which is eight miles over, was formerly
frequented by a gang of desperate banditti, who are now happily
exterminated: the road is very good, but in some places very steep and
bordered by precipices. The mountain is covered with pines, and the
laurus cerasus, the fruit of which being now ripe, made a most romantic
appearance through the snow that lay upon the branches. The cherries
were so large that I at first mistook them for dwarf oranges. I think
they are counted poisonous in England, but here the people eat them
without hesitation. In the middle of the mountain is the post-house,
where we dined in a room so cold, that the bare remembrance of it makes
my teeth chatter. After dinner I chanced to look into another chamber
that fronted the south, where the sun shone; and opening a window
perceived, within a yard of my hand, a large tree loaded with oranges,
many of which were ripe. You may judge what my astonishment was to find
Winter in all his rigour reigning on one side of the house, and Summer
in all her glory on the other. Certain it is, the middle of this
mountain seemed to be the boundary of the cold weather. As we proceeded
slowly in the afternoon we were quite enchanted. This side of the hill
is a natural plantation of the most agreeable ever-greens, pines, firs,
laurel, cypress, sweet myrtle, tamarisc, box, and juniper, interspersed
with sweet marjoram, lavender, thyme, wild thyme, and sage. On the
right-hand the ground shoots up into agreeable cones, between which you
have delightful vistas of the Mediterranean, which washes the foot of
the rock; and between two divisions of the mountains, there is a bottom
watered by a charming stream, which greatly adds to the rural beauties
of the scene.

This night we passed at Cannes, a little fishing town, agreeably
situated on the beach of the sea, and in the same place lodged Monsieur
Nadeau d'Etrueil, the unfortunate French governor of Guadeloupe,
condemned to be imprisoned for life in one of the isles Marguerite,
which lie within a mile of this coast.

Next day we journeyed by the way of Antibes, a small maritime town,
tolerably well fortified; and passing the little river Loup, over a
stone-bridge, arrived about noon at the village of St. Laurent, the
extremity of France, where we passed the Var, after our baggage had
undergone examination. From Cannes to this village the road lies along
the sea-side; and sure nothing can be more delightful. Though in the
mornin