ith the
haricot.

Ovid tells us, in a delightful passage, of the manner in which Philemon
and Baucis received the gods unawares as guests in their humble cottage.
On the three-legged table, which was levelled by means of a potsherd
under one of the legs, they served cabbage soup, rusty bacon, eggs
poached for a minute in the hot cinders, cornel-berries pickled in
brine, honey, and fruits. In this rustic abundance one dish was lacking;
an essential dish, which the Baucis of our countryside would never
forget. After bacon soup would follow the obligatory plate of haricots.
Why did Ovid, so prodigal of detail, neglect to mention a dish so
appropriate to the occasion? The reply is the same as before: because he
did not know of it.

In vain have I recapitulated all that my reading has taught me
concerning the rustic dietary of ancient times; I can recollect no
mention of the haricot. The worker in the vineyard and the harvester
have their lupins, broad beans, peas, and lentils, but never the bean of
beans, the haricot.

The haricot has a reputation of another kind. It is a source of
flatulence; you eat it, as the saying is, and then you take a walk. It
lends itself to the gross pleasantries loved of the populace; especially
when they are formulated by the shameless genius of an Aristophanes or a
Plautus. What merriment over a simple allusion to the sonorous bean,
what guffaws from the throats of Athenian sailors or Roman porters! Did
the two masters, in the unfettered gaiety of a language less reserved
than our own, ever mention the virtues of the haricot? No; they are
absolutely silent concerning the trumpet-voiced vegetable.

The name of the bean is a matter for reflection. It is of an unfamiliar
sound, having no affinity with our language. By its unlikeness to our
native combinations of sounds, it makes one think of the West Indies or
South America, as do _caoutchouc_ and _cacao_. Does the word as a matter
of fact come from the American Indians? Did we receive, together with
the vegetable, the name by which it is known in its native country?
Perhaps; but how are we to know? Haricot, fantastic haricot, you set us
a curious philological problem.

It is also known in French as _faseole_, or _flageolet_. The Provencal
calls it _faiou_ and _faviou_; the Catalan, _fayol_; the Spaniard,
_faseolo_; the Portuguese, _feyao_; the Italian, _fagiuolo_. Here I am
on familiar ground: the languages of the Latin family have preserve