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 neighbourhood, 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 Garden, 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-coloured 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, which slopes upward into the bank of the ravine. You may
sit here as long as you please, staring up at the light, strong piers;
the spot is sufficiently "wild," though two or three stone benches have
been erected on it. I remained there an hour and got a complete
impression; the place was perfectly soundless and, for the time at
least, lonely; the splendid afternoon had begun to fade, and there was a
fascination in the object I had come to see. It came to pass that at the
same time I discovered in it a certain stupidity, a vague brutality.
That element is rarely absent from great Roman work, which is wanting in
the nice adaptation of the means to the end. The means are always
exaggerated; the end is so much more than attained. The Roman rigour was
apt to overshoot the mark, and I suppose a race which could do nothing