A TRAMP ABROAD By Mark Twain

the refrangibility of the earth’s surface would emphasize

this effect in regions where great mountain ranges occur,

and possibly so even-handed impact the odic and idyllic

forces together, the one upon the other, as to prevent

the moon from rising higher than 12,200 feet above

sea-level. This daring theory had been received with frantic

scorn by some of my fellow-scientists, and with an eager

silence by others. Among the former I may mention

Prof. H—-y; and among the latter Prof. T—-l. Such

is professional jealousy; a scientist will never show

any kindness for a theory which he did not start himself.

There is no feeling of brotherhood among these people.

Indeed, they always resent it when I call them brother.

To show how far their ungenerosity can carry them, I will

state that I offered to let Prof. H—-y publish my great

theory as his own discovery; I even begged him to do it;

I even proposed to print it myself as his theory.

Instead of thanking me, he said that if I tried to

fasten that theory on him he would sue me for slander.

I was going to offer it to Mr. Darwin, whom I understood

to be a man without prejudices, but it occurred to me

that perhaps he would not be interested in it since it did

not concern heraldry.

But I am glad now, that I was forced to father my intrepid

theory myself, for, on the night of which I am writing,

it was triumphantly justified and established. Mont Blanc

is nearly sixteen thousand feet high; he hid the moon utterly;

near him is a peak which is 12,216 feet high; the moon slid

along behind the pinnacles, and when she approached that

one I watched her with intense interest, for my reputation

as a scientist must stand or fall by its decision.

I cannot describe the emotions which surged like tidal

waves through my breast when I saw the moon glide behind

that lofty needle and pass it by without exposing more

than two feet four inches of her upper rim above it;

I was secure, then. I knew she could rise no higher,

and I was right. She sailed behind all the peaks and

never succeeded in hoisting her disk above a single one

of them.

While the moon was behind one of those sharp fingers,

its shadow was flung athwart the vacant heavens–

a long, slanting, clean-cut, dark ray–with a streaming

and energetic suggestion of FORCE about it, such as the

ascending jet of water from a powerful fire-engine affords.

It was curious to see a good strong shadow of an earthly

object cast upon so intangible a field as the atmosphere.

We went to bed, at last, and went quickly to sleep, but I

woke up, after about three hours, with throbbing temples,

and a head which was physically sore, outside and in.

I was dazed, dreamy, wretched, seedy, unrefreshed.

I recognized the occasion of all this: it was that torrent.

In the mountain villages of Switzerland, and along the roads,

one has always the roar of the torrent in his ears.

He imagines it is music, and he thinks poetic things

about it; he lies in his comfortable bed and is lulled

to sleep by it. But by and by he begins to notice

that his head is very sore–he cannot account for it;

in solitudes where the profoundest silence reigns,

he notices a sullen, distant, continuous roar in his ears,

which is like what he would experience if he had sea-shells

pressed against them–he cannot account for it; he is

drowsy and absent-minded; there is no tenacity to his mind,

he cannot keep hold of a thought and follow it out;

i f he sits down to write, his vocabulary is empty,

no suitable words will come, he forgets what he started to do,

and remains there, pen in hand, head tilted up, eyes closed,

listening painfully to the muffled roar of a distant train

in his ears; in his soundest sleep the strain continues,

he goes on listening, always listening intently, anxiously,

and wakes at last, harassed, irritable, unrefreshed.

He cannot manage to account for these things.

Day after day he feels as if he had spent his nights