The Eleven Comedies, vol 2 | Page 3

our
way to belabour him again. Our little subject is not wanting in sense; it

is well within your capacity and at the same time cleverer than many
vulgar Comedies.--We have a master of great renown, who is now
sleeping up there on the other story. He has bidden us keep guard over
his father, whom he has locked in, so that he may not go out. This
father has a curious complaint; not one of you could hit upon or guess it,
if I did not tell you.--Well then, try! I hear Amynias, the son of
Pronapus, over there, saying, "He is addicted to gambling."
XANTHIAS. He's wrong! He is imputing his own malady to others.
SOSIAS. No, yet love is indeed the principal part of his disease. Ah!
here is Sosias telling Dercylus, "He loves drinking."
XANTHIAS. Not at all! The love of wine is the complaint of good
men.
SOSIAS. "Well then," says Nicostratus of the Scambonian deme, "he
either loves sacrifices or else strangers."
XANTHIAS. Ah! great gods! no, he is not fond of strangers,
Nicostratus, for he who says "Philoxenus" means a dirty fellow.[15]
SOSIAS. 'Tis mere waste of time, you will not find it out. If you want
to know it, keep silence! I will tell you our master's complaint: of all
men, it is he who is fondest of the Heliaea.[16] Thus, to be judging is
his hobby, and he groans if he is not sitting on the first seat. He does
not close an eye at night, and if he dozes off for an instant his mind
flies instantly to the clepsydra.[17] He is so accustomed to hold the
balloting pebble, that he awakes with his three fingers pinched
together[18] as if he were offering incense to the new moon. If he sees
scribbled on some doorway, "How charming is Demos,[19] the son of
Pyrilampes!" he will write beneath it, "How charming is Cemos!"[20]
His cock crowed one evening; said he, "He has had money from the
accused to awaken me too late."[21] As soon as he rises from supper he
bawls for his shoes and away he rushes down there before dawn to
sleep beforehand, glued fast to the column like an oyster.[22] He is a
merciless judge, never failing to draw the convicting line[23] and return
home with his nails full of wax like a bumble-bee. Fearing he might run

short of pebbles[24] he keeps enough at home to cover a sea-beach, so
that he may have the means of recording his sentence. Such is his
madness, and all advice is useless; he only judges the more each day.
So we keep him under lock and key, to prevent his going out; for his
son is broken-hearted over this mania. At first he tried him with
gentleness, wanted to persuade him to wear the cloak no longer,[25] to
go out no more; unable to convince him, he had him bathed and
purified according to the ritual[26] without any greater success, and
then handed him over the the Corybantes;[27] but the old man escaped
them, and carrying off the kettle-drum,[28] rushed right into the midst
of the Heliasts. As Cybelé could do nothing with her rites, his son took
him again to Aegina and forcibly made him lie one night in the temple
of Asclepius, the God of Healing, but before daylight there he was to be
seen at the gate of the tribunal. Since then we let him go out no more,
but he escaped us by the drains or by the skylights, so we stuffed up
every opening with old rags and made all secure; then he drove short
sticks into the wall and sprang from rung to rung like a magpie. Now
we have stretched nets all round the court and we keep watch and ward.
The old man's name is Philocleon,[29] 'tis the best name he could have,
and the son is called Bdelycleon,[30] for he is a man very fit to cure an
insolent fellow of his boasting.
BDELYCLEON. Xanthias! Sosias! Are you asleep?
XANTHIAS. Oh! oh!
SOSIAS. What is the matter?
XANTHIAS. Why, Bdelycleon is rising.
BDELYCLEON. Will neither of you come here? My father has got into
the stove-chamber and is ferreting about like a rat in his hole. Take care
he does not escape through the bath drain. You there, put all your
weight against the door.
SOSIAS. Aye, aye, master.
BDELYCLEON. By Zeus! what is that noise in the chimney? Hullo!

who are you?
PHILOCLEON. I am the smoke going up.
BDELYCLEON. Smoke? smoke of what wood?
PHILOCLEON. Of fig-wood.[31]
BDELYCLEON. Ah! 'this the most acrid of all. But you shall not get
out. Where is the chimney cover?[32] Come down again. Now, up with
another cross-bar. Now look out some fresh dodge. But am