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quent Symmachus* is sent by the Pagans, as a delegate to request the Roman Senate to restore the altar of Victory which had previously been cast down by the prevailing party. He is eloquent and impressive, but he has no argument. In the course of his speech he introduces Rome herself, the celestial genius that presided over the fate of the city, to plead her own

case:

"Most excellent Princes, Fathers of your country, pity and respect my age, which has hitherto flowed on in an uninterrupted course of piety. Since I do not repent, permit me to continue in the practice of my ancient rites. Since I am born free, permit me to enjoy my domestic institutions. This religion has reduced the world under my laws. These rites have repelled Hannibal from the city and the Gauls from the Capitol. Were my grey hairs reserved for such intolerable disgrace? I am ignorant of the new system which I am required to adopt, but I am well assured that the correction of old age is always an ungrateful and ignominious office."t

But when Ambrose, the old Archbishop of Milan, arose, and, in a tone not without contempt, asked him why he had introduced an imaginary and invisible power, as the cause of deeds which were sufficiently explained by the valor and discipline of the legions, the delegate was confounded. He had no power whatever of identifying the causes of Rome's greatness with the Pagan faith. Hence we see that whenever the Roman polytheists were thrown back upon their integrity, they were forced to admit that their best reason for believing that their gods did exist was, that such had, for several centuries, been the general impression.

Lucian did them no injustice when, in a controversy supposed to occur between an orthodox Stoic, by the name of Timocles, and a sceptic, he represents the former winding up the contest by the following crushing syllogism: " If there be altars, gods must exist; but there are altars, therefore gods do exist."

A creed thus destitute of proofs, and without any common and standard authority by which its believers might be guided, could not, of course, originate a pulpit. We look in vain throughout the empire of Pagan Rome for the Preacher. The thousands and tens of thousands of priests, whom Christian Rome subsequently distributed over all the cities and villages and hamlets of Europe, to become the advocates and defenders of the "new faith," exercised an influence to which Paganism was an entire stranger. It had no Chrysostoms and Augustines, no Bossuets and Taylors to expound its doctrines; no Paley, with his Evidences, nor Butler, with his Analogy, to demonstrate their truth; still less could it boast of its "noble army of martyrs," like those who marched forth from the foot of the cross, to bear testimony by their sufferings and death to the holiness of that calling wherewith they were called.

There are other reasons no less deserving of consideration, for the falling away of the people from the Pagan faith. From the time when Augustus made his declaration of universal peace, the Roman army had been comparatively idle. Consequently the customary sacrifices and consultations of augurs, which always used to precede their military expeditions, soon went into comparative disuse, and with them all the pomp and circumstance which made those mysterious ceremonies so

The eloquent Symmachus, a wealthy and noble Senator, who united the sacred characters of Pontiff and Augur with the civil dignities of Proconsul of Africa and Prefect of the City.-Gib., vol. ii., p. 185.

Epist. Sym., lib. 10. e. 54.

Jupiter Tragœdus.-This logic reminds us of the very satisfactory explanation of the empirical physician in Molière:

Mihi demandatur

A doctissimo doctore
Quare opium facit dormire,

Et ego respondeo,

Quia est in eo

Virtus dormitiva,

Cujus natura est sensus assoupire.

imposing upon the people. A like result followed the great concentration of power into the hands of the Emperors. The Senate was no longer a legislature but in name, while those primary assemblies through which the people, under the republic, would sometimes influence with success the legislation of their rulers, were almost entirely suppressed. With them disappeared all the rites and ceremonies which were intended to make the proceedings of those assemblies solemn and imposing.

While the state was thus gradually withdrawing its countenance from the faith in which it had been baptized, the introduction of foreign religions precipitated the latter to its ruin with a rapidity quite disproportioned to its natural gravitation. Almost every form of polytheism in the world at that time had a temple in the capital of the Roman empire, and every form of licentiousness and wickedness which the enervating climates of Asia and Egypt could engender, were practised in them. Ovid had to warn the Roman daughters against the dangerous practices of the belted priests of Isis, whom they were in the habit of consulting. The mutilated priests of Cybele divided with the severer priesthood of Vesta and Eleusis, the patronage of the noble and the wealthy; while Nero threw off the last restraint from his people which had bound them to their national creed, by becoming himself a public minister at the altar of the Syrian goddess.

