feet in height, and arching slightly roofwise, so that no rain falls upon the cavern of the pool, we seem to see the stroke of Neptune’s trident, the hoof of Pegasus, the force of Moses’ rod, which cleft rocks and made water gush forth in the desert.  There is a strange fascination in the spot.  As our eyes follow the white pebble which cleaves the surface and falls visibly, until the veil of azure is too thick for sight to pierce, we feel as if some glamour were drawing us, like Hylas, to the hidden caves.  At least, we long to yield a prized and precious offering to the spring, to grace the nymph of Vaucluse with a pearl of price as token of our reverence and love.

Meanwhile nothing has been said about Petrarch, who himself said much about the spring, and complained against those very nymphs to whom we have in wish, at least, been scattering jewels, that they broke his banks and swallowed up his gardens every winter.  At Vaucluse Petrarch loved, and lived, and sang.  He has made Vaucluse famous, and will never be forgotten there.  But for the present the fountain is even more attractive than the memory of the poet.[4]

The change from Avignon to Nismes is very trying to the latter place; for Nismes is not picturesquely or historically interesting.  It is a prosperous modern French town with two almost perfect Roman monuments—­Les Arenes and the Maison Carree.  The amphitheatre is a complete oval, visible at one glance.  Its smooth white stone, even where it has not been restored, seems unimpaired by age; and Charles Martel’s conflagration, when he burned the Saracen hornet’s nest inside it, has only blackened the outer walls and arches venerably.  Utility and perfect adaptation of means to ends form the beauty of Roman buildings.  The science of construction and large intelligence displayed in them, their strength, simplicity, solidity, and purpose, are their glory.  Perhaps there is only one modern edifice—­Palladio’s Palazzo della Ragione at Vicenza—­which approaches the dignity and loftiness of Roman architecture; and this it does because of its absolute freedom from ornament, the vastness of its design, and the durability of its material.  The temple, called the Maison Carree, at Nismes, is also very perfect, and comprehended at one glance.  Light, graceful, airy, but rather thin and narrow, it reminds one of the temple of Fortuna Virilis at Rome.

But if Nismes itself is not picturesque, its environs contain the wonderful Pont du Gard.  A two or three hours’ drive leads through a desolate country to the valley of the Cardon, where suddenly, at a turn of the road, one comes upon the aqueduct.  It is not within the scope of words to describe the impression produced by those vast arches, row above row, cutting the deep blue sky.  The domed summer clouds sailing across them are comprehended in the gigantic span of their perfect semicircles, which seem rather to have been described by Miltonic compasses of Deity than by merely human mathematics.  Yet,