Introduction

It is a commonplace of criticism that Lucian was the first of the moderns, but in truth he is near to our time because of all the ancients he is nearest to his own. With Petronius he shared the discovery that there is material for literature in the debased and various life of every day—that to the seeing eye the individual is more wonderful in colour and complexity than the severely simple abstraction of the poets. He replaced the tradition, respected of his fathers, by an observation more vivid and less pedantic than the note-book of the naturalist. He set the world in the dry light of truth, and since the vanity of mankind is a constant factor throughout the ages, there is scarce a page of Lucian's writing that wears the faded air of antiquity. His personages are as familiar to-day as they were in the second century, because, with his pitiless determination to unravel the tangled skein of human folly, he never blinded his vision to their true qualities. And the multiplicity of his interest is as fresh as his penetration. Nothing came amiss to his eager curiosity. For the first time in the history of literature (with the doubtful exception of Cicero) we encounter a writer whose ceaseless activity includes the world. While others had declared themselves poets, historians, philosophers, Lucian comes forth as a man of letters. Had he lived to-day, he would have edited a newspaper, written leading articles, and kept his name ever before the public in the magazines. For he possessed the qualities, if he avoided the defects, of the journalist. His phrase had not been worn by constant use to imbecility; his sentences were not marred by the association of commonness; his style was still his own and fit for the expression of a personal view. But he noted such types and incidents as make an immediate, if perennial, appeal, and to study him is to be convinced that literature and journalism are not necessarily divorced.

Critics often call Lucian the first modern writer. But he feels close to our time because, of all ancient writers, he was closest to his own. Like Petronius, he discovered material for literature in the degraded and varied life of every day. To an observant eye, the individual has more remarkable color and complexity than the poets’ starkly simple abstractions. He replaced the tradition his ancestors respected with observation more vivid and less pedantic than a naturalist’s notebook. He showed the world in the clear, unsentimental light of truth. And because human vanity remains constant through the ages, hardly a page of Lucian’s writing feels faded or ancient. His characters are as familiar today as they were in the second century. Determined to untangle human folly without mercy, he never blinded himself to his characters’ true qualities. His wide-ranging interests remain as fresh as his insight. Nothing escaped his eager curiosity. For the first time in literary history, we encounter a writer whose tireless activity takes in the whole world. Cicero is a possible exception. While others had called themselves poets, historians, or philosophers, Lucian appears as a man of letters. Had he lived today, he would have edited a newspaper and written editorials. He would also have kept his name constantly before the public through magazines. For he had the strengths of a journalist while avoiding the weaknesses. His phrasing had not been worn down to mindlessness by constant use. His sentences were not spoiled by associations with commonplace language. His style remained his own, suited to expressing a personal view. But he observed the kinds of people and events that have an immediate yet lasting appeal. And studying him convinces us that literature and journalism need not be separate.

The profession was new, and with the joy of the innovator Lucian was never tired of inventing new genres. Romance, criticism, satire—he mastered them all. In Toxaris and The Ass he proves with what delicacy and restraint he could handle the story. His ill-omened apprenticeship to a sculptor gave him that taste and feeling for art which he turned to so admirable an account. He was, in fact, the first of the art-critics, and he pursued the craft with an easy unconsciousness of the heritage he bequeathed to the world. True, he is silent concerning the technical practice of the Greeks; true, he leaves us in profound ignorance of the art of Zeuxis, whose secrets he might have revealed, had he been less a man of letters. But he found in painting and sculpture an opportunity for elegance of phrase, and we would forgive a thousand shortcomings for such inspirations of beauty as the smile of Sosandra: to τὸ μειδίαμα σεμνὸν καὶ λεληθὸς. In literary criticism he was on surer ground, and here also he leaves the past behind. His knowledge of Greek poetry was profound; Homer he had by heart; and on every page he proves his sympathies by covert allusion or precise quotation. His treatise concerning the Writing of History¹ preserves its force irresistible after seventeen centuries, nor has the wisdom of the ages impeached or modified this lucid argument. With a modest wit he compares himself to Diogenes, who, when he saw his fellow-citizens busied with the preparations of war, gathered his skirts about him and fell to rolling his tub up and down. So Lucian, unambitious of writing history, sheltered himself from "the waves and the smoke," and was content to provide others with the best of good counsel. Yet such is the irony of accident that, as Lucian's criticism has outlived the masterpieces of Zeuxis, so the historians have snatched an immortality from his censure; and let it be remembered for his glory that he used Thucydides as a scourge wherewith to beat impostors. But matters of so high import did not always engross his humour, and in The Illiterate Book-buyer² he satirizes a fashion of the hour and of all time with a courage and brutality which tear the heart out of truth. How intimately does he realize his victim! And how familiar is this same victim in his modern shape! You know the very streets he haunts; you know the very shops wherein he is wont to acquire his foolish treasures; you recognize that not by a single trait has Lucian dishonoured his model. In yet another strange instance Lucian anticipated the journalist of to-day. Though his disciples know it not, he invented the interview. In that famous visit to the Elysian Fields, which is a purple patch upon his masterpiece, The True History, he "went to talk with Homer the Poet, our leisure serving us both well," and he put precisely those questions which the modern hack, note-book in hand, would seek to resolve. First, remembering the seven cities, he would know of Homer what fatherland claimed him, and when the poet "said indeed he was a Babylonian, and among his own countrymen not called Homer but Tigranes," Lucian straightly "questioned him about those verses in his books that are disallowed as not of his making;" whereto Homer replied with a proper condemnation of Zenodotus and Aristarchus. And you wonder whether Lucian is chastising his contemporaries or looking with the eye of a prophet into the future.

