h do not rise
from the logical sense, which are rather parallel to than connected with
the sensuous delight. The world so disclosed is rather the world of
dreams, rather the world in which children sometimes live, instantly
appearing, and instantly vanishing away, a world beyond all expression or
analysis, neither of the intellect nor of the senses. He called these
fancies of his "Meditations of a Tavern," and was amused to think that a
theory of letters should have risen from the eloquent noise that rang all
day about the violet and golden wine.

"Let us seek for more exquisite things," said Lucian to himself. He could
almost imagine the magic transmutation of the senses accomplished, the
strong sunlight was an odor in his nostrils; it poured down on the white
marble and the palpitating roses like a flood. The sky was a glorious
blue, making the heart joyous, and the eyes could rest in the dark green
leaves and purple shadow of the ilex. The earth seemed to burn and leap
beneath the sun, he fancied he could see the vine tendrils stir and
quiver in the heat, and the faint fume of the scorching pine needles was
blown across the gleaming garden to the seat beneath the porch. Wine
was before him in a cup of carved amber; a wine of the color of a dark
rose, with a glint as of a star or of a jet of flame deep beneath the
brim; and the cup was twined about with a delicate wreath of ivy. He was
often loath to turn away from the still contemplation of such things,
from the mere joy of the violent sun, and the responsive earth. He loved
his garden and the view of the tessellated city from the vineyard on the
hill, the strange clamor of the tavern, and white Fotis appearing on the
torch-lit stage. And there were shops in the town in which he delighted,
the shops of the perfume makers, and jewelers, and dealers in curious
ware. He loved to see all things made for ladies' use, to touch the
gossamer silks that were to touch their bodies, to finger the beads of
amber and the gold chains which would stir above their hearts, to handle
the carved hairpins and brooches, to smell odors which were already
dedicated to love.

But though these were sweet and delicious gratifications, he knew that
there were more exquisite things of which he might be a spectator. He had
seen the folly of regarding fine literature from the standpoint of the
logical intellect, and he now began to question the wisdom of looking at
life as if it were a moral rep