As a satirist and a wit Lucian stands without a rival. In these respects he may be said to occupy in prose literature the unique position which Aristophanes holds in Greek poetry. But whether he is a mere satirist, who laughs while he lashes, or a misanthrope, who hates while he derides, is not very clear. In favour of the former view it may be said that the two main objects of his ridicule are mythology and the sects of philosophy; in favour of the latter, his bitter exposure of imposture and chicanery in the Alexander, and the very severe attacks he makes on the “humbug” of philosophy, which he everywhere assails with the most acrimonious and contemptuous epithets.

As a writer Lucian is fluent, easy, and unaffected, and a close follower of the best Attic models, such as Plato and the orators. His style is simpler than Plutarch’s, and some of his compositions, especially the Dialogues of the Gods (pp. 204-287) and of the Marine Deities (288-327), and, above all, the Dialogues of the Dead (329-454), are models of witty, polished, and accurate Greek composition. Not less clever, though rather lax in morality, are the ίταιρικοί διάλογοι (pp. 280-325), which remind us somewhat of the letters of Alciphron. The sarcasms on the popular mythology, the conversations of Pluto, Hermes, Charon, and others of the powers in Hades, show a positive disbelief of any future state of existence. The model Lucian followed in these dialogues, as well in the style as in the sparkling and playful repartee, was the Platonic conversations, founded on the drama, of which the dialogue may be called the prose representative. Aristotle never adopted it, perhaps regarding it as beneath the true dignity of philosophy. The dialogue, in fact, was revived and improved by Lucian, the old traditions of the λoγoτroιoi and λογογράφοι, and above all, the immense influence of rhetoric as an art, having thrown some discredit on a style of composition which, as introduced by Plato, had formed quite a new era in Greek prose composition. For rhetoric loved to talk, expatiate, and declaim, while dialectic strove to refute by the employment of question and answer, often in the briefest form.

In his language, as tested by the best classical models, Lucian is at once elegant and correct. But he occasionally indulges in idioms slightly solecistic, as in the use of κu,v (και αν) with a future or even an imperative, μη in place of oi, the particle αv misplaced or wrongly added, and a subjunctive mood instead of an optative. Nevertheless, he evinces a perfect mastery over a language as wonderful in its inflexions as in its immense and varied vocabulary; and it is a well-merited praise of the author to say that to a good Greek scholar the pages of Lucian are almost as easy and as entertaining as an English or French novel. In this respect they form a contrast with the somewhat “crabbed” style of Plutarch, many of whose moral treatises are by no means easy reading.

Of course Greek, like every other language, is progressive, and the notion of fixing it to any given period as absolutely the best is quite arbitrary. We shall not be surprised at finding in Lucian some forms and compounds which were not in use in the time of Plato or Demosthenes. Thus, he has ΰπερείδει.<; for vτrepopa<s (p. 99), τrεπeμμεvo<s as the participle of the perfect passive of ττεμπω (p. 240), εvσ∈σ∈ικε the perfect of ∈Vσειω (p. 705), to which a purist would object; and there are occasional tendencies to Latinism which can hardly surprise us. From a writer living under Roman rule we may expect some Latin words in his vocabulary, as ≤ακ∈pδως for Sacerdos, and Roman names like Μάγνος, Keλσoς, K∈λτyp (Celer), 'Ρουτιλλίανος, etc. In the Lexiphanes a long passage is read from a treatise composed in words of the strangest and most out of-the-way form and sound, on hearing which Lucian pretends to be almost driven crazy (p. 342). His own sentiments on the propriety of diction are shown by his reproof to Lexiphanes (§ 24), “if anywhere you have picked up an out-of-the-way word, or coined one which you think good, you labour to adapt the sense of it, and think it a loss if you do not succeed in dragging it in somewhere, even when it is not really wanted.” The free use of such a vocabulary even in satire shows Lucian’s intimate knowledge of the spurious bombast which had begun to corrupt the classic dialect.

Lucian founded his style, or obtained his fluency, from the successful study of rhetoric, by which he appears to have made a good income from composing speeches which attracted much attention. At a later period in life he seems to have held a lucrative office in Egypt. When he “all but had one foot in Charon’s boat” (he says in Apologia, § 1), “he lent his neck to be bound by a golden collar.” This office was to register the actionsand verdicts of the law courts,—he was a kind of “Master of the Rolls,” who had the custody of the state documents, and received his salary directly from the king (ibid., § 12). He speaks of the emoluments as oυ σμu<pος μιxrθδς αλλά πολυτάλαντος. We do not know the date of Lucian’s death, but he may have lived till about 200 a.d.

The extant works of this writer are so numerous that of some of the principal only a short sketch can be given. To understand them aright we must remember that the whole moral code, the entire “dutyof man,” was included, in the estimation of the pagan Greek, in the various schools of philosophy. As these were generally rivals, and the systems they taught were more or less directly antagonistic, truth presented itself to the inquirer, not as one, but as manifold. The absurdity and the impossibility of this forms the burden of all Lucian’s writings. He could only form one conclusion, viz., that there is no such a thing as truth.