The profession was new, and Lucian never tired of inventing new genres with an innovator’s delight. Romance, criticism, satire: he mastered them all. In Toxaris and The Ass he shows how delicately and with what restraint he could tell a story. His unlucky apprenticeship to a sculptor gave him a taste and feeling for art that he used admirably. He was, in fact, the first art critic. He practiced his craft with ease, unaware of the legacy he was leaving the world. True, he says nothing about the Greeks’ artistic techniques. True, he leaves us knowing nothing about the art of Zeuxis. He might have revealed its secrets if he had been less devoted to literature. But painting and sculpture gave him opportunities for elegant language. We would forgive a thousand shortcomings for such visions of beauty as Sosandra’s smile: τὸ μειδίαμα σεμνὸν καὶ λεληθὸς, dignified and barely perceptible. In literary criticism he was on firmer ground, and here too he moves beyond the past. His knowledge of Greek poetry was profound, and he knew Homer by heart. On every page, subtle allusions or exact quotations reveal his literary sympathies. His treatise on the Writing of History¹ remains irresistibly powerful after seventeen centuries. The wisdom of the ages has neither challenged nor revised its clear argument. With modest wit, he compares himself to Diogenes. Seeing his fellow citizens busy preparing for war, Diogenes gathered up his robes and began rolling his tub back and forth. So Lucian, with no ambition to write history, sheltered himself from "the waves and the smoke." He was content to offer others the best possible advice. Yet chance has a strange irony. Just as Lucian’s criticism has outlived Zeuxis’s masterpieces, the historians he condemned have gained immortality from his attacks. And to his credit, let us remember that he used Thucydides as a whip to beat impostors. But such important matters did not always occupy his wit. In The Illiterate Book-buyer² he mocks a fashion of his own day and every age. His courage and brutality lay bare the very heart of the truth. How intimately he understands his victim! And how familiar that same victim is in his modern form! You know the very streets he frequents. You know the very shops where he buys his foolish treasures. You recognize that Lucian has not misrepresented his model in a single detail. In another remarkable instance, Lucian anticipated today’s journalist. Though his followers do not know it, he invented the interview. His famous visit to the Elysian Fields is a richly colorful passage in his masterpiece, The True History. There he "went to talk with Homer the Poet, our leisure serving us both well." He asked exactly the questions that a modern hack journalist, notebook in hand, would try to answer. First, remembering the seven cities, he wanted to know which homeland claimed Homer. The poet "said indeed he was a Babylonian, and among his own countrymen not called Homer but Tigranes." Lucian immediately "questioned him about those verses in his books that are disallowed as not of his making." Homer replied with a fitting condemnation of Zenodotus and Aristarchus. And you wonder whether Lucian is attacking his contemporaries or looking into the future with a prophet’s eye.

