morous satire of Lucian
himself there was no jot or tittle.

The works of Lucian have, in various ways, found many translators in
England--notably Dr. Thomas Francklin, who prefaced his version with a
dialogue (in prose) in which Lucian and Lyttelton, after an exchange of
compliments, proceed to discuss the writings of the former at some
length and with much dulness. Dulness is certainly not the
characteristic of the rhyming paraphrases of certain dialogues of Lucian
which Charles Cotton wrote and published late in the seventeenth century
under the title of 'Burlesque upon Burlesque, or the Scoffer Scoft.' 'We
bring you here,' said Cotton, 'a fustian-piece, Writ by a merry Wag of
Greece'--'a piece of raillery writ,' as he went on to say, 'when
Paganism was in fashion':

'Wherein his meaning further is
To take away th' authorities
Of lies and fables, which did pigeon
The rabble into false religion.'

Herein the mission and the achievement of Lucian--first and greatest of
the writers of 'Dialogues of the Dead'--are not inaptly stated.
Fontenelle and Fenelon both derived inspiration for their 'Dialogues'
from the brilliant pages of the Syrian, and within recent years his
abounding merits have been sung in eloquent prose by Mr. Froude. There
is yet room, however, for someone who shall prove himself the 'new
Lucian' indeed, by writing dialogues in which the illustrious dead shall
be made to express themselves (as they have not yet been made to do in
English colloquy) with superlative sarcasm and inimitable scorn.

SERMONS IN FLOWERS.

Every year a 'flower-sermon' is preached in London, in accordance with
an admirable custom; and the orator, we may be sure, has no difficulty
in 'improving the occasion.' The materials lie rich and ready to his
hand. The Laureate, indeed, has asked to what uses we shall put the
wildweed flower which simply blows, and has inquired further if there be
any moral shut within the bosom of the rose. He was answered long ago by
Horace Smith:

'Your voiceless lips, O Flowers! are living preachers,
Each cup a pulpit, every leaf a book;'

and a living poetess has assured us, likewise, that flowers will preach
to us if we will hear, the rose telling us that all her loveliness is
born upon a thorn, and the poppy urging that, though her scarlet head
is held in scorn,

'Yet juice of subtle virtues lies
Within my cup of curious dyes.'

There is one lesson which the