One of the best written and most amusing treatises of antiquity is Lucian’s True History, which forms a rather long narrative in two books. It is composed, he says in a brief introduction, not only as a pastime and a diversion from severer studies, but avowedly as a satire (οiκ ακωμωδητως, p. 71) on the poets and logograplιers who have written so many marvellous tales, πολλά τεράστια και μυθώδη. He names Ctesias and Homer; but Hellanicus and Herodotus, perhaps other λoγoπoιoι still earlier, appear to have been in his mind. The only true statement in his History, he wittily says (p. 72), is that it contains nothing but lies from beginning to end.

The main purport of the story is to describe a voyage to the moon. He set out, he tells us, with fifty companions, in a well-provisioned ship, from the “Pillars of Hercules,” intending to explore the western ocean. After eighty days rough sailing they came to an island on which they found a Greek inscription, “This was the limit of the expedition of Heracles and I)ionysus and the visit of the wine-god seemed attested by some miraculous vines which they found there. After leaving the island they were suddenly carried up, ship and all, by a whirlwind into the air, and on the eighth day came in sight of a great round island shining« with a bright light (p. 77), and lying a little above the moon. In a short time they are arrested by a troop of gigantic “horse-vultures” (ίππόγυποι), and brought as captives to the “man in the moon,” who proves to be Endymion. He is engaged in a war with the inhabitants of the sun, which is ruled by King Phaethon, the quarrel having arisen from an attempt to colonize the planet Venus (Lucifer). The voyagers are enlisted as “Moonites,” and a long description follows of the monsters and flying dragons engaged in the contest. A fight ensues, in which the slaughter is so great that the very clouds are tinged with red (p. 84). The long description of the inhabitants of the moon is extremely droll and original, and has often been more or less closely imitated. After descending safely into the sea, the ship is swallowed by a huge “sea serpent” more than 100 miles long. The adventures during the long confinement in the creature’s belly are most amusing; but at last they sail out through the chinks between the monster’s teeth, and soon find themselves at the “Fortunate Islands.” Here they meet with the spirits of heroes and philosophers of antiquity, on whom the author expatiates at some length. The tale comes to an abrupt end with an allusion to Herodotus in the promise that he “will tell the rest in his next books.” The story throughout is written in easy and elegant Greek, and shows the most fertile invention.

Another curious and rather long treatise is entitled Λoυκιoς η ovoς. The authorship is regarded as doubtful; the style, as it seems to us, does not betray another hand. Parts of the story are coarse enough; the point turns on one Lucius visiting in a Thessalian family, in which the lady of the house was a sorceress. Having seen her changed into a bird by anointing herself with some potent drug, he resolves to try a similar experiment on himself, but finds that he has become an ass, retaining, however, his human senses and memory. The mistake arose from his having filched the wrong ointment; however, he is assured by the attendant, Palaestra, that if he can but procure roses to eat, his natural form will be restored. In the night a party of bandits break into the house and carry off the stolen goods into the mountains on the back of the unfortunate donkey, who gets well beaten for stumbling on the rough road. Seeing, as he fancies, some roses in a garden, he goes in quest of them, and again gets beaten as a thief by the gardener (p. 585). After many adventures with the bandits, he attempts to run away, but is caught. A council is held, and he is condemned to die along with a captive girl who had essayed to escape on his back. Suddenly, however, soldiers appear, and the bandits are arrested (p. 595). Again the ass escapes “to the great and populous city of Beroea in Macedonia” (p. 603). Here he is sold to a strolling conjurer, afterwards to a marketgardener; and both experiences are alike painful. Again he passes into the possession of a cook, wdιere he gets fat and sleek on food more suited to his concealed humanity than the hard fare he has of late lived upon (p. 614). At last, during an exhibition in the theatre, he sees some roses being carried past, and, making a successful rush to devour them, he recovers his former shape. “I am Lucius,” he •exclaims to the wondering president of the exhibition, “and my brother’s name is Caius. It was a Thessalian witch that changed me into a donkey.” Thus all ends well, and he returns safe to his country. Droll and graphic as many of the adventures are, they but too clearly show the profligate morals of the age.

The treatise On the Syrian Goddess (Mylitta, the moongoddess, the Semitic Venus) is written in the Ionic dialect in imitation perhaps of the style of Herodotus, though the resemblance is by no means close. The writer professes to be an Assyrian (p. 452), and to describe the wonders in the various temples of Palestine and Syria; he descants on the eunuchs of Syria and the origin of the self-imposed privation of manhood professed and practised by the Galli. The account of the temples, altars, and sacrifices is curious, if really authentic; after the manner of Pausanias it is little more than a list, with the reasons in most cases added, or the origin of the custom explained.

