Red Cloth, exactly the form of a child's skull cap, and bordered with a tawdry Green and Gilded Ribbon; her Hair that shone with Oil, was combed straight back, and was curled up under her cap before and behind in tight tresses, about the size of a common sausage; then formed into circle within circle, flat upon the head, as broad as a plate; a Vest of Green cloth faced with Red sat tight to her shape, over which was a loose jacket of Red, with short wide Sleeves, under this she wore a Petticoat of Puce-coloured Stuff, that reached to her ankles, bordered with two rows of Red between two of Green, a wide Collar of coarse Linen, edged with a broad flaring Lace, with meshes as large as those of a garden net. It fell back over her shoulders and left her sun-burnt neck bare, which was adorned with a large Yellow Metal Cross. If I was amused with their habits, they were not less so with mine. Three arch and pretty girls, that were huddled together under the shade of a walnut tree, did not cease tittering and blushing at my English dress, a wonder which they had never seen before. The Peasants of these mountains are the richest in Savoy, and derive a considerable trade from their cattle, sheep, mules, corn, cheese, and butter; the two latter of which are excellent. I was too fond of the mountains to return by the vale, as there was a route over them from Confflans to Chambery, and I found I could visit and sleep at three celebrated Convents in my way.

THE next morn I bid adieu to the gay Count Galate, and attended only by Vincent and a guide, proceeded over the Wilds for the Convent of Belleveaux of the Benedictine order, and about half a day's journey from Tamiers. Nature never formed a more perfect solitude. The Convent is thrust as it seems in a narrow and dark chasm, between thick Woods, lowering Rocks and Precipices, that rise immediately and perpendicularly on every side, so as only to leave space for the humble Building and a moderate Garden. The sun is almost wholly excluded during six months of the year. And the Monks told me, it showed itself not an hour in the day from November to the end of April. The sombre Gloom of the scene seems only to be enlivened, and the solemn Silence broken, by the sullen roar of two Cascades, that rush between the rocks, and the hollow murmurs of the surrounding Pines. Yet in this total Solitude, far from the common haunts of men, dwells the most cheerful, hospitable little Prieur in the world: he thinks he can never do enough for those who have taken pains to explore the remote and rocky Chasm. Perceiving my passion for the Alps, he loaded a mule very plentifully with cold provisions and wine, and climbed up with me to the highest mountain above the Convent, which is reckoned two hundred toises higher than Mount Cenis.

From its extremest summit, the eye shot almost perpendicularly down to the Vale. I durst not regard the swimming scene above a second at a time, and my brain sickened at the tremendous depth. We returned to the Convent in the evening, and after supper he took me to a crystal Fountain in the Wood, where three young Monks played with exquisite taste on the Flute, Violin, and Clarionet. The gurgling of the brook, the fall of the more distant cascades, the perfect calmness of the air, and the dancing Moon-beams among the rocks, formed an enchanting whole. From Belleveaux, on the good little Prieur's own mule, and attended by his servant, I travelled over the mountains to Alençon, a Convent of the Chartreux, in a similar though not so picturesque a situation as that of Tamiers. The Prieur of Alençon and his fraternity were as jolly fellows as if they had been Bernardines; they made me eat a variety of fine fish like an otter, and persuaded me it was right to make it swim in excellent wine. They sent me to Chambery maudlin, and mounted on a beast so full of wicked intentions, that he had like to have broke my neck twenty times down the precipices, he actually did souse me into a shallow river; this same steed was all bedecked and beflounced with fringes and tassels, and a white silk net that covered his clumsy carcass from head to knee. I certainly only wanted rings on my fingers and hells on my toes, to have pranced through the streets in perfect state. I had the satisfaction of

finding my dear wife extremely well, as you have that of being at the end of this unconscionable letter.

P. S. I forgot to tell you, that the oldest Monks of Belleveaux and Alençon had never seen an Englishman at their Convents before.

Avignon, Feb. 22, 1785.

I HAVE visited the celebrated Fountain of Vaucluse, it is the fullest, purest, and most beautiful source imaginable. So serenely does it sleep in a vast Cavern at the foot of a lofty Rock, that not one intruding breath ruffles its azure surface, even while it is sending out a hundred limpid streams from its secret and immeasurable depth. These streams gush out from beneath a shelving bed of huge mossy stones, in various directions, and unite themselves into one little river. But this is its state only when the waters are low; as soon as the ardent beams of the sun penetrate into the mountain snows, and send them dissolving through the rocky crevices to replenish the springs, the Fountain of Vaucluse swells, and fills completely the ample cavern in which it now slumbers, and then its waters rush out with impetuous fury at the mouth of the cave, and foam over the rough crags, which

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now seem to tower far above their reach.

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it is that the overflowing Fountain increases the now gentle Sorgue into a wide and rapid Torrent that often deluges the Vale. In the way back from the Fountain, the Steeple and Curate's House and Garden stand grouped to the eye on a little rising in the most picturesque style imaginable; and in the latter two stately and ancient Cypresses stand side by side, as if weeping over the ashes of Petrarch and Laura, and as emblems of their ever verdant memories. They are the only ones to be seen, and you cannot think how striking a feature they form in the picture, and how much in keeping one feels them with our ideas in such a spot. In an old Chateau belonging to the Marquis de Commond, in the village of Vaucluse, they shew you (as you are assured) the original Portraits of Petrarch and Laura; her features are regularly handsome, but her countenance is insipid, and she sticks up, prim and stiff, holding a Flower, precisely (like an Alderman's Wife on a Holiday) between her forefinger and thumb, which they tell you is an Amaranth, but which I would have sworn was a common red Poppy. What a sentimental nosegay for Petrarch's Laura! Petrarch himself appears with a rusty Doctor's Hood, a dark, eager, sanguine full fed face, expressive of strong passions, highly animated indeed, but wholly destitute of that tender melancholy and those pensive touching graces, with which fond imagination is wont to paint him. But as those portraits are by