reader should be fully master of the plays of Eschylus and Euripides, the two contending poets. This can hardly be acquired by a perusal of the translations of Potter and Woodhall; for though these versions, and more particularly the former, are highly respectable, the wit of the parody is entirely lost, while the mind is kept wavering by a language, which is the exact property of neither Eschylus nor Potter, and where the standard of comparison (which must be a death-blow to parody) is entirely changed. The English language, too, seems hardly equal to that sustained tone of elegance in which the ancient dramas are generally written. Indeed, no modern language that we are acquainted with, seems equal to this but the Italian, which, by the distinctness of its poetic diction, and power of altering the collocation of its words, is capable of producing much of that tension of the mind, to which no small part of the charm of the Grecian drama is owing. The tragedies of Alfieri are noble imitations of the Greek tragedy, and exhibit a considerable portion of that cold stateliness and sostenuto movement which distinguish the latter, but which, when transfused into our language, generally wear an appearance of stiffness or feebleness. We cannot bestow those praises upon the performance of Mr. Dunster, which the merits of Mr. Cumberland demanded from our hands. His translation is respectable, never sinking very low, nor ever rising to any extraordinary height. His chorusses we think equal, if not superior, to those of his compeer; but his performance, in general, appears tame and cold, after the vigorous and spirited copy of Mr. Cumberland. Mr. Dunster possesses neither the force nor the delicacy of hand of his rival, nor has he his skill of catching the nicer features of his original, and expanding them, as his Attic conciseness sometimes requires, upon his own canvass. The one exhibits the very face, and life-blood, and animation, of his original; the other