o St
Vallier. The country through which we passed to-day, is the most bare
and barren we have seen, particularly when we approached St Vallier. The
soil, a deep gravel, producing nothing but grapes, and a wretched scanty
crop of wheat. The grapes, however, are here the finest for wine in
France. It is here that the famous wines of Cote Rotie and Hermitage are
made. To the very summits of the hills, you see this wretched looking
soil enclosed with stone dykes, and laid out in vineyards. We tasted
some of the grapes here, and though out of season, we found them very
fine; they were of a small black kind called Seeran.

The woman at the inn here, was sent for from the church, to see whether
she would receive us on our terms of 18 francs, which is what we now
always pay; having asked 20, we settled with her, and she went back to
her devotions. We have now had three days of continued rain, which
renders travelling very uncomfortable, and the roads most wretched. We
still rise every morning at five, and are on the road at six. The air is
mild, but very damp. The honey of Narbonne, got at Lyons, is the finest
in France. I forgot to mention, that at Lyons we tried the experiment of
going to the _table d'hote_. We ought not, however, to form the opinion
of a good _table d'hote_ from the one of the Hotel du Parc. It was
mostly composed of what are here called _Pensionaires_; people who dine
there constantly, paying a smaller sum than the common rate of three
francs. The company was, therefore, rather low, and the table scantily
provided; but I should think, that for gentlemen travellers, a _table
d'hote_, where a good one is held, would be the best manner of
dining.----Distance 30 miles to St Vallier.

* * *

_Wednesday_, the 22d.--We left St Vallier at half past six in the
morning, and only reached St Valence, a distance of 23 miles, by five
o'clock. This delay was occasioned by the heavy fall of rain during
these four last days, and by there being no bridge over the Isere,
within four or five miles of Valence. The former bridge, (a most
beautiful one, though only of wood), had been burnt down, by General
Augereau to intercept the progress of the Austrians. The French appear
to hate Augereau as much as Marmont; they say he was a traitor to
Napoleon, to whom he owed every thing. The country through which we
passed to-day, was as plain and uninteresting as yesterday's, though
still all cultivated. Nothing but vines on the hills