Surely no farther explanation can be needed for the patience with which the Roman people endured Lucian's ridicule of their religion. A nation is never intolerant about that to which it is indifferent.

It will be obvious from what we have said that the duty which Lucian's satire had to perform was not to convince men of the errors of polytheism, but to force them into a positive and public rejection of it-to make them ashamed of owning it. "Dans les voies de la Providence," says Victor Hugo, "il y a des hommes pour les fruits verts, et d'autres hommes pour les fruits mûrs."* Of the latter class was Lucian. His certainly was not the vocation of the hero, but it was a

task for no ordinary mind to attempt. How he executed that task remains to be considered.

"It may be doubted," says Dr. Mayne, one of the ablest, and we believe the earliest of the English translators of Lucian, "whether Christianity is more indebted to the grave confutations of Clemens Alexandrinus, Arnobus, and Justin Martyr, or to the facetious art of Lucian."

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It would be almost impossible to enumerate all the different forms of attack which Lucian employed in assailing the Olympian dynasty. In his Dialogues of the Gods," almost every form of weakness and inconsistency is noticed which he has alluded to in any part of his writings, though not always with the same force. He frequently presents the same argument in a different form. The doctrine of fate, which has puzzled the theologians of all ages, was a stumbling-block against which Lucian delighted to crowd his antagonists. This absurdity of the Pagans' faith is armed against them several times, but nowhere with so much completeness as in the "Convicted Jupiter," which is a debate between Jupiter and Cyniscus. The former is completely cornered by the latter, and fairly, too, upon the idea that the Parcæ, or Fates, are independent and superior to Jupiter, who assumes to be omnipotent. Jupiter, in accordance with this view, admits that "nothing happens which the Parcæ had not previously ordained." He likewise is led to admit that the gods, Jupiter included, are likewise subject to the Parcæ. "If matters really go thus," says Cyniscus ; "if all be subject 'to the Parcæ, and nothing can be altered which they have once been pleased to decree, to what purpose do we offer hecatombs to you, and pray you to be kind to us?" Jupiter then gets angry and tries to change the issue, but Cyniscus lugs him back to the question. "But we are not sacrificed to," says Jupiter, "from interested motives, but to do us honor, who have superior and more perfect natures." Wherein," asks Cyniscus, are you superior, since, like us, you are but instruments, fellow-servants, and subject to the same distresses?"

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"Because we live an endless life, in the fruition of all conceivable goods." "Not all of you," says Cyniscus, "Vulcan is lame, and a dirty blacksmith; Prometheus was crucified, to say nothing of your father, who, to this day, lies shackled in Tartarus. Accidents befall you: many of you, who were of gold and silver, have even been melted down-because it was their fate."

"Jupiter. You begin to be insolent, but have a care. You may hereafter re

pent having provoked me.

"Cyniscus. You may spare your threats, Jupiter, since, as you are aware, nothing can betide me, excepting what the Parcæ have long since foreordained. Why, else, are so many church robbers tolerated with impunity? Most of them happily escape you-since it was not their fate to be caught, I suppose."

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"We arrived at the place where he was to sit down and give audience to mankind. There were apertures, resembling the mouths of wells, at regular intervals, provided with covers, and by every one of them stood a golden chair of state. The doctrine of rewards and punish- On the first chair Jupiter now seated himments is thus disposed of: —

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"Jup. That is understood, of course, the wicked; for example, murdererschurch-robbers.

"Cyn. And who are those whom he sends to the heroes?

"Jup. The good, who have led a virtuous and blameless life.

"Cyn. Why so, Jupiter?

"Jup. Because these deserve reward, those punishment.

"Cyn. If, however, a man has done wrong against his will, would you deem it just to punish him?

"Jup. By no means.

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Cyn. And if a man has done good involuntarily, would you not judge him, for the same reason, unworthy of reward? "Jup. Most assuredly.

"Cyn. Therefore, best Jupiter, nobody can justly either be punished or rewarded. "Jup. How so?