But even more remarkable than his many-coloured interest is Lucian's understanding. He was, so to say, a perfect Intelligence thrown by accident into an age of superstition and credulity. It is not only that he knew all things: he saw all things in their right relation. If the Pagan world had never before been conscious of itself, it had no excuse to harbour illusions after his coming. Mr. Pater speaks of the intellectual light he turned upon dim places, and truly no corner of life escaped the gleam of his lantern. Gods, philosophers, necromancers, yielded up their secrets to his enquiry. With pitiless logic he criticized their extravagance and pretension; and actively anticipating the spirit of modern science, he accepted no fact, he subscribed to no theory, which he had not examined with a cold impartiality.

But even more remarkable than Lucian's wide-ranging interests is his understanding. He was, so to speak, a perfect Intelligence dropped by chance into an age of superstition and gullibility. He did not just know all things. He saw all things in their proper relation to one another. If the Pagan world had never understood itself before, it had no excuse for illusions after his arrival. Mr. Pater describes the intellectual light Lucian shone into dark places. And truly, no corner of life escaped the light of his lantern. Gods, philosophers, and necromancers gave up their secrets to his questioning. With ruthless logic, he criticized their excesses and pretensions. And, anticipating the spirit of modern science, he accepted no fact and endorsed no theory without examining each with cold impartiality.

Indeed, he was Scepticism in human shape, but as the weapon of his destruction is always raillery, as he never takes either himself or his victims with exaggerated seriousness, you may delight in his attack, even though you care not which side wins the battle. His wit was as mordant as Heine's own;—is it fantastical to suggest that Lucian too carried Hebrew blood in his veins?—yet when the onslaught is most unsparing he is still joyous. For a gay contempt, not a bitter hatred, is the note of his satire. And for the very reason that his scepticism was felt, that it sprang from a close intimacy with the follies of his own time, so it is fresh and familiar to an age that knows not Zeus. Not even the Dialogues of the Gods are out of date, for if we no longer reverence Olympus, we still blink our eyes at the flash of ridicule. And might not the Philopseudes, that masterly analysis of ghostly terrors, might not Alexander the False Prophet, have been written yesterday?

Indeed, he was scepticism in human form. But his destructive weapon is always mockery, and he never takes himself or his targets too seriously. So you may enjoy his attacks, even if you do not care which side wins. His wit was as biting as Heine's own. Is it fanciful to suggest that Lucian too had Hebrew blood in his veins? Yet even when his attacks are most ruthless, he remains cheerful. His satire is marked by cheerful contempt, not bitter hatred. And his scepticism was deeply felt, rooted in a close knowledge of the follies of his time. For that very reason, his scepticism remains fresh and familiar to an age that does not know Zeus. Not even the Dialogues of the Gods are outdated. For although we no longer worship Olympus, we still blink at the flash of ridicule. And might not the Philopseudes, that masterful analysis of fears of ghosts, have been written yesterday? Might not Alexander the False Prophet have been written yesterday too?

