vignon, at the mouth of a long avenue of
mountains, gives rise to this wind: it collects in the narrow channel of
the mountains, and bursts, as from the mouth of a barrel, on the town
and plain. Its violence certainly exceeds what is common in European
climates, but it is considered as healthy, and it very rarely does any
considerable damage. Augustus Caesar was so persuaded of its salutary
character, that he deified it, as it were, by raising an altar to it
under the name of the Circian wind. The winters of Avignon, however,
are sometimes rendered by it most distressingly cold. The Rhone is
frequently covered with ice sufficiently strong to support loaded carts,
and the olive trees sometimes perish to their roots.

Avignon is surrounded by walls built by successive Popes; they still
remain in perfect beauty and preservation, and much augment,
particularly in a distant view, the beauty of the town. They are
composed of free-stone, are flanked at regular distances with square
towers, and surmounted with battlements. The public walks are round the
foot of this wall. The alleys fronting the river, and which are bordered
by noble elms, are the summer promenade--here all the fashion of the
city assemble in the evening, and walk, and sport, and romp on the
banks. In the winter, the public walk is on the opposite side. The
fields likewise have their share, and the environs being naturally
beautiful, the spectacle on a summer's evening is gay and delightful in
the extreme.

The interior of the city is ill built: the streets are narrow and
irregular, and the pavement is most troublesomely rough. There is not a
lamp, except at the houses of the better kind of people; the funds of
the town are still good, but they are all expended on the roads, public
walks, and dinners. The necessity of a constant attention to paving and
lighting, never enters into the heads of a French town-administration;
they seem to think that the whole business is done when the town is
once paved. From the nature of the climate, however, the streets are
necessarily clean. A hot drying sun, and frequent driving winds, remove
or consume all the ordinary rubbish; or if anything be left, the winter
torrent of the Rhone, rising above its bed, sweeps it all before it.
Avignon, therefore, is naturally a clean city. The police, moreover, is
very commendably attentive, to the price of provisions, and to the
cleanliness of the markets.

I had the curiosity to enter