I HAD now the whole south of _France_, from the banks of the _Rhône_ to
those of the _Garonne_, to traverse upon my mule at my own leisure—_at
my own leisure_——for I had left Death, the Lord knows——and He only—how
far behind me——“I have followed many a man thro’ _France_, quoth he—but
never at this mettlesome rate.”——Still he followed,——and still I fled
him——but I fled him cheerfully——still he pursued——but, like one who
pursued his prey without hope——as he lagg’d, every step he lost,
softened his looks——why should I fly him at this rate?
So notwithstanding all the commissary of the post-office had said, I
changed the _mode_ of my travelling once more; and, after so
precipitate and rattling a course as I had run, I flattered my fancy
with thinking of my mule, and that I should traverse the rich plains of
_Languedoc_ upon his back, as slowly as foot could fall.
There is nothing more pleasing to a traveller——or more terrible to
travel-writers, than a large rich plain; especially if it is without
great rivers or bridges; and presents nothing to the eye, but one
unvaried picture of plenty: for after they have once told you, that
’tis delicious! or delightful! (as the case happens)—that the soil was
grateful, and that nature pours out all her abundance, &c. . . . they
have then a large plain upon their hands, which they know not what to
do with—and which is of little or no use to them but to carry them to
some town; and that town, perhaps of little more, but a new place to
start from to the next plain——and so on.
—This is most terrible work; judge if I don’t manage my plains better.