charm which I had already enjoyed from the window
of the train, and which glowed in the sweet sunshine
and the white rocks, and lurked in the smoke-puffs
of the little olives. The olive-trees in Provence
are half the landscape. They are neither so tall,
so stout, nor so richly contorted as I have seen them
beyond the Alps; but this mild colorless bloom seems
the very texture of the country. The road from
Nimes, for a distance of fifteen miles, is superb;
broad enough for an army, and as white and firm as
a dinner-table. It stretches away over undulations
which suggest a kind of harmony; and in the curves
it makes through the wide, free country, where there
is never a hedge or a wall, and the detail is always
exquisite, there is something majestic, almost processional.
Some twenty minutes before I reached the little inn
that marks the termination of the drive, my vehicle
met with an accident which just missed being serious,
and which engaged the attention of a gentleman, who,
followed by his groom and mounted on a strikingly
handsome horse, happened to ride up at the moment.
This young man, who, with his good looks and charming
manner, might have stepped out of a novel of Octave
Feuillet, gave me some very intelligent advice in
reference to one of my horses that had been injured,
and was so good as to accompany me to the inn, with
the resources of which he was acquainted, to see that
his recommendations were carried out. The result
of our interview was that he invited me to come and
look at a small but ancient chateau in the neighborhood,
which he had the happiness—not the greatest
in the world, he intimated—to inhabit,
and at which I engaged to present myself after I should
have spent an hour at the Pont du Gard. For the
moment, when we separated, I gave all my attention
to that great structure. You are very near it
before you see it; the ravine it spans suddenly opens
and exhibits the picture. The scene at this point
grows extremely beautiful. The ravine is the
valley of the Gardon, which the road from Nimes has
followed some time without taking account of it, but
which, exactly at the right distance from the aqueduct,
deepens and expands, and puts on those characteristics
which are best suited to give it effect. The gorge
becomes romantic, still, and solitary, and, with its
white rocks and wild shrubbery, hangs over the clear,
colored river, in whose slow course there is here
and there a deeper pool. Over the valley, from
side to side, and ever so high in the air, stretch
the three tiers of the tremendous bridge. They
are unspeakably imposing, and nothing could well be
more Roman. The hugeness, the solidity, the unexpectedness,
the monumental rectitude of the whole thing leave
you nothing to say—at the time—and
make you stand gazing. You simply feel that it
is noble and perfect, that it has the quality of greatness.
A road, branching from the highway, descends to the
level of the river and passes under one of the arches.
This road has a wide margin of grass and loose stones,