Lucian tells us, that, reflecting upon the account given of Phaëthon, who fell thunderstruck into the Eridanus, and of his sisters, who were changed to poplars weeping amber, he took a resolution, if he should ever be near the scene of these wonderful transactions, to inquire among the natives concerning the truth of the [150]story. It so happened, that, at a certain time, he was obliged to go up the river above mentioned: and he says, that he looked about very wistfully; yet, to his great amazement, he saw neither amber nor poplar. Upon this he took the liberty to ask the people, who rowed him, when he should arrive at the amber-dropping trees: but it was with some difficulty that he could make them understand what he meant. He then explained to them the story of Phaëthon: how he borrowed the chariot of the Sun; and being an awkward charioteer, tumbled headlong into the Eridanus: that his sisters pined away with grief; and at last were transformed to trees, the same of which he had just spoken: and he assured them, that these trees were to be found somewhere upon the banks, weeping amber. Who the deuce, says one of the boatmen, could tell you such an idle story? We never heard of any charioteer tumbling into the river; nor have we, that I know of, a single poplar in the country. If there were any trees hereabouts dropping amber, do you think, master, that we would sit here, day after day, tugging against stream for a dry groat, when we might step ashore, and make our fortunes so easily? This affected Lucian a good deal: for he had formed some hopes of obtaining a little of this precious commodity; and began to think that he must have been imposed upon. However, as Cycnus, the brother of Phaëthon, was here changed to a swan, he took it for granted that he should find a number of those birds sailing up and down the stream, and making the groves echo with their melody. But not perceiving any in a great space, he took the liberty, as he passed onward, to put the question again to the boatmen; and to make inquiry about these birds. Pray, gentlemen, says he, at what particular season is it that your swans hereabouts sing so sweetly? It is said, that they were formerly men, and always at Apollo's side; being in a manner of his privy council. Their skill in music must have been very great: and though they have been changed into birds, they retain that faculty, and, I am told, sing most melodiously. The watermen could not help smiling at this account. Why, sir, says one of them, what strange stories you have picked up about our country, and this river? We have plied here, men and boys, for years; and to be sure we cannot say that we never saw a swan: there are some here and there towards the fens, which make a low dull noise: but as for any harmony, a rook or a jackdaw, in comparison of them, may be looked upon as a nightingale.