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. You are very near (the Pont du Gard) 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,
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.
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