"Cyn. Because we men do nothing voluntarily, but stand under the command of an invincible necessity, supposing that to be true which we agreed at first setting out, that the Parcæ are the prime cause

self, lifted up the cover, and gave ear to the supplicants. Many and diverse were the prayers that came up to him from every region upon earth, some of them impossible to be granted at the same time. I also stooping down, on the side contiguous to the opening, could distinctly hear,

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O Jupiter, let me be a king! O Jupiter, send my onions and garlic to thrive this year! O Jupiter, let my father speedily depart hence! Another cried out, Oh, that I could soon be rid of my wife! Another again, Oh, that I might succeed in my plot against my brother!' A third prayed for a happy issue to his lawsuit, a fourth wanted to be crowned at Olympia. One seaman prayed for a north wind, another for a south wind; a husbandman for rain, a fuller for sunshine. Father Jupiter hearkened to them all.

The equitable requests were admitted through the aperture, and deposited on the right hand: the iniquitous and futile he puffed back ere they had reached the skies. With respect to one alone, I perceived him very much puzzled. Two parties preferred petitions for favors in direct opposition to one another; at the same time both promising equal sacrifices. For want, therefore, of a decisive reason why he should favor either the one or the other, he was in the predicament of the academies, not knowing to which he should say Aye,' but was forced to say, with honest Phyrro, We shall see!'

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"Having done with hearing prayers, he rose up, and seated himself in the second chair, adjoining the second aperture, to lend his attention to oaths, protestations,

and vows. When this was over, and after having on this occasion smashed the Epicurean Hermodorus's head with a thunderbolt, he went on to the third chair, where he gave audience to presages, prognostications, divinations, and auguries. This done, he proceeded to the fourth, through which the fume of the victims ascended, wafting to him severally the names of the sacrificers. This business being despatched, the winds and storms were admitted, and orders given to each what it was to do, as-To-day let it rain in Scythia, thunder and lighten in Africa, and snow in Greece. You, Boreas, blow towards Lydia. You, South Wind, shall have a day of rest. The West Wind will raise a tempest in the Adriatic! Let a thousand bushels of hail, or thereabouts, be scattered on Cappadocia,'-and the like."

It is impossible here to go more into detail upon this subject, except to allude for a moment to a single paragraph which occurs in one of Lucian's pieces,† on the subject of the Christian faith. We deem this the more proper, because it has, probably, cost him more popularity with posterity than anything else he ever wrote.

A notorious charlatan, by the name of Peregrinus, who had tried every form of imposture which " a mind capacious of such things" could invent, whose skilfully devised villainy had made victims of multitudes of intelligent men and women, wishing to give symmetry to the chaplet of his infamies, associated himself with the small band of Christians, who were as yet without any effective organization, and were struggling with the burden of their new faith against a strong tide of oppressive penal legislation, and popular prejudice. In sketching the arts of this infamous wretch, Lucian is naturally led to speak severely of the Christians, who for a time had given him countenance and protection. From what he says, it is evident that he knew comparatively nothing about them. To him they were of even less importance than the ten thousand other sects by which he was surrounded wherever he went. Our Saviour was no more to him than Isis or Osiris. The Apostles exhibited to him no better credentials

than the Pastophori who fed the crocodiles of the Egyptian temples. Indeed, of so little consideration were the Christians held as yet at Rome, that, to the best of our recollection, he never has alluded to them again in any part of his works. This unfortunate paragraph, however, roused the Christians to a fury. They could keep no terms with an ally in their warfare against Paganism who was equally ready to enlist in a campaign against Christianity. "Non tali auxilio," they all cried out, in universal horror, and from that time forth, until history suggested an apter illustration, Lucian was the Antichrist of the Revelations. To us, who are more familiar with the laws of human belief, it seems very ridiculous for any one to get so indignant about Lucian's scepticism. We should as soon think of abusing Bacon for rejecting the Copernican theory of the universe, or of blackening the name of Henry VII., for having despised the scheme of discovery which has given Columbus immortality. Hence the charge of blasphemy, which hung like plummets at the heels of Lucian's reputation for several hundred years, has with us entirely disappeared, and we look at the stand which he had the misfortune to take toward Christianity as more deserving of pity than of censure.

