POETIC PABLES. 205 



Oh ! my beautiful hyacinth roots, my beautiful tulip 

 bulbs, my beautiful tuberose and jonquil roots ! — ^my beauti- 

 ful squill and pancratium bulb! — my beautiful crocus and 

 safiFron bulbs ! oh, my beautiful bnlbs of tiger-lilies, gladiolus 

 and amaryllis ! — my beautiful bulbs of soft or brilliant'colours, 

 pure or harmonious — my beautiful bulbs of sweet and intoxi- 

 cating perfumes ! My beautiful bulbs; what amends do you 

 make me for the want of all this, and how much greater gods 

 are you than all these idols ! Have pity on them. 



The flower of the narcissus was formerly, say the ancient 

 poets, a young man, the sou of the river Cephisus, who pined 

 away to death from love of his own attractions. Now, I 

 never found the least charm in these fables which force man 

 into everything. I love women under trees, but I don't like 

 them in trees, like the hamadryades. All these metamor- 

 phoses of men and women into trees and flowers, are in 

 my eyes cold and insipid fancies. Trees and flowers have 

 their own particular existence, their own particular charms ; 

 one of which — frequently not the least — is to fly to the midst 

 of them and forget men. 



Lucian complains of these fables. " When," says he, " I. 

 heard in my youth, that on the banks of the Eridanus grew 

 trees from which amber flowed, and that this amber was the 

 tears of the sisters of Phaeton, who had been changed into 

 poplars, and still wept his misfortune, I had a great desire to 

 see all this; but, as I was afterwards sailing on this river, 

 seeing none of these trees on the shore, I asked the sailors 

 when we should come to those places which are so famous 

 among the poets, and they began to laugh at my ignorance, 

 and were astonished that such falsehoods should be promul- 

 gated; they were acquainted with neither Phaeton nor his 

 sisters, and told me that if there were in this country any 

 trees that produced a resin as precious as amber, they would 

 not amuse themselves in hauling ropes or tugging at oars. This 

 rendered me ashamed of having been imposed upon by the 

 poets— and I regretted these things as if I had lost them. 



" I also expected to hear the swans of this river sing, 

 having learnt that the King of Liguria, a friend of Phaeton, 

 and changed into a swan at his death, had preserved a melo- 

 dious voice ; but this proved to be not less false than the rest. 



