puns, and bulls of all kinds, that must have afforded Homeric laughter to the plebeians of Pompeii.  The longshoremen of Naples, in our day, seek exactly similar effects in the admixture of pure Italian and the local patois.  The titles of some of the Atellian farces are still extant:  “Pappus, the Doctor Shown Out,” “Maccus Married,” “Maccus as Safe Keeper,” etc.  These are nearly the same subjects that are still treated every day on the boards at Naples; the same rough daubs, half improvised on the spur of the moment; the same frankly coarse and indecent gayety.  The Odeon where we are now, was the Pompeian San Carlino.  Bucco, the stupid and mocking buffoon; the dotard Pappus, who reminds us of the Venetian Pantaloon; Mandacus, who is the Neapolitan Guappo; the Oscan Casnar, a first edition of Cassandra; and finally, Maccus, the king of the company, the Punchinello who still survives and flourishes,—­such were the ancient mimes, and such, too, are their modern successors.  All these must have appeared in their turn on the small stage of the Odeon; and the slaves, the freedmen crowded together in the upper tiers, the citizens ranged in the middle cavea or family-circle, the duumvirs, the decurions, the augustals, the aediles seated majestically on the bisellia of the orchestra, even the priestesses of the proscenium and the melancholy Eumachia, whose statue confesses, I know not what anguish of the heart,—­all these must have roared with laughter at the rude and extravagant sallies of their low comedians, who, notwithstanding the parts they played, were more highly appreciated than the rest and had the exclusive privilege of wearing the title of Roman citizens.

Now, if these trivialities revolt your fastidious taste, you can picture to yourself the representation of some comedy of Plautus in the Odeon of Pompeii; that is, admitting, to begin with, that you can find a comedy by that author which in no wise shocks our susceptibilities.  You can also fill the stage with mimes and pantomimists, for the favor accorded to that class of actors under the emperors is well known.  The Caesars—­I am speaking of the Romans—­somewhat feared spoken comedy, attributing political proclivities to it, as they did; and, hence, they encouraged to their utmost that mute comedy which, at the same time, in the Imperial Babel, had the advantage of being understood by all the conquered nations.  In the provinces, this supreme art of gesticulation, “these talking fingers, these loquacious hands, this voluble silence, this unspoken explanation,” as was once choicely said, were serviceable in advancing the great work of Roman unity.  “The substitution of ballet pantomimes for comedy and tragedy resulted in causing the old masterpieces to be neglected, thereby enfeebling the practice of the national idioms and seconding the propagation, if not of the language, at least of the customs and ideas of the Romans.” (Charles Magnin.)