We have thus far attempted to present to our readers those leading points in the Life of Lucian which most commend him to the student of history, and to the respect of men. We have found him a man of extraordinary discernment, almost preternaturally susceptible to ludicrous impressions, a sincere lover of truth, a man who devoted the best of his life to a warfare upon hypocrisy and imposture, fair to his opponents, and a bold and successful innovator upon the most serious and inaccessible abuses to which society is exposed. We may add farther, that though Lucian was an uncompromising antagonist of hypocrisy, he never appears to have been vindictive. He is never personal, except in his attacks upon the Peregrines and Alexanders, the social outlaws of his time, who have abandoned all claim and lost all right to courtesy. In all his writings

Icaro Menippus. Vol. i., p. 137-8. † Peregrinus. + Lehmann, Luciani Opera. L. lxxvii.

it is obvious that he pursues errors, and not those who are possessed with them. His moral character appears to have been eminently symmetrical. No vicious impulses appear upon the face of his writings, no personal immoralities disfigure his life. He was one of the most witty writers, we think the wittiest, that preceded Rabelais, not excepting Aristophanes. He was learned in the elegant literature of Greece and Rome, though grossly ignorant of mathematical and natural science. He had an active, nervous temperament, like Voltaire, with whom he has been frequently and justly compared. Indeed they are said to have strongly resembled each other in personal appearance. They were both witty, both lived in a state of open warfare with the popular religious institutions of their times; both jobbed somewhat in politics; both lived more or less under the influence of a king who affected letters, without being literary, and were jostled by upstart courtiers, who had been made impudent by undeserved prosperity, and who made themselves foolish to be qualified for the bounty which an undiscriminating patron had laid upon folly. But, unlike Voltaire, Lucian was not malignant, he was not cruel, he was not selfish, he was not mean, he never became morbid and misanthropical Lucian ridiculed a religion that was absurd and corrupt: Voltaire ridiculed a religion of which the priests and institutions only had become corrupted. This was their great difference: the one laughed at Olympus-the other made a mock of Heaven; the one scoffed at Jupiterthe other scoffed at the living God!

But highly as we esteem Lucian's personal character, potent and useful as we think his influence undoubtedly was upon his age, in the various ways we have attempted to specify, thoroughly as we admire the moral independence of his whole literary career, yet, as we have before remarked, he never rises in our mind to the dignity of a Hero. He maintained an unflinching hostility to established abuses, but he never vindicated any higher claim to the character of a Reformer. He was potent to destroy, but he built up nothing. He discerned the vices of the present with incomparable sagacity, but he was prescient of no more enlarged or happier future. He had not

much of faith in man, and his future was lit up by no comprehensive philosophy. He condemned the popular abuses from an instinct, not from a principle. And it is, perhaps, the most singular fact in Lucian's history, that, in all the writings he has left us, not a hint is given, nor a suggestion made, for any substantial improvement in the institutions of religion or the science of government. His was not the highest apostolic mission-he was sent to destroy, but not to fulfil. He never appears to have speculated upon the future, nor to have turned to the past, but for deeper colors to paint the present. There is no reason to suppose that he ever indulged the hope that the human race would ever effect any amelioration which would depend upon the caprice of an absolute monarch, or the discordant councils of an oligarchy. Of course he is never so childish as to complain of the condition of things, in which he anticipates no improvement. He can only jest at its defects. Hence Lucian never assumes a serious tone while engaged in his vocation. He smiles upon the popular creed of an empire, with the same tolerating contempt that he might experience in overlooking the amusements of a nursery. Such are not the men who become martyrs to great principles, who are willing to brave every danger in defence of their convictions. Some of the friends of Luther once compared the great reformer to our Saviour. "I," said he, "but I have never been crucified for any one." Apart from the real sacrifices and perils which Luther did pass through, we may discern, in his reply, the real difference between the hero and the artist. Lucian not only had no claims, he had no aspirations for the glory of martyrdom. He reconciled himself, apparently without regret, to a life of political inactivity, when he should have thundered and lightened until he had cleared from the face of heaven the pestilent cloud of abominations which had exhaled from that unnatural people. But in the mysterious dispensations of Providence it had been otherwise ordained. That great work of regeneration had been entrusted to an arm which never wearied, to a mind which never devised an error, to a power which never resolved upon what it did not execute. Under such mys

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