The drama of “Ixion” opens in a “parlour” in the palace of Jupiter, on Mount Olympus, the persons present being Jupiter, with Mercury in attendance, at a respectful distance. Jupiter opens the scene with a song, which, like almost every passage of this singular composition, conveys practical lessons on the savoir vivre that are certainly not the less instructive for the fun in which they are clothed. It also lets us at once into the gist of what is to follow:—

He does not indicate the exact locality of this rendezvous; but it was doubtless either the “Cyder Cellar” or “Coal Hole,” or some similar establishment, of the Simpson of Mycenæ, where the palace of Amphitryon was situated.

This contretemps gives rise to a scene than which the “Doctors’ Commons” to which the lady threatens to appeal never witnessed anything more characteristic of that particular phase of “double-blessedness” of which it is the appointed guardian. With the exception of about a dozen lines, the whole of this scene is conducted in the characteristic form of a duet—a duet of discords; at the close of which the singers make their exit in different directions, and Ixion, the hero of the piece, enters.

Ixion has come to make a morning call on Juno, and overhearing the conclusion of the quarrel that has been described above, thinks it presents a good occasion for one of those bonnes fortunes which such gentry as he represents are ever affecting. But the singular anticipations noticed above are not the only ones belonging to this character. He is an antetype of Brother Jonathan himself, and in a diction that has hitherto been thought to be exclusively of Yankee invention. Here is an example. While considering how he shall prosecute his ambitious design of making love to the Queen of Heaven, he gets a sight of himself in a mirror.

Nubilis, Juno’s waiting-maid, enters at the conclusion of this song, and, on learning that her lover is about to depart for Earth, a scene of recrimination ensues, which, after a little cajolery on the part of the gentleman, closes happily with the extraordinary duet that has been given at the opening of this description: “The Sun at Tyburn,” &c.

This scene closes with an assignation on the part of the lady to meet Ixion after dark in the painted gallery of the palace. We are led to understand, however, that she intends to have the grace to substitute for her own celestial person that of Nubilis, her maid. But we are also led to doubt whether she would have felt it necessary to practise this ruse, if she had not discovered, in the course of their last interview, that the gentleman is anything but a gentleman.

This scene closes the first act.

Jupiter finds all this feting somewhat slow work, especially as he has not dined since his arrival on earth. He therefore dismisses all his admirers with an invitation to a jolly carouse to-morrow, himself crying, “Hey for the pantry!” while Alcmena retires to her dressing-room, to await his coming and quarrel with her maid, who seems to have some inkling of the new arrival not being exactly “le vrai Amphitryon”—a notion which the lady utterly discountenances. It is true, she admits that “My husband’s face is somewhat out at elbows;” but this, she insists, is no concern of the suivante’s; and the latter, having the wit to see that the case is one in which it is not safe to be too sharp-sighted, all goes well again.

The next scene is occupied with the sudden return of the vrai Amphitryon, and the as sudden evasion of the supposititious one—who fairly runs for it, followed by his victim in full cry. As, however, the imperial intruder cannot stomach the injurious imputations implied in “Stop thief!” “Jail bird!” and the like, which the true Amphitryon flings after him, he turns on his pursuer, trips up his heels, and leaves him bellowing on the ground—where he literally “sings out” his grievances till his own servants come to his aid. But as they are now (as we know) in the pay of Jupiter, their advent does not mend the matter for Amphitryon; on the contrary, their master’s helpless condition affords them a good opportunity of administering the hocussing potion entrusted to them in the preceding scene; and the poor gentleman is carried off, still singing his doleful ditty.

Meanwhile, Jupiter returns to the side scene, to watch what is going on; and Alcmena, alarmed by the cries of her husband, arrives at the spot, only again to be deceived into the belief that Jupiter is her legitimate lord and master, and that the hubbub she had heard was nothing but a chance rencontre between himself and some “sorry fellow” who had obtruded on his privacy. The lady is easily reassured; though her alarm has (as she eloquently describes it) made her feel “light-headed quite in all her limbs;” and the second act concludes by their walking off together, to set all right over a dish of coffee.

I am sorely tempted to enrich my pages by some further extracts from this capital production; but I stay my hand, on the consideration that, in doing so, I should be treating unfairly a drama that may, at no distant period, see the light in its integrity.