De Horte Peregrini is a narrative of one Proteus, a Cynic, who after professing various doctrines, and among them those of Christianity, ended his own life by ascending a burning pyre (p. 357). 1 The founder of the Christian religion is described (p. 334) as “the man who had been crucified (or fixed to a stake, αvασκoλo∙7rt<r0∈i'τα) in Palestine,” and as one “still worshipped for having introduced a new code of morals into life.” The zeal of the early converts is shown by their flocking to the prison when Proteus had been arrested, by the sympathy conveyed from distant cities of Asia (p. 336), by contributions of money for his support, and by their total indifference to life; for “the poor wretches have persuaded themselves that they will live for ever.’’ The founder of the religion, “that first lawgiver of theirs,” says Lucian, “made them believe that they are all brothers when once they have abjured the gods of Greece and worshipped the crucified man who is their teacher, and have begun to live according to his laws” (p. 337).

Bis accusatus is a dialogue commencing with a satire on the folly of the popular notion that the gods alone are happy. Zeus is represented as disproving this by enumerating the many and heavy duties that fall to their lot in the government of the world, and Hermes remarks on the vast crowds of philosophers of rival sects, by whose influence the respect and worship formerly paid to the gods have seriously declined. A trial is supposed to be held under the presidency of the goddess Δύο?, between the Academy, the Porch, the schools of the Cynics and Epicureans, and Pleasure, Revelry, Virtue, Luxury, <frc,, as variously impugned or defended by them. Then Conversa tion and Rhetoric come before the court, each having an action for defamation to bring against Syrus the essayist, who of course is Lucian himself (p. 823). His defence is heard against the charges of both, and in both cases he is triumphantly acquitted. This essay is brilliant from its clever parodies of Plato and Demosthenes, and the satire on the Socratic method of arguing by short questions and answers.

The Lover of Lying (Φιλοψeυ⅛-ης) discusses the reason why some persons seem to take pleasure in falsehood for its own sake, and when there is nothing to be gained by it. Under the category of lying all mythology (eg., that of Homer and Hesiod) is included, and the question is asked, why the hearers of such stories are amused by them? Quack remedies, charms, and miraculous cures are included among the most popular kinds of falsehood; witchcraft, spiritualism, exorcism, expulsion of devils, spectres, are discussed in turn, and a good ghost story is told in p. 57. An anecdote is given of Democritus, who, to show his disbelief in ghosts, had shut himself up in a tomb, and when some young men, dressed up with death’s heads, came to frighten him at night, and suddenly appeared to him while he was engaged in writing, he did not even look up, but called out to them, “Stop your joking” (p. 59). This treatise, a very interesting one, concludes with the reflexion that truth and sound reason are the only remedies for vain and superstitious terrors.

The dialogue Navigium seu Vota (Πλοίον g eνχαC) gives an apparently authentic account of the measurements and fittings of an Egyptian ship which has arrived with a cargo of corn at the Piraeus, driven out of its course to Italy by adverse winds. The full length is 180 feet, the breadth nearly 50, the depth from deck to the bottom of the hold 43 feet. The “wishes” turn on a party of friends, who have been to see the ship, declaring what they would most desire to possess. One would have the ship filled with gold, another a fine house with gold plate; a third would be a “tyrant” with a large force devoted to his interests; a fourth would like to make himself invisible, enter any house that he pleased, and be transported through the air to the objects of his affection. After hearing them all, the first speaker, Lycinus (Lucian), says that he is content with the privilege of laughing heartily at the vanity of human wishes, especially when they are those of professed philosophers.

The dialogue between Philo and Lycinus, Convivium sen Lapithae, is a very amusing description of a banquet, at which a party of dignified philosophers quarrelled over their viands at a marriage feast, and came to blows. The style is a good imitation of Plato, and the scene reminds one of the “clients’ dinner” in the fifth satire of Juvenal. One of the party is so irritated by taunts that he flings a goblet half full of wine at the head of another, who retorts by spitting in the face of the aggressor (p. 441). Matters come to a climax by the attempt of one of the guests, Zenothemis, to secure for himself a fatter fowl which had been served to his next neighbour Hermon. Each seizes his bird and hits the other with it in the face, at the same time pulling his beard. Then a general fight ensues, and serious wounds are inflicted. The story is, of course, a satire on philosophy, the favourite topic of a writer who believed neither in gods nor in men.

The Piscator, a dialogue between Lucian, Socrates, Pythagoras, Empedocles, Plato, and others, commences with a general attack on the author as the enemy of philosophy. Socrates proposes that the culprit should be tried, and that Philosophia should assist in the prosecution. Lucian declares that he does not know where such a person lives, long as he has been looking for her (§ 11). She is found at last, but declares Lucian has never disparaged 1 It is open to controversy whether he was not a martyr at the stake.

her, but only impostors and pretenders under her name (§ 15). He makes a long defence (pp. 598-606), abusing the philosophers in the sort of language in which some schools of theologians abuse...