I Retain, However, A Suf-
Ficiently Clear Impression Of The Little Superannuated
Temple, With Its Four Apses And Its Perceptible Odor Of
Antiquity, - The Odor Of The Eleventh Century.
The ruins of Les Baux remain quite indistinguish-
able, even when you are directly beneath them, at
the foot of the charming little Alpilles, which mass
themselves with a kind of delicate ruggedness.
Rock
and ruin have been so welded together by the con-
fusions of time, that as you approach it from behind
- that is, from the direction of Arles - the place
presents simply a general air of cragginess. Nothing
can be prettier than the crags of Provence; they are
beautifully modelled, as painters say, and they have
a delightful silvery color. The road winds round the
foot of the hills on the top of which Lea Baux is
planted, and passes into another valley, from which
the approach to the town is many degrees less pre-
cipitous, and may be comfortably made in a carriage.
Of course the deeply inquiring traveller will alight as
promptly as possible; for the pleasure of climbing
into this queerest of cities on foot is not the least
part of the entertainment of going there. Then you
appreciate its extraordinary position, its picturesque-
ness, its steepness, its desolation and decay. It
hangs - that is, what remains of it - to the slanting
summit of the mountain. Nothing would be more
natural than for the whole place to roll down into
the valley. A part of it has done so - for it is not
unjust to suppose that in the process of decay the
crumbled particles have sought the lower level;
while the remainder still clings to its magnificent
perch.
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