It was very well that my little tour was to terminate at Dijon;for I found,rather to my chagrin,that there was not a great deal,from the pictorial point of view,to be done with Dijon.It was no great matter,for I held my proposition to have been by this time abundantly demonstrated,the proposition with which I started:that if Paris is France,France is by no means Paris.If Dijon was a good deal of a disappointment,I felt,therefore,that I could afford it.It was time for me to reflect,also,that for my disappointments,as a general thing,I had only myself to thank.They had too often been the consequence of arbitrary preconceptions,produced by influences of which I had lost the trace.At any rate,I will say plumply that the ancient capital of Burgundy is wanting in character;it is not up to the mark.It is old and narrow and crooked,and it has been left pretty well to itself:but it is not high and overhanging;it is not,to the eye,what the Burgundian capital should be.It has some tortuous vistas,some mossy roofs,some bulging fronts,some grayfaced hotels,which look as if in former centuries in the last,for instance,during the time of that delightful President de Brosses,whose Letters from Italy throw an interesting sidelight on Dijon they had witnessed a considerable amount of good living.But there is nothing else.I speak as a man who for some reason which he doesn't remember now,did not pay a visit to the celebrated Puits de Moise,an ancient cistern,embellished with a sculptured figure of the Hebrew lawgiver.
第90章（1 / 3）