This Is A Degree Of Beastliness, Which Would Appear
Detestable Even In The Capital Of North-Britain.
On the fourth
day of our pilgrimage, we lay in the suburbs of Aix, but did not
enter the city, which I had a great curiosity to see.
The
villainous asthma baulked me of that satisfaction. I was pinched
with the cold, and impatient to reach a warmer climate. Our next
stage was at a paltry village, where we were poorly entertained.
I looked so ill in the morning, that the good woman of the house,
who was big with child, took me by the hand at parting, and even
shed tears, praying fervently that God would restore me to my
health. This was the only instance of sympathy, compassion, or
goodness of heart, that I had met with among the publicans of
France. Indeed at Valencia, our landlady, understanding I was
travelling to Montpellier for my health would have dissuaded me
from going thither; and exhorted me, in particular, to beware of
the physicians, who were all a pack of assassins. She advised me
to eat fricassees of chickens, and white meat, and to take a good
bouillon every morning.
A bouillon is an universal remedy among the good people of
France; insomuch, that they have no idea of any person's dying,
after having swallowed un bon bouillon. One of the English
gentlemen, who were robbed and murdered about thirty years ago
between Calais and Boulogne, being brought to the post-house of
Boulogne with some signs of life, this remedy was immediately
administered.
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