A TRAMP ABROAD By Mark Twain

We climbed and climbed; and we kept on climbing; we reached about

forty summits, but there was always another one just ahead.

It came on to rain, and it rained in dead earnest.

We were soaked through and it was bitter cold. Next a

smoky fog of clouds covered the whole region densely,

and we took to the railway-ties to keep from getting lost.

Sometimes we slopped along in a narrow path on the left-hand

side of the track, but by and by when the fog blew as aside

a little and we saw that we were treading the rampart

of a precipice and that our left elbows were projecting

over a perfectly boundless and bottomless vacancy,

we gasped, and jumped for the ties again.

The night shut down, dark and drizzly and cold.

About eight in the evening the fog lifted and showed us

a well-worn path which led up a very steep rise to the left.

We took it, and as soon as we had got far enough from the

railway to render the finding it again an impossibility,

the fog shut down on us once more.

We were in a bleak, unsheltered place, now, and had

to trudge right along, in order to keep warm, though we

rather expected to go over a precipice, sooner or later.

About nine o’clock we made an important discovery–

that we were not in any path. We groped around a while

on our hands and knees, but we could not find it;

so we sat down in the mud and the wet scant grass to wait.

We were terrified into this by being suddenly confronted

with a vast body which showed itself vaguely for an instant

and in the next instant was smothered in the fog again.

It was really the hotel we were after, monstrously magnified

by the fog, but we took it for the face of a precipice,

and decided not to try to claw up it.

We sat there an hour, with chattering teeth and quivering bodies,

and quarreled over all sorts of trifles, but gave most

of our attention to abusing each other for the stupidity

of deserting the railway-track. We sat with our backs

to the precipice, because what little wind there was

came from that quarter. At some time or other the fog

thinned a little; we did not know when, for we were facing

the empty universe and the thinness could not show;

but at last Harris happened to look around, and there stood

a huge, dim, spectral hotel where the precipice had been.

One could faintly discern the windows and chimneys,

and a dull blur of lights. Our first emotion was deep,

unutterable gratitude, our next was a foolish rage,

born of the suspicion that possibly the hotel had been

visible three-quarters of an hour while we sat there

in those cold puddles quarreling.

Yes, it was the Rigi-Kulm hotel–the one that occupies

the extreme summit, and whose remote little sparkle

of lights we had often seen glinting high aloft among

the stars from our balcony away down yonder in Lucerne.

The crusty portier and the crusty clerks gave us the surly

reception which their kind deal out in prosperous times,

but by mollifying them with an extra display of obsequiousness

and servility we finally got them to show us to the room

which our boy had engaged for us.

We got into some dry clothing, and while our supper was

preparing we loafed forsakenly through a couple of vast

cavernous drawing-rooms, one of which had a stove in it.

This stove was in a corner, and densely walled around

with people. We could not get near the fire, so we moved

at large in the artic spaces, among a multitude of people

who sat silent, smileless, forlorn, and shivering–thinking

what fools they were to come, perhaps. There were some

Americans and some Germans, but one could see that the

great majority were English.

We lounged into an apartment where there was a great crowd,

to see what was going on. It was a memento-magazine.

The tourists were eagerly buying all sorts and styles of

paper-cutters, marked “Souvenir of the Rigi,” with handles

made of the little curved horn of the ostensible chamois;