hills which lie to the
east of Avignon, and which spring (says Murray) from the mass of the
Mont-Ventoux. At Isle-sur-Sorgues, at the end of about an hour, the
foreground becomes much more animated and the distance much more (or
perhaps I should say much less) actual. I descended from the train and
ascended to the top of an omnibus which was to convey me into the
recesses of the hills. It had not been among my previsions that I
should be indebted to a vehicle of that kind for an opportunity to
commune with the spirit of Petrarch; and I had to borrow what
consolation I could from the fact that at least I had the omnibus to
myself. I was the only passenger; every one else was at Avignon watching
the Rhone. I lost no time in perceiving that I could not have come to
Vaucluse at a better moment. The Sorgues was almost as full as the
Rhone, and of a colour much more romantic. Rushing along its narrowed
channel under an avenue of fine _platanes_ (it is confined between solid
little embankments of stone), with the good wives of the village, on the
brink, washing their linen in its contemptuous flood, it gave promise of
high entertainment farther on.

The drive to Vaucluse is of about three-quarters of an hour; and though
the river, as I say, was promising, the big pale hills, as the road
winds into them, did not look as if their slopes of stone and shrub were
a nestling-place for superior scenery. It is a part of the merit of
Vaucluse indeed that it is as much as possible a surprise. The place has
a right to its name, for the valley appears impenetrable until you get
fairly into it. One perverse twist follows another until the omnibus
suddenly deposits you in front of the "cabinet" of Petrarch. After that
you have only to walk along the left bank of the river. The cabinet of
Petrarch is to-day a hideous little _cafe_, bedizened, like a signboard,
with extracts from the ingenious "Rime." The poet and his lady are of
course the stock-in-trade of the little village, which has had for
several generations the privilege of attracting young couples engaged in
their wedding-tour and other votaries of the tender passion. The place
has long been familiar, on festal Sundays, to the swains of Avignon and
their attendant nymphs. The little fish of the Sorgues are much
esteemed, and, eaten on the spot, they constitute, for the children of
the once Papal city, the classic suburban dinner. Vaucluse has been
turned to account, however, not onl