And thus we arrive at Lucian's weakness. In spite of its brilliance and flippancy, his scepticism is at times over-intelligent. His good sense baffles you by its infallibility; his sanity is so magnificently beyond question, that you pray for an interlude of unreason. The sprightliness of his wit, the alertness of his fancy, mitigate the perpetual rightness of his judgment. But it must be confessed that for all his delicate sense of ridicule he cherished a misguided admiration of the truth. If only he had understood the joy of self-deception, if only he had realized more often (as he realized in The Ass) the delight of throwing probability to the winds, we had regarded him with a more constant affection. His capital defect sprang from a lack of the full-blooded humour which should at times have led him into error. And yet by an irony it was this very love of truth which suggested The True History, that enduring masterpiece of phantasy. Setting out to prove his hatred of other men's lies, he shows himself on the road the greatest liar of them all. "The father and founder of all this foolery was Homer's Ulysses": thus he writes in his Preface, confessing that in a spirit of emulation he "turned his style to publish untruths," but with an honester mind, "for this one thing I confidently pronounce for a truth, that I lie." Such is the spirit of the work, nor is there the smallest doubt that Lucian, once embarked upon his voyage, slipped from his ideal, to enjoy the lying for its own sake. If The True History fails as a parody, that is because we care not a jot for Ctesias, Iambulus and the rest, at whom the satire is levelled. Its fascination, in fact, is due to those same qualities which, in others, its author affected to despise. The facile variety of its invention can scarce be matched in literature, and the lies are told with so delightful an unconcern, that belief is never difficult. Nor does the narrative ever flag. It ends at the same high level of falsehood in which it has its beginning. And the credibility is increased by the harmonious consistency of each separate lie. At the outset the traveller discovers a river of wine, and forthwith travels up stream to find the source, and "when we were come to the head" (to quote Hickes's translation), "no spring at all appeared, but mighty vine trees of infinite number, which from their roots distilled pure wine, which made the river run so abundantly." So conclusive is the explanation, that you only would have wondered had the stream been of water. And how admirable is the added touch that he who ate fish from the river was made drunk! Then by a pleasant gradation you are carried on from the Hippogypians, or the Riders of Vultures, every feather in whose wing is bigger and longer than the mast of a tall ship, from the fleas as big as twelve elephants, to those spiders, of mighty bigness, every one of which exceeded in size an isle of the Cyclades. "These were appointed to spin a web in the air between the Moon and the Morning Star, which was done in an instant, and made a plain champaign, upon which the foot forces were planted." Truly a very Colossus of falsehood, but Lucian's ingenuity is inexhausted and inexhaustible, and the mighty Whale is his masterpiece of impudence. For he "contained in greatness fifteen hundred furlongs"; his teeth were taller than beech-trees, and when he swallowed the travellers, he showed himself so far superior to Jonah's fish, that ship and all sailed down his throat, and happily he caught not the pigmy shallop between his chops. And the geographical divisions of the Whale's belly, and Lucian's adventures therein, are they not set down with circumstantial verity? Then there is the episode of the frozen ship, and the sea of milk, with its well-pressed cheese for an island, which reminds one of the Elizabethan madrigal: "If there were O an Hellespont of Cream." Moreover, the verisimilitude is enhanced by a scrupulously simple style. No sooner is the preface concerning lying at an end than Lucian lapses into pure narrative. A wealth of minutely considered detail gives an air of reality to the most monstrous impossibility; the smallest facts are explicitly divulged; the remote accessories described with order and impressiveness; so that the wildest invention appears plausible, even inevitable, and you know that you are in company with the very genius of falsehood. Nor does this wild diversity of invention suggest romance. It is still classic in style and shape; not a phrase nor a word is lost; and expression, as always in the classics, is reduced to its lowest terms. But when the travellers reach the Islands of the Blessed, the style takes on a colour and a beauty which it knew not before. A fragrant air breathed upon them, as of "roses, daffodils, gillyflowers, lilies, violets, myrtles, bays, and blossoms of vines." Happy also was the Isle to look upon: ἔνθα δὴ καὶ καθεωρῶμεν λιμένας τε πολλοὺς περὶ πᾶσαν ὰκλύστους καὶ μεγάλους, ποταμούς τε διαυγεῖς ἐξίοντας ἠρέμα ἐς τὴν θάλατταν· ἔτὶ δὲ λειμῶνας καὶ ὕλας καὶ ὄρνεα μουσικὰ, τὰ μὲν πὶ τῶν ἠΐόνων ἄδοντα, πολλὰ δὲ καὶ ἐπὶ τῶν κλάδων ἀήρ τε κοῦφος καὶ εὔπνους περιεκέχυτο τὴν χώραν: "a still and gentle air compassing the whole country." Where will you find a more vivid impression of elegance and serenity? or where match "the melody of the branches, like the sound of wind instruments in a solitary place" (ἀπὸ τῶν κλάδων κινουμένον τερπνὰ καὶ συνεχῆ μέλη ἀπεσυρίξετο ἐοικότα τοῖς ἐπ' ἐρημίας αὐλήμασι τῶν πλαγίων αὐλῶν)? And when the splendour of the city breaks upon you, with its smaragdus, its cinnamon-tree, its amethyst, ivory, and beryl, the rich barbarity suggests Solomon's Temple, or the City of the Revelation. Its inhabitants are the occasion of infinite jesting, and again and again does Lucian satirize the philosophers, his dearest foes. Socrates was in danger of being thrust forth by Rhadamanthus, ἤν φλυαρῇ καὶ μὴ ἐθέλῃ ἀφεὶς τὴν εἰρωνείαν εὐωχεῖσθαι, while as for Diogenes the Sinopean, so profoundly was he changed from his old estate, that he had married Lais the Harlot. The journey to Hell is another excuse to gird at the historians. The severest torments were inflicted, says Lucian, upon Ctesias the Cnidian, Herodotus and many others, which the writer beholding "was put in great hopes that I should never have anything to do there, for I do not know that ever I spake any untruth in my life." And yet with all his irony, all his scorn, Lucian has ever a side-glance at literature. The verse of Homer is constantly upon his lips, and it is from Homer that the Gods take their ditties in the Elysian fields. Again, when the traveller visits the city of Nephelococcygia, it is but to think upon the poet Aristophanes, "how wise a man he was, and how true a reporter, and how little cause there is to question his fidelity for what he hath written."

