is
life, which, as Lysistrata observes, amounts to nothing more than
grumbling because they have not laid him out.

Twenty-three centuries are gone since Aristophanes wrote the
_Lysistrata_, but the safe official who dismisses with a traditional
sneer or a smile the notion that any can manage, save those who have
been trained to mismanage, is still with us. Perhaps he has outlived the
class whose prejudices and limitations he formerly expressed; but in the
days of Aristophanes such a class existed, and it is represented here by
the chorus of old gentlemen. In those days the men were not the only
fools. Aristophanes had no intention of making out that they were. He
was a better artist than party man. He was a comic poet who revealed
the essential comedy of all things. The chorus of women, Lysistrata
herself, and the other leading ladies, all have their foibles and
absurdities; only the chorus of men, who are so keenly alive to them,
seem never to guess that there are smuts on the pot. To seek in this age
and country a companion for these old fellows would be to insult our
Western civilization. Let us invent a purely fantastic character; one
who could not sleep at night for fear of Prussians and Social Democrats,
who clamoured daily for a dozen Dreadnoughts, conscription, and the head
of Mr. Keir Hardie on a charger, and yet spent his leisure warning
readers of the daily papers against the danger of admitting to any share
of power a sex notorious for its panic-fearfulness, intolerance, and
lack of humour; such a one would indeed merit admission to the [Greek:
choros geronton], would be a proper fellow to take his stand [Greek:
hexes Aristogeitoni], beside the brave Aristogiton, and [Greek: pataxai
tesde graos ten gnathon], beat down this "monstrous regiment of women."

Aristophanes was a staunch Conservative, but he disliked a stupid
argument wherever he found it. He cared intensely about politics, but he
could not easily forget that he was an artist. Neither the men nor the
women are tied up and peppered with the small shot of his wit; they are
allowed to betray themselves. The art consists in selecting from the
mass of their opinions and sentiments what is most significant, and
making the magistrate, who speaks for the party, deliver himself of
judicious commonplaces. The chorus of wiseacres, the bar-parlour
politicians, whom chance or misfortune has led to favour one side rather
than the other, are less cautious witho