it makes no difference—­and as I was saying, or had intended to say, Aunt Betsey, probably, if you are ready to come up, you had better take the “Ben Lewis,” the best boat in the packet line.  She will be at Cape Girardeau at noon on Saturday (day after tomorrow,) and will reach here at breakfast time, Sunday.  If Mr. Hamilton is chief clerk,—­very well, I am slightly acquainted with him.  And if Messrs. Carter Gray and Dean Somebody (I have forgotten his other name,) are in the pilot-house—­very well again-I am acquainted with them.  Just tell Mr. Gray, Aunt Betsey —­that I wish him to place himself at your command.

All the family are well—­except myself—­I am in a bad way again—­disease, Love, in its most malignant form.  Hopes are entertained of my recovery, however.  At the dinner table—­excellent symptom—­I am still as “terrible as an army with banners.”

Aunt Betsey—­the wickedness of this world—­but I haven’t time to moralize
this morning. 
                                   Goodbye
                                        Sam Clemens.

As we do not hear of this “attack” again, the recovery was probably prompt.  His letters are not frequent enough for us to keep track of his boats, but we know that he was associated with Bixby from time to time, and now and again with one of the Bowen boys, his old Hannibal schoolmates.  He was reveling in the river life, the ease and distinction and romance of it.  No other life would ever suit him as well.  He was at the age to enjoy just what it brought him —­at the airy, golden, overweening age of youth.

To Orion Clemens, in Keokuk, Iowa: 

St. Louis, Mch. 1860.  My Dear Bro.,—­Your last has just come to hand.  It reminds me strongly of Tom Hood’s letters to his family, (which I have been reading lately).  But yours only remind me of his, for although there is a striking likeness, your humour is much finer than his, and far better expressed.  Tom Hood’s wit, (in his letters) has a savor of labor about it which is very disagreeable.  Your letter is good.  That portion of it wherein the old sow figures is the very best thing I have seen lately.  Its quiet style resembles Goldsmith’s “Citizen of the World,” and “Don Quixote,” —­which are my beau ideals of fine writing.

You have paid the preacher!  Well, that is good, also.  What a man wants with religion in these breadless times, surpasses my comprehension.

Pamela and I have just returned from a visit to the most wonderfully beautiful painting which this city has ever seen—­Church’s “Heart of the Andes”—­which represents a lovely valley with its rich vegetation in all the bloom and glory of a tropical summer—­dotted with birds and flowers of all colors and shades of color, and sunny slopes, and shady corners, and twilight groves, and cool cascades—­all grandly set off with a majestic mountain in the background with