And so we come to Lucian's weakness. Despite its brilliance and wit, his skepticism is sometimes too clever. His good sense bewilders you because it never fails. His sanity is so gloriously beyond question that you long for a moment of madness. His lively wit and quick imagination soften the effect of his endlessly correct judgments. But we must admit that, despite his delicate sense of the ridiculous, he had a misguided admiration for truth. If only he had understood the joy of self-deception, we would have loved him more consistently. If only he had more often enjoyed abandoning probability, as he did in The Ass. His chief fault came from lacking the hearty humor that should sometimes have led him into error. Yet, ironically, this very love of truth inspired The True History, that lasting masterpiece of fantasy. He sets out to prove his hatred of other men's lies. Along the way, he reveals himself as the greatest liar of them all. "The father and founder of all this nonsense was Homer's Ulysses": so he writes in his Preface. He admits that, hoping to rival them, he "turned his pen to publishing untruths," but with greater honesty. "For I confidently declare this one thing to be true: I lie." That is the spirit of the work. Nor is there the slightest doubt that Lucian abandoned his original aim once his voyage began. He came to enjoy lying for its own sake. If The True History fails as a parody, the reason is simple. We care nothing for Ctesias, Iambulus, and the others targeted by its satire. In fact, the book fascinates us through the very qualities its author claimed to despise in others. Few works of literature can match the effortless variety of its inventions. Its lies are told with such delightful casualness that believing them is never difficult. Nor does the story ever lose momentum. It ends at the same extraordinary level of falsehood at which it begins. And each individual lie becomes more believable through its internal consistency. At the outset, the traveler discovers a river of wine and immediately heads upstream to find its source. Here is Hickes's translation: "when we reached its head, we found no spring at all. Instead, countless enormous vines poured pure wine from their roots, making the river flow so abundantly." The explanation is so convincing that you would only have been surprised if the stream had contained water. And how admirable is the added detail that eating fish from the river made people drunk! Then, through a pleasing progression, you move on to the Hippogypians, or the Riders of Vultures. Every feather in the vultures' wings is bigger and longer than the mast of a tall ship. From there, you pass to fleas as big as twelve elephants, and then to enormous spiders. Every spider is larger than an island in the Cyclades. "These were ordered to spin a web in the air between the Moon and the Morning Star. They finished in an instant, creating an open plain on which the infantry took their positions." Truly a very Colossus of falsehood. But Lucian's inventiveness remains unspent and inexhaustible, and the mighty Whale is his masterpiece of shameless invention. For the Whale "measured fifteen hundred furlongs," and his teeth were taller than beech trees. When he swallowed the travelers, he proved far superior to Jonah's fish. Their ship and everything aboard sailed down his throat. Fortunately, he did not catch the tiny boat between his jaws. And aren't the geographical regions of the Whale's belly, and Lucian's adventures inside, recorded with painstaking realism? Then comes the episode of the frozen ship, followed by the sea of milk. Its island of firmly pressed cheese recalls the Elizabethan madrigal: "If there were, O, a Hellespont of Cream." The carefully simple style also makes the story more believable. As soon as the preface about lying ends, Lucian moves into pure storytelling. A wealth of carefully considered details makes the most monstrous impossibility seem real. The smallest facts are explicitly revealed. Even distant background details are described with order and force. So the wildest invention seems plausible, even inevitable. You know you are in the company of the very genius of falsehood. Nor does this wild variety of invention give the work the character of a romance. Its style and form remain classical. Not a phrase or word is wasted. As always in classical writing, the language is stripped to its essentials. But when the travelers reach the Islands of the Blessed, the style gains a new richness and beauty. Fragrant air blew over them, smelling of "roses, daffodils, gillyflowers, lilies, violets, myrtles, bays, and vine blossoms." The Isle was also a joy to behold. They saw many large, sheltered harbors all around it, and clear rivers flowing gently into the sea. There were meadows, woods, and musical birds. Some birds sang along the shores, and many others sang in the branches. There was "a still and gentle air surrounding the whole country." Where will you find a more vivid impression of elegance and peace? Or where will you match "the melody of the branches, like the sound of wind instruments in a solitary place"? As the branches moved, they gave out sweet, continuous melodies, like transverse flutes played in solitude. Then the splendor of the city comes into view, with its emerald, cinnamon wood, amethyst, ivory, and beryl. Its lavish, exotic richness recalls Solomon's Temple or the City of the Revelation. The inhabitants provide endless opportunities for jokes. Again and again, Lucian mocks the philosophers, his favorite enemies. Socrates risked being thrown out by Rhadamanthus if he kept talking nonsense and refused to abandon his irony and feast. As for Diogenes the Sinopean, he had changed so completely from his former way of life that he had married Lais the Harlot. The journey to Hell offers another excuse to mock historians. Lucian says the harshest torments were inflicted on Ctesias the Cnidian, Herodotus, and many others. Seeing their punishment, the writer "felt great hope that I would never have anything to do there. For I do not know that I have ever spoken an untruth in my life." Yet, despite all his irony and scorn, Lucian always keeps an eye on literature. Homer's verses are constantly on his lips. And the Gods borrow their songs in the Elysian fields from Homer. Again, when the traveler visits the city of Nephelococcygia, he can only think of the poet Aristophanes: "how wise he was, how truthful a reporter, and how little reason there is to doubt the accuracy of his writing."

