At Cujes we breakfasted in the same salle-a-manger with an agreeable old Marseillois and his wife, who confirmed Peyrol's account of the bloody revolutionary committee at Orange, and added circumstances which, at this distance of time, seemed still fresh in their minds. The latter had been confined four months in the prison at L'Isle, near Avignon, from which detachments of persons were daily sent to be tried at Orange, none of whom returned. Among the sufferers were a Mad. Vidou, a superannuated widow of ninety, who was guillotined in company with her son, an amiable and respectable man, and was unconscious of her fate till the last. Forty nuns of the convent of Bollene were also among the prisoners, accused of a plot to bring about a counter-revolution, and four had been already guillotined on this charge when the fall of Robespierre took place. Three of this lady's friends had been reported as emigrants, and lost their property, merely from not having been at home when the commissaires made their visit. The wife of one of these offered to recall him in ten minutes, if necessary: "Non, Citoyenne, c'est egal;" and he was accordingly enrolled and treated as an emigrant, though he never had been absent a single day from his home. In a nation where almost every person of a certain age has such incidents as these burnt into his recollection, it is not wonderful that the general character should somewhat alter, and that the lively thoughtless Frenchmen of Sterne should become nearly an obsolete race. It may be perhaps a fanciful idea to trace to the same source the nature of a Frenchman's vanity, which has generally more reference to mental qualities, than to those goods of which fortune or the will of a despot may deprive him in an instant. "Bene vixit qui bene latuit" should seem the motto of the bulk of the nation. The first part of the road from Cujes to Toulon traverses great inequalities of ground, affording very odd bird's eye glimpses of the sea through little chasms in the line of cliffs to the right. Beausset, through which we passed, is as filthy a town as Cujes, and the country as beautifully cultivated, and as rich in flowers, fruit, and corn; it is difficult, indeed, to find animal and vegetable nature more strongly contrasted. If I may be allowed to parody the words of a noble poet-- "They are brown as the dunghills whereon they decline, "And all, save the dwelling of man, is divine."