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 chearfully----still he
pursued----but, like one who pursued his prey without hope----as he
lagg’d, every step he lost, soften’d 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.