The Letters Of Mark Twain, Complete


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not thinking of stopping, we saw a picturesque and mighty ruin on a high  
hill back of a village, and I was seized with a desire to explore it;  
so we landed at once and set out with rubbers and umbrella, sending the  
boat ahead to St. Andeol, and we spent 3 hours clambering about those  
cloudy heights among those worn and vast and idiotic ruins of a castle  
built by two crusaders 650 years ago. The work of these asses was  
full of interest, and we had a good time inspecting, examining and  
scrutinizing it. All the hills on both sides of the Rhone have peaks and  
precipices, and each has its gray and wasted pile of mouldy walls and  
broken towers. The Romans displaced the Gauls, the Visigoths displaced  
the Romans, the Saracens displaced the Visigoths, the Christians  
displaced the Saracens, and it was these pious animals who built these  
strange lairs and cut each other's throats in the name and for the glory  
of God, and robbed and burned and slew in peace and war; and the pauper  
and the slave built churches, and the credit of it went to the Bishop  
who racked the money out of them. These are pathetic shores, and they  
make one despise the human race.  
We came down in an hour by rail, but I couldn't get your telegram till  
this morning, for it was Sunday and they had shut up the post office  
to go to the circus. I went, too. It was all one family--parents and  
5
children--performing in the open air to 200 of these enchanted  
villagers, who contributed coppers when called on. It was a most gay and  
strange and pathetic show. I got up at 7 this morning to see the poor  
devils cook their poor breakfast and pack up their sordid fineries.  
807  


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