ecipices of grey
rock, many hundred feet high, hang over the narrowing glen. On a crag
over the village are the remains of a castle; the slope below this, now
rugged and stony, was once graced by the cottage and garden of Petrarch.
All traces of them have long since vanished, but a simple column,
bearing the inscription; "A PETRARQUE," stands beside the Sorgues.

We ascended into the defile by a path among the rocks, overshadowed by
olive and wild fig trees, to the celebrated fountains of Vaucluse. The
glen seems as if struck into the mountain's depths by one blow of an
enchanter's wand; and just at the end, where the rod might have rested
in its downward sweep, is the fathomless well whose overbrimming fulness
gives birth to the Sorgues. We climbed up over the mossy rocks and sat
down in the grot, beside the dark, still pool. It was the most absolute
solitude. The rocks towered above and over us, to the height of six
hundred feet, and the gray walls of the wild glen below shut out all
appearance of life. I leaned over the rock and drank of the blue crystal
that grew gradually darker towards the centre, till it became a mirror,
and gave back a perfect reflection of the crags above it. There was no
bubbling--no gushing up from its deep bosom--but the wealth of sparkling
waters continually welled over, as from a too-full goblet.

It was with actual sorrow that I turned away from the silent spot. I
never visited a place to which the fancy clung more suddenly and fondly.
There is something holy in its solitude, making one envy Petrarch the
years of calm and unsullied enjoyment which blessed him there. As some
persons, whom we pass as strangers, strike a hidden chord in our
spirits, compelling a silent sympathy with them, so some landscapes have
a character of beauty which harmonizes thrillingly with the mood in
which we look upon them, till we forget admiration in the glow of
spontaneous attachment. They seem like abodes of the Beautiful, which
the soul in its wanderings long ago visited, and now recognizes and
loves as the home of a forgotten dream. It was thus I felt by the
fountains of Vaucluse; sadly and with weary steps I turned away, leaving
its loneliness unbroken as before.

We returned over the plain in the wind, under the gloomy sky, passed
L'Isle at dusk, and after walking an hour with a rain following close
behind us, stopped at an _auberge_ in Le Thor, where we rested our tired
frames and broke our long day's