Madame.  A death perhaps, and this threw you upon the world and made you what you are; it was always intended that you should make yourself; therefore, it was well that this calamity occurred as early as it did.  You will never die of water, although your career upon it in the future seems well sprinkled with misfortune.  You will continue upon the water for some time yet; you will not retire finally until ten years from now ....  What is your brother’s age? 35—­and a lawyer? and in pursuit of an office?  Well, he stands a better chance than the other two, and he may get it; he is too visionary—­is always flying off on a new hobby; this will never do—­tell him I said so.  He is a good lawyer—­a, very good lawyer—­and a fine speaker—­is very popular and much respected, and makes many friends; but although he retains their friendship, he loses their confidence by displaying his instability of character.....  The land he has now will be very valuable after a while—­

S. L. C. Say a 50 years hence, or thereabouts.  Madame—­

Madame.  No—­less time-but never mind the land, that is a secondary consideration—­let him drop that for the present, and devote himself to his business and politics with all his might, for he must hold offices under the Government.....

After a while you will possess a good deal of property—­retire at the end of ten years—­after which your pursuits will be literary—­try the law —­you will certainly succeed.  I am done now.  If you have any questions to ask—­ask them freely—­and if it be in my power, I will answer without reserve—­without reserve.

I asked a few questions of minor importance—­paid her $2—­and left, under the decided impression that going to the fortune teller’s was just as good as going to the opera, and the cost scarcely a trifle more—­ergo, I will disguise myself and go again, one of these days, when other amusements fail.  Now isn’t she the devil?  That is to say, isn’t she a right smart little woman?

When you want money, let Ma know, and she will send it.  She and Pamela are always fussing about change, so I sent them a hundred and twenty quarters yesterday—­fiddler’s change enough to last till I get back, I reckon. 
          
                                   Sam.

It is not so difficult to credit Madame Caprell with clairvoyant powers when one has read the letters of Samuel Clemens up to this point.  If we may judge by those that have survived, her prophecy of literary distinction for him was hardly warranted by anything she could have known of his past performance.  These letters of his youth have a value to-day only because they were written by the man who later was to become Mark Twain.  The squibs and skits which he sometimes contributed to the New Orleans papers were bright, perhaps, and pleasing to his pilot associates, but they were without literary value.  He was twenty-five years old.  More than one author has achieved