never hate and never love; their breasts are breasts that never swell

with the sentiment, "I have a country and a flag." They are dead men who

walk.

I set down these first thoughts because they are natural--not because

they are just or because it is right to set them down. It is easy for

book-makers to say "I thought so and so as I looked upon such and such a

scene"--when the truth is, they thought all those fine things afterwards.

One's first thought is not likely to be strictly accurate, yet it is no

crime to think it and none to write it down, subject to modification by

later experience. These hermits are dead men, in several respects, but

not in all; and it is not proper, that, thinking ill of them at first, I

should go on doing so, or, speaking ill of them I should reiterate the

words and stick to them. No, they treated us too kindly for that. There

is something human about them somewhere. They knew we were foreigners

and Protestants, and not likely to feel admiration or much friendliness

toward them. But their large charity was above considering such things.

They simply saw in us men who were hungry, and thirsty, and tired, and

that was sufficient. They opened their doors and gave us welcome. They

asked no questions, and they made no self-righteous display of their

hospitality. They fished for no compliments. They moved quietly about,

setting the table for us, making the beds, and bringing water to wash in,

and paid no heed when we said it was wrong for them to do that when we

had men whose business it was to perform such offices. We fared most

comfortably, and sat late at dinner. We walked all over the building

with the hermits afterward, and then sat on the lofty battlements and

682

The Innocents Abroad