"But the 'dolce sentier'-like all other paths of pleasure, terminated too soon. The vale of Vaucluse is short and winding, and our steps were speedily arrested by the sight of that tremendous perpendicular barrier of rock which closes it, and from which rushes the fountain of Vaucluse. At a height from which the lark, as she soars, is scarcely visible, and to which the eye, immediately below, can scarcely reach-towers the summit of this adamantine precipice; and from the depths of the hidden cavern at its base--said to be unfathomable--spring up, foaming into day, the waters of the pure green translucent Sorgue, and dash down the vale at once a full-born mighty stream. ——A wild fig tree, springing horizontally from the rock, marks the highest point, to which the impetuous waters of the fountain rise. How often had Petrarch gazed upon it!--How often had the name of Laura,' breathed in the new born accents of immortal verse, mingled with the rushing of those enchanted waters!But I will spare you all sentiment--and any more description. The pure bright green colour of this crystalline river is very singular, at least I never saw any at all resembling it. Need I say that we visited the humble house of Petrarch, which stands by the side of the stream, at the base of the precipice crowned by the ruined castle--anciently the residence of the proud Bishops of Cavaillon. The white-washed walls of his chamber are ornamented with old portraits of Petrarch and Laura.-We visited the laurel in his garden-said to have sprung from one of those he apostrophised so beautifully

Cosi cresca 'l bel lauro in fresca riva.

Seated beside it, we eat the ripe grapes from his vines, and drank to his memory in the crystal waters of the fountain.

Having wandered

Per alti monti e per selve aspre trovo
Qualche riposo.

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I seated myself like the poet, sopra l' erba verda,' and by the side of the acqua chiara,' beneath the shade of an aged pine tree, which I pleased myself with fancying might be the very spot of the valley Petrarch alludes to

Ove porge ombra un pino alto ad un colle.

Talor m' arresto;

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while enjoying myself here, with Petrarch in my hand, many were the serious warnings Lord Lumbercourt gave me, of the danger of catching cold by sitting on the damp grass.-But alas!little did his Lordship know how much more damp was the fate that awaited himself-for in an evil hour, in attempting to follow me over the river upon some stepping stones-his foot slipped, and he fairly tumbled into the water, from which he was extricated by Gregory'--on whom he loudly called-and other assistants: not however without being completely soused. A change of dry clothes from his carriage, and a blazing wood fire in Petrarch's kitchen, were immediately resorted to-and being once more restored to comfort, I sought to console him by the assurance that having been immersed in the waters of the Fountain of Vaucluse,--these 'chiara fresche e dolci acque,' he must be henceforward so deeply imbued with the genius

of Petrarch-that all the springs of Helicon would fall short of such inspiration. But in vain was such consolation;-not to have been Petrarch himself would he, I am sure, have been reconciled to such a plunge. A glass of Eau de vie proved a much more effectual restorative. Still he could not forget his submersion, and during the whole day, and for many days after, did it form a principal subject of his conversation. Returning from Vaucluse on the direct road to Avignon, we crossed the broad white shingly ugly channel of the Durance, so famed in the lays of the Troubadours. No vestige of Laura remains at Avignon, the house has long since been destroyed, and her tomb was washed away by an inundation. Avignon is the ghost, or spectre of a great city-grass growing in every street-no human being to be seen-the pavement echoing to our own hollow tread-the once splendid palaces deserted and tenantless. Short as was our stay in it, it was longer than it deserved, and we returned to Lyons,-(you may be sure by land)—with all possible speed -excepting that we went round by Nismeswhere the beautiful ruins of the Roman Temples far surpassed the high expectations which prints and descriptions had raised in our minds. They are wholly unrivalled by any remains of antiquity on this side the Alps."

"Sans Pareil, on the Lake of Geneva, near Lausanne, July 11th, 1816.

"You desire to know what I seriously think of Lord Lumbercourt. Seriously! Let me consider! Seriously then, I think him a very serious man. He is likewise a sensible man, and I am inclined to think him, on the whole, a very good sort of man-but withal he is somewhat dull. He is as heavy as lead.-He has a great deal of slow sense, sober judgment, and solid understanding-but not one spark of wit, ima

gination, taste, or talent. He can decide most correctly upon any tangible subject, or any plain absolute matter of fact; but he will discern nothing that requires acuteness, penetration, ingenuity, or tact. After all, this solid judgment, that people extol so much, is certainly a powerful thing, but its mighty momentum, like a huge roller, wants the light lever of a little ready wit, to set it into action. People of strong slow judgment and capacity, like Lord Lumbercourt, perceive what is set before them, the outward face of the matter-but very often no more. They want penetration and tact, to discern, what the instinctive eye of talent instantly discovers, and their indolence of mind as well as slowness, prevents their exercising that labour of investigation-which alone could supply their deficiency in acuteness and power of discrimination. But Lord Lumbercourt is really a man of strong understanding and high principle; and as far as indolence will allow him, kind-hearted and benevolent; though every thing that affects his personal ease and convenience, or physical enjoyment, is of the last importance to him-and like all those ponderous sort of persons he is very fond of good eating and drinking. I am sorry to say he has got a fit of the gout, whether in consequence of the cold air of the Côche d' Eau, or the cold water of the Sorgue, I cannot say-but I really am sorry for it. I pity a poor helpless man, laid up alone in a comfortless hotel, in a foreign country, without a single resource in himself, without a friend near him, and without a soul to look after him except Gregory,' who is, upon all occasions, a much more useful and important appendage