Another letter records a visit with Pamela to a picture-gallery in St. Louis where was being exhibited Church’s “Heart of the Andes.”  He describes the picture in detail and with vast enthusiasm.

“I have seen it several times,” he concludes, “but it is always a new picture—­totally new—­you seem to see nothing the second time that you saw the first.”

Further along he tells of having taken his mother and the girls—­his cousin Ella Creel and another—­for a trip down the river to New Orleans.

Ma was delighted with her trip, but she was disgusted with the girls for allowing me to embrace and kiss them—­and she was horrified at the ‘schottische’ as performed by Miss Castle and myself.  She was perfectly willing for me to dance until 12 o’clock at the imminent peril of my going to sleep on the after-watch—­but then she would top off with a very inconsistent sermon on dancing in general; ending with a terrific broadside aimed at that heresy of heresies, the ‘schottische’.

I took Ma and the girls in a carriage round that portion of New Orleans where the finest gardens and residences are to be seen, and, although it was a blazing hot, dusty day, they seemed hugely delighted.  To use an expression which is commonly ignored in polite society, they were “hell-bent” on stealing some of the luscious- looking oranges from branches which overhung the fence, but I restrained them.

In another letter of this period we get a hint of the future Mark Twain.  It was written to John T. Moore, a young clerk on the John J. Roe.

What a fool old Adam was.  Had everything his own way; had succeeded in gaining the love of the best-looking girl in the neighborhood, but yet, unsatisfied with his conquest, he had to eat a miserable little apple.  Ah, John, if you had been in his place you would not have eaten a mouthful of the apple—­that is, if it had required any exertion.  I have noticed that you shun exertion.  There comes in the difference between us.  I court exertion.  I love work.  Why, sir, when I have a piece of work to perform, I go away to myself, sit down in the shade, and muse over the coming enjoyment.  Sometimes I am so industrious that I muse too long.

There remains another letter of this period—­a sufficiently curious document.  There was in those days a famous New Orleans clairvoyant known as Madame Caprell.  Some of the young pilot’s friends had visited her and obtained what seemed to be satisfying results.  From time to time they had urged him to visit the fortune-teller, and one idle day he concluded to make the experiment.  As soon as he came away he wrote to Orion in detail.