Such is the work which, itself a masterpiece, has been a pattern and an exemplar unto others. If Utopia and its unnumbered rivals derive from Plato, there is not a single Imaginary Traveller that is not modelled upon Lucian. The True History was, in effect, the beginning of a new literature. Not only was its framework borrowed, not only was its habit of fantastic names piously imitated, but the disciples, like the master, turned their voyages to the purpose of satire. It was Rabelais who made the first adaptation, for, while Epistemon's descent into Hell was certainly suggested by Lucian, Pantagruel's voyage is an ample travesty of The True History, and Lanternland, the home of the Lychnobii, is but Lychnopolis, Lucian's own City of Lights. The seventeenth century discovered another imitator in Cyrano de Bergerac, whose tepid Voyage dans la Lune is interesting merely because it is a link in the chain that unites Lucian with Swift. Yet the book had an immense popularity, and Cyrano's biographer has naught to say of the original traveller, save that he told his story "avec beaucoup moins de vraisemblance et de gentilesse d'imagination que M. de Bergerac." An astounding judgment surely, which time has already reversed. And then came Gulliver's Travels, incomparably the greatest descendant of The True History. To what excellent purpose Swift followed his Lucian is proved alike by the amazing probability of his narrative, and the cruelty of his satire. Like Lucian, he professed an unveiled contempt for philosophers and mathematicians; unlike Lucian, he made his imaginary journey the occasion for a fierce satire upon kings and politicians. But so masterly is the narrative, so convincing the reality of Lilliput and Brobdignag, that Gulliver retains its hold upon our imagination, though the meaning of its satire is long since blunted. Swift's work came to astonish the world in 1727, and some fourteen years later in the century Holberg astonished the wits of Denmark with a satire cast in Lucian's mould. Nicolai Klimii Iter Subterraneum—thus ran the title, and from Latin the book was translated into every known tongue. The city of walking trees, the home of the Potuans, and many another invention, prove Holberg's debt to the author of The True History. And if the genre is dead to-day, it is dead because the most intrepid humourist would hesitate to walk in the footsteps of Lemuel Gulliver.

