Against the philosophers of his day, whom he looked upon as miserable charlatans, Lucian launched the laughable Dialogue entitled “the Sale of the Philosophers,” in which the founders of the old schools are disposed of at auction by Jupiter in a slave-market, Mercury playing the part of auctioneer. Pythagoras is put up first and sells for $175; Diogenes, the next, brings less than sixpence; while Socrates commands the high price of two talents. Pyrrho, the universal doubter, will not believe that he has been sold, even after he has seen himself paid for and delivered. The laughing Democritus and weeping Heraclitus fail to find a purchaser. The attempted sale of these two philosophers is thus depicted:— “JUPITER.—Bring out another. Stay—those two there, that fellow from Abdera, who is always laughing, and the Ephesian, who is always crying; I’ve a mind to sell them as a pair. MERCURY.—Stand out there in the ring, you two.—We offer you here, sirs, two most admirable characters, the wisest we’ve had for sale yet. CUSTOMER.—By Jove, they’re a remarkable contrast! Why, one of them never stops laughing, while the other seems to be in trouble about something, for he’s in tears all the time. Holloa, you fellow! what’s all this about? What are you laughing at? DEMOCRITUS.—Need you ask? Because everything seems to me so ridiculous—you yourselves included. CUSTOMER.—What! do you mean to laugh at us all to our faces, and mock at all we say and do? DEMOCRITUS.—Undoubtedly; there’s nothing in life that’s serious. Everything is unreal and empty—a mere fortuitous concurrence of indefinite atoms. CUSTOMER.—You’re an indefinite atom yourself, you rascal! Confound your insolence, won’t you stop laughing? But you there, poor soul [_to Heraclitus_], why do you weep so? for there seems more use in talking to you. HERACLITUS.—Because, stranger, everything in life seems to me to call for pity and to deserve tears; there is nothing but what is liable to calamity; wherefore I mourn for men and pity them. The evil of to-day I regard not much: but I mourn for that which is to come hereafter—the burning and destruction of all things. This I grieve for, and that nothing is permanent, but all mingled, as it were, in one bitter cup—pleasure that is no pleasure, knowledge that knows nothing, greatness that is so little, all going round and round, and taking their turn in this game of life. CUSTOMER.—What do you hold human life to be then? HERACLITUS.—A child at play, handling its toys, and changing them with every caprice. CUSTOMER.—And what are men? HERACLITUS.—Gods—but mortal. CUSTOMER.—And the gods? HERACLITUS.—Men—but immortal. CUSTOMER.—You speak in riddles, fellow, and put us off with puzzles. You are as bad as Apollo Loxias, giving oracles that no man can understand. HERACLITUS.—Yea; I trouble not myself for any of ye. CUSTOMER.—Then no man in his senses is like to buy you.