CHAPTER XLII

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.

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