and tied it to his vest in front, and it answered the purpose admirably.  He filled it full with a beautiful collection, and as soon as we got here to-night he transferred it to a cardboard box and sent it by mail to Livy.  A strange Mark he is, full of contradictions.  I spoke last night of his sensitive to others’ feelings.  To-day the guide got behind, and came up as if he would like to go by, yet hesitated to do so.  Mark paused, went aside and busied himself a minute picking a flower.  In the halt the guide got by and resumed his place in front.  Mark threw the flower away, saying, “I didn’t want that.  I only wanted to give the old man a chance to go on without seeming to pass us.”  Mark is splendid to walk with amid such grand scenery, for he talks so well about it, has such a power of strong, picturesque expression.  I wish you might have heard him to-day.  His vigorous speech nearly did justice to the things we saw.

In an address which Twichell gave many years later he recalls another pretty incident of their travels.  They had been toiling up the Gorner Grat.

As we paused for a rest, a lamb from a flock of sheep near by ventured inquisitively toward us, whereupon Mark seated himself on a rock, and with beckoning hand and soft words tried to get it to come to him.

On the lamb’s part it was a struggle between curiosity and timidity, but in a succession of advances and retreats it gained confidence, though at a very gradual rate.  It was a scene for a painter:  the great American humorist on one side of the game and that silly little creature on the other, with the Matterhorn for a background.  Mark was reminded that the time he was consuming was valuable—­but to no purpose.  The Gorner Grat could wait.  He held on with undiscouraged perseverance till he carried his point:  the lamb finally put its nose in his hand, and he was happy over it all the rest of the day.

The matter of religion came up now and again in the drift of their discussions.  It was Twichell’s habit to have prayers in their room every night at the hotels, and Clemens was willing to join in the observances.  Once Twichell, finding him in a responsive mood—­a remorseful mood—­gave his sympathy, and spoke of the larger sympathy of divinity.  Clemens listened and seemed soothed and impressed, but his philosophies were too wide and too deep for creeds and doctrines.  A day or two later, as they were tramping along in the hot sun, his honesty had to speak out.

“Joe,” he said, “I’m going to make a confession.  I don’t believe in your religion at all.  I’ve been living a lie right straight along whenever I pretended to.  For a moment, sometimes, I have been almost a believer, but it immediately drifts away from me again.  I don’t believe one word of your Bible was inspired by God any more than any other book.  I believe it is entirely the work of man from beginning to end—­atonement and all.  The problem of life and death and eternity and the true conception of God is a bigger thing than is contained in that book.”