LETTER XLVIII, 



THE TIKE. 



What a magnificent tree is a vine ! 



You know me sufficiently, my dear friend, to be sure tliat 

 nothing Bacchic forms part of my admiration; I drink but 

 little wine, and besides, the vines which I love are not best 

 adapted to the production of it. I love these immense wreaths 

 of vine which extend far and wide in rich green garlands, and 

 which become in autumn of a splendid purple. If I cannot 

 be said even to like wine, I don't at all like the poetry it has. 

 inspired. To begin with that of Anacreon, who is fortunate 

 in having written in Greek, that is to say, in a language which 

 those even who have learnt it for six years, do not under- 

 stand; in a language that many pretend to admire, for the 

 sake of appearing to understand it. 



Voltaire has justly said, that there are a hundred and fifty 



