t where the aqueduct that crosses the Gardon in
the wondrous manner I had seen discharged itself, the picture of a
splendid paganism seemed vaguely to glow. Roman baths--Roman baths;
those words alone were a scene. Everything was changed: I was strolling
in a _jardin francais_; the bosky slope of the Mont Cavalier (a very
modest mountain), hanging over the place, is crowned with a shapeless
tower, which is as likely to be of mediaeval as of antique origin; and
yet, as I leaned on the parapet of one of the fountains, where a flight
of curved steps (a hemicycle, as the French say) descended into a basin
full of dark, cool recesses, where the slabs of the Roman foundations
gleam through the clear green water--as in this attitude I surrendered
myself to contemplation and reverie, it seemed to me that I touched for
a moment the ancient world. Such moments are illuminating, and the light
of this one mingles, in my memory, with the dusky greenness of the
Jardin de la Fontaine.

The fountain proper--the source of all these distributed waters--is the
prettiest thing in the world, a reduced copy of Vaucluse. It gushes up
at the foot of the Mont Cavalier, at a point where that eminence rises
with a certain cliff-like effect, and, like other springs in the same
circumstances, appears to issue

[Illustration: NIMES--THE CATHEDRAL]

from the rock with a sort of quivering stillness. I trudged up the Mont
Cavalier--it is a matter of five minutes--and having committed this
cockneyism, enhanced it presently by another. I ascended the stupid Tour
Magne, the mysterious structure I mentioned a moment ago. The only
feature of this dateless tube, except the inevitable collection of
photographs to which you are introduced by the doorkeeper, is the view
you enjoy from its summit. This view is of course remarkably fine, but I
am ashamed to say I have not the smallest recollection of it; for while
I looked into the brilliant spaces of the air I seemed still to see only
what I saw in the depths of the Roman baths--the image, disastrously
confused and vague, of a vanished world. This world, however, has left
at Nimes a far more considerable memento than a few old stones covered
with water-moss. The Roman arena is the rival of those of Verona and of
Arles; at a respectful distance it emulates the Colosseum. It is a small
Colosseum, if I may be allowed the expression, and is in much better
preservation than the great circus at Rome. This is especia