This part of the country abounds with mule, which are used in carriages, carts, waggons, ploughs, &c. These animals are of a remarkable size here. The roads, ever since we left Lyons, excepting where we met with a hundred or two hundred yards of pavement, have been uniformly bad. To-day, however, we made out about 33 miles between six and five o'clock. This town of Montelimart is celebrated for one manufacture only, viz. a sort of cake made of almonds and white sugar, called Nagaux. This article is sent from this place all over France!—---- Distance 33 miles—to Montelimart.
Our journey to-day (Friday the 24th) though rather more rapid, was not by any means comfortable. The country hereabout has a great want of milk and butter;—not a cow to be seen. The soil is still to appearance wretchedly poor, yet it gives a rich produce, in grapes, figs, olives, and mulberry leaves, for the silk worms. The wine (vin ordinaire) sells here at six sous the bottle; it is poor in quality, yet by no means unpalatable. The roads continue as bad as ever, rather worse indeed, for the thin creamy mud has become thick doughy clay.
We did not arrive at Orange till half past five, but were fortunate in finding a civil reception at the Palais Royal, the first inn on entering the town. We met with no adventures to-day of any kind. The language of the people has now become completely unintelligible; it is a Patois of the most horrible nature. Many of the better sort of people among the peasants, are able to speak French with you, but where they have only their own dialect, you are completely at a loss. I had conceived, that there would be no more difference between French and Patois, than between the better and the lower dialects of Scotch and English; but the very words are here changed: A carter asked the landlord with whom we were conversing, for a [8]"Peetso morcel du bosse,"—"petit morceau du bois." The landlord, a respectable-looking man, gave us a good deal of news regarding the state of the country. He says, that the people in the south are all anxious for peace, and that those in France, who wish for war, are those who have nothing else to live on; that nobody with a house over his back, and a little money, desires to have war again.
The people here seem to amuse themselves with a perpetual variety of reports. The story to-day is, that Alexander has declared his intention of sending 60,000 men to Poland, to take possession of that country for himself; and that Talleyrand would not hear of such a thing. The villages that we passed to-day have a greater appearance of desolation than any we have yet seen. Scarce a house which does not seem to be tumbling to pieces, and those which we were unlucky enough to enter, were as dirty and uncomfortable inside as they appeared without. On entering the town, or rather at a little distance from the town of Orange, we saw a beautiful triumphal arch, said to have been raised to commemorate the victories of Marius over the Cimbri. The evening was too gloomy for us to observe in what state of preservation the sculpture is now, but the architecture is very grand. To-morrow we breakfast at Avignon. But alas, the weather will not permit of our visiting Vaucluse.——Distance 39 miles—to Orange.
Saturday, the 25th.—We left Orange at half past six. Our road to-day lay through the same species of country, to which we have been condemned for four days, producing vines, olives, and mulberries; the soil is to all appearance a most wretched one for corn—gravel and stones. The roads have, ever since our leaving Lyons, been very bad. After breakfast at Avignon, we proceeded to see the ruins of the church of Notre Dame. There are now remaining but very few vestiges of a church; the ground formerly enclosed by the church, is now formed into a fruit garden, and a country house has been built on the ruins. The owner of this house wishes to let it, and hearing that a friend of ours was in need of a house, he offered it to him for two hundred a-year. The house was such as one could procure near London for about L.80, and such as we ought to have in France for L.20. But the French do really think, that the English will give any sum they ask, and that every individual is a kind of animated bag of money.
The owner of the house was, to appearance, a broken-down gentleman; he had been ordered to Marseilles by his physician for an affection of the lungs; yet he strongly recommended the climate of Avignon. For my own part, I think the situation is too low and windy to be healthy. The town is one of the cleanest we have seen, and there are some excellent houses in it; of the rent we could not well judge from the account of this gentleman. We went through his garden, and were by him shewn the spot under which the tomb of Laura is now situated. A small cypress tree had been planted by the owner of the garden to mark the spot. He had heard the story of Laura, and recollected many particulars of it; but still he had not been at the pains to have the spot cleared, and the tomb exposed to view. To any one who was acquainted with the story of Petrarch, or who had perused his impassioned effusions, the dilapidation of this church, and the barbarous concealment of Laura's tomb, were most mortifying circumstances. But, neither the memory of Laura, nor of the brave Crillon, whose tomb is also here, had any effect in averting the progress of the revolutionary barbarians. The tomb of Crillon is now only to be distinguished by the vestiges of some warlike embellishments in the wall opposite which it was situated. There is a large space now empty in the midst of these ornaments, from which a large marble slab had lately been taken out. On this slab, the owner of the garden said, an inscription, commemorating the virtues of Crillon, had been engraved. A small stone, with his arms very beautifully engraved, was shewn us in the garden. I could not leave the garden without stealing a branch from the cypress which shaded Laura's tomb.
Through this garden runs the rivulet of Vaucluse. Its course is through the town of Avignon; where we remained for three hours, and then continued our journey; but the day was far advanced, and by the evening we only arrived at a wretched, little inn called Bonpas. We were here told that we could have no lodging. Luckily for us the moon was up, and very clear; we therefore pushed on for Orgon, which, although said in the post-book to be two posts and a half from Bonpas, we reached in about an hour and a half. On our arrival we were fortunate enough to find lodging; and had scarcely seated ourselves in our parlour, when the people told us, that last night the mail had been robbed, and both the postillion and conducteur killed on the spot,——Distance 42 miles—to Orgon.