Such is this work, a masterpiece in its own right and a model for others. If Utopia and its countless rivals owe their origins to Plato, every Imaginary Traveller is modelled on Lucian. The True History effectively began a new kind of literature. Its followers borrowed not only its structure but also its taste for fantastic names, imitating these with faithful devotion. Like their master, they also used their voyages for satire. Rabelais made the first adaptation. Epistemon's descent into Hell was certainly inspired by Lucian, while Pantagruel's voyage is an extensive parody of The True History. And Lanternland, home of the Lychnobii, is simply Lychnopolis, Lucian's own City of Lights. The seventeenth century found another imitator in Cyrano de Bergerac. His uninspired Voyage dans la Lune is interesting only as a link between Lucian and Swift. Yet the book was immensely popular. And Cyrano's biographer says nothing about the original traveller except that he told his story "with far less plausibility and imaginative charm than M. de Bergerac." Surely an astonishing judgment, and one that time has already reversed. Then came Gulliver's Travels, by far the greatest literary descendant of The True History. Swift's remarkably believable narrative and cruel satire both show how brilliantly he followed Lucian's example. Like Lucian, Swift openly expressed contempt for philosophers and mathematicians. Unlike Lucian, Swift used his imaginary journey for a fierce satire on kings and politicians. But the storytelling is so masterful, and Lilliput and Brobdignag seem so real, that Gulliver still grips our imagination. This hold remains even though the satire's meaning has long since lost its edge. Swift's work astonished the world in 1727. About fourteen years later, Holberg astonished Denmark's intellectuals with a satire shaped by Lucian's example. Nicolai Klimii Iter Subterraneum was the title, and the book was translated from Latin into every known language. The city of walking trees, home of the Potuans, and many other inventions show Holberg's debt to The True History's author. And if the genre is dead today, it is because even the boldest humorist would hesitate to follow Lemuel Gulliver's footsteps.

Fortunate in his imitators, Lucian has been not wholly unfortunate in his translators. Not even envy could pick a quarrel with Francis Hickes, whose Englishing of The True History is here reprinted. The book appeared, under the auspices of Hickes's son, in 1634, four years after the translator's death. Thus it is described on the title-page: "Certaine Select Dialogues of Lucian together with his True Historie, translated from the Greeke into English by Mr. Francis Hickes. Whereunto is added the Life of Lucian gathered out of his own Writings, with briefe Notes and Illustrations upon each Dialogue and Booke, by T. H. Master of Arts, of Christ Church in Oxford. Oxford, Printed by William Turner. 1634." Composed with a certain dignity, it is dedicated "to the Right Worshipfull Dr. Duppa, Deane of Christ-Church, and Vice-Chancellor of the famous Universitie in Oxford." And the work reflects a wholesome glory upon the famous University. For it is the work of a scholar, who knew both the languages. Though his diction lacked the spirit and colour which distinguished the splendid versions of North and Holland, he was far more keenly conscious of his original than were those masters of prose. Not only did he, unlike North, translate directly from the Greek, but he followed his original with loyalty and patience. In brief, his Lucian is a miracle of suitability. The close simplicity of Hickes fits the classical restraint of The True History to admiration. As the Greek is a model of narrative, so you cannot read the English version without thinking of the incomparable Hakluyt. Thirty years after the first printing of the translation, Jasper Mayne published his "Part of Lucian made English," wherein he added sundry versions of his own to the work already accomplished by Francis Hickes. And in his "Epistle Dedicatory" he discusses the art of translation with an intelligence which proves how intimately he realized the excellent quality of Hickes's version. "For as the Painter," thus Jasper Mayne, "who would draw a man of a bald head, rumpled forehead, copper nose, pigge eyes, and ugly face, draws him not to life, nor doth the business of his art, if he draw him less deformed or ugly than he is; or as he who would draw a faire, amiable lady, limbes with an erring pencil, and drawes a libell, not a face, if he gives her not just features, and perfections: So in the Translation of Bookes, he who makes a dull author elegant and quick; or a sharp, elegant author flat, rustick, rude and dull, by contrary wayes, commits the same sinne, and cannot be said to translate, but to transforme." That is sound sense, and judged by the high standard of Jasper Mayne, Francis Hickes has most valiantly acquitted himself.

