The bare mountain in whose heart lies the poet’s solitude, now rose before us, at the foot of the lofty Mont Ventoux, whose summit of snows extended beyond.  We left the river, and walked over a barren plain, across which the wind blew most drearily.  The sky was rainy and dark, and completed the desolateness of the scene, which in no wise heightened our anticipations of the renowned glen.  At length we rejoined the Sorgues and entered a little green valley running up into the mountain.  The narrowness of the entrance entirely shut out the wind, and except the rolling of the waters over their pebbly bed, all was still and lonely and beautiful.  The sides of the dell were covered with olive trees, and a narrow strip of emerald meadow lay at the bottom.  It grew more hidden and sequestered as we approached the little village of Vaucluse.  Here, the mountain towers far above, and precipices of grey rock, many hundred feet high, hang over the narrowing glen.  On a crag over the village are the remains of a castle; the slope below this, now rugged and stony, was once graced by the cottage and garden of Petrarch.  All traces of them have long since vanished, but a simple column, bearing the inscription; “A PETRARQUE,” stands beside the Sorgues.

We ascended into the defile by a path among the rocks, overshadowed by olive and wild fig trees, to the celebrated fountains of Vaucluse.  The glen seems as if struck into the mountain’s depths by one blow of an enchanter’s wand; and just at the end, where the rod might have rested in its downward sweep, is the fathomless well whose overbrimming fulness gives birth to the Sorgues.  We climbed up over the mossy rocks and sat down in the grot, beside the dark, still pool.  It was the most absolute solitude.  The rocks towered above and over us, to the height of six hundred feet, and the gray walls of the wild glen below shut out all appearance of life.  I leaned over the rock and drank of the blue crystal that grew gradually darker towards the centre, till it became a mirror, and gave back a perfect reflection of the crags above it.  There was no bubbling—­no gushing up from its deep bosom—­but the wealth of sparkling waters continually welled over, as from a too-full goblet.

It was with actual sorrow that I turned away from the silent spot.  I never visited a place to which the fancy clung more suddenly and fondly.  There is something holy in its solitude, making one envy Petrarch the years of calm and unsullied enjoyment which blessed him there.  As some persons, whom we pass as strangers, strike a hidden chord in our spirits, compelling a silent sympathy with them, so some landscapes have a character of beauty which harmonizes thrillingly with the mood in which we look upon them, till we forget admiration in the glow of spontaneous attachment.  They seem like abodes of the Beautiful, which the soul in its wanderings long ago visited, and now recognizes and loves as the home of a forgotten dream.  It was thus I felt by the fountains of Vaucluse; sadly and with weary steps I turned away, leaving its loneliness unbroken as before.