Mark Twain

The Mysterious Stranger Mark Twain

It was in 1590-winter. Austria was far away from the world, and asleep; it was still the MiddleAges in Austria, and promised to remain so forever. Some even set it away back centuries uponcenturies and said that by the mental and spiritual clock it was still the Age of Belief in Austria. Butthey meant it as a compliment, not a slur, and it was so taken, and we were all proud of it. Iremember it well, although I was only a boy; and I remember, too, the pleasure it gave me. Yes, Austria was far from the world, and asleep, and our village was in the middle of that sleep, being in the middle of Austria. It drowsed in peace in the deep privacy of a hilly and woodsysolitude where news from the world hardly ever came to disturb its dreams, and was infinitelycontent. At its front flowed the tranquil river, its surface painted with cloud-forms and thereflections of drifting arks and stone-boats; behind it rose the woody steeps to the base of the loftyprecipice; from the top of the precipice frowned a vast castle, its long stretch of towers and bastionsmailed in vines; beyond the river, a league to the left, was a tumbled expanse of forest-clothed hillscloven by winding gorges where the sun never penetrated; and to the right a precipice overlookedthe river, and between it and the hills just spoken of lay a far-reaching plain dotted with littlehomesteads nested among orchards and shade trees