Lucian was fortunate in his imitators, and he has not been entirely unfortunate in his translators. Even envy could find no fault with Francis Hickes, whose English translation of The True History is reprinted here. The book appeared in 1634, four years after the translator's death, under the care of Hickes's son. The title page describes the book as follows: "Certain Selected Dialogues of Lucian together with his True History, translated from Greek into English by Mr. Francis Hickes. Added to these is the Life of Lucian, compiled from his own writings. With brief notes and explanations on each dialogue and book, by T. H., Master of Arts, Christ Church, Oxford. Oxford, Printed by William Turner. 1634." Written with a certain dignity, the book is dedicated "to the Right Worshipful Dr. Duppa, Dean of Christ Church, and Vice-Chancellor of the famous University of Oxford." And the work brings well-deserved credit to that famous University. For Hickes was a scholar who knew both languages. Though his language lacked the energy and colour of North's and Holland's splendid translations, he understood his original much more closely. Unlike North, he translated directly from the Greek. He also followed the original faithfully and patiently. In short, his Lucian is a marvel of fitness. Hickes's faithful simplicity suits the classical restraint of The True History admirably. Just as the Greek is a model of storytelling, the English version inevitably brings the incomparable Hakluyt to mind. Thirty years after Hickes's translation first appeared, Jasper Mayne published his "Part of Lucian Translated into English." In that book, Mayne added several translations of his own to Hickes's work. In his "Dedicatory Letter," Mayne discusses the art of translation with great intelligence. His discussion shows how deeply he appreciated the excellence of Hickes's version. "For a painter," writes Jasper Mayne, "may set out to portray a man with a bald head and wrinkled forehead. The man may also have a copper-coloured nose, piglike eyes, and an ugly face. If the painter makes him less misshapen or ugly than he is, the portrait is not true to life. Nor has the painter fulfilled the purpose of his art. Or a painter may set out to portray a beautiful, charming lady. If he fails to capture her exact features and perfections, his brush goes astray. He paints a slander, not a face. So too with translating books. One translator may make a dull author elegant and lively. Another may make a sharp, elegant author flat, uncultivated, crude, and dull. Though they take opposite paths, both commit the same sin. They cannot be said to translate, but to transform." That is sound sense. Judged by Jasper Mayne's high standard, Francis Hickes has done himself great credit.

He was the son of Richard Hickes, an arras-weaver of Barcheston, in Warwickshire, and after taking the degree of bachelor in the University of Oxford, which he entered in 1579, at the age of thirteen, he was diverted (says Thomas, his son) "by a country retirement." Henceforth he devoted his life to husbandry and Greek. Besides Lucian, he translated Thucydides and Herodian, the manuscripts of which are said to survive in the library of Christ Church. Possibly it was his long retirement that gave a turn of pedantry to his mind. It was but natural that in his remote garden he should exaggerate the importance of the knowledge acquired in patient solitude. But certain it is that the notes wherewith he decorated his margins are triumphs of inapposite erudition. When Lucian describes the famous cobwebs, each one of which was as big as an island of the Cyclades, Hickes thinks to throw light upon the text with this astonishing irrelevancy: "They are in the Aegean Sea, in number 13." The foible is harmless, nay pleasant, and consonant with the character of the learned recluse. Thus lived Francis Hickes, silent and unknown, until in 1630 he died at a kinsman's house at Sutton in Gloucestershire. And you regret that his glory was merely posthumous. For, pedant as he was, he made known to his countrymen the enemy of all the pedants, and turned a masterpiece of Greek into English as sound and scholarly as is found in any translator of his time.

He was the son of Richard Hickes, a tapestry weaver from Barcheston, in Warwickshire. He entered the University of Oxford in 1579, at thirteen, and earned a bachelor's degree. Afterward, according to his son Thomas, he was drawn away from university life "by a country retirement." From then on, he devoted his life to farming and Greek. Besides Lucian, he translated Thucydides and Herodian. The manuscripts of those translations are said to survive in the library of Christ Church. Perhaps his long retirement gave his mind a pedantic turn. It was only natural that, in his remote garden, he should overestimate the importance of knowledge gained through patient solitude. But certainly the notes he added to his margins are triumphs of irrelevant learning. Lucian describes the famous cobwebs, each as big as an island of the Cyclades. Hickes thinks he can clarify the passage with this astonishingly irrelevant comment: "They are in the Aegean Sea, in number 13." His weakness is harmless, even charming, and fits the character of the scholarly recluse. So Francis Hickes lived, quietly and unknown, until he died in 1630 at a relative's house at Sutton in Gloucestershire. And you regret that his fame came only after his death. For, pedant though he was, he introduced his countrymen to the enemy of all pedants. He rendered a Greek masterpiece into English as sound and scholarly as any translator of his time produced.