g a small natural basin
with the stillest blue water. The contrast between the stillness of this
basin and the agitation of the water directly after it has overflowed,
constitutes half the charm of Vaucluse. The violence of the stream when
once it has been set loose on the rocks is as fascinating and
indescribable as that of other cataracts; and the rocks in the bed of
the Sorgues have been arranged by a master-hand. The setting of the
phenomenon struck me as so simple and so fine--the vast sad cliff,
covered with the afternoon light, still and solid for ever, while the
liquid element rages and roars at its base--that I had no difficulty in
understanding the celebrity of Vaucluse. I understood it, but I will not
say that I understood Petrarch. He must have been very self-supporting,
and Madonna Laura must indeed have been much to him.

The aridity of the hills that shut in the valley is complete, and the
whole impression is best conveyed by that very expressive French epithet
_morne_. There are the very fragmentary ruins of a castle (of one of the
bishops of Cavaillon) on a high spur of the mountain, above the river;
and there is another remnant of a feudal habitation on one of the more
accessible ledges. Having half an hour to spare before my omnibus was to
leave (I must beg the reader's pardon for this atrociously false note;
call the vehicle a _diligence_, and for some undiscoverable reason the
offence is minimised), I clambered up to this latter spot and sat among
the rocks in the company of a few stunted olives. The Sorgues, beneath
me, reaching the plain, flung itself crookedly across the meadows like
an unrolled blue ribbon. I tried to think of the _amant de Laure_, for
literature's sake; but I had no great success, and the most I could do
was to say to myself that I must try again. Several months have elapsed
since then, and I am ashamed to confess that the trial has not yet come
off. The only very definite conviction I arrived at was that Vaucluse is
indeed cockneyfied, but that I should have been a fool, all the same,
not to come.

[Illustration]

Chapter xxxvi

[Orange]

Mounted into my diligence at the door of the Hotel de Petrarque et de
Laure, and we made our way back to Isle-sur-Sorgues in the fading light.
This village, where at six o'clock every one appeared to have gone to
bed, was fairly darkened by its high, dense plane-trees, under which the
rushing river, on a level with its parapets,