You think that picture looks old?  Well, I can’t help it—­in reality I am not as old as I was when I was eighteen.

I took a desperate cold more than a week ago, and I seduced Wilson (a Missouri boy, reporter of the Daily Union,) from his labors, and we went over to Lake Bigler.  But I failed to cure my cold.  I found the “Lake House” crowded with the wealth and fashion of Virginia, and I could not resist the temptation to take a hand in all the fun going.  Those Virginians—­men and women both—­are a stirring set, and I found if I went with them on all their eternal excursions, I should bring the consumption home with me—­so I left, day before yesterday, and came back into the Territory again.  A lot of them had purchased a site for a town on the Lake shore, and they gave me a lot.  When you come out, I’ll build you a house on it.  The Lake seems more supernaturally beautiful now, than ever.  It is the masterpiece of the Creation.

The hotel here at the Springs is not so much crowded as usual, and I am having a very comfortable time of it.  The hot, white steam puffs up out of fissures in the earth like the jets that come from a steam-boat’s ’scape pipes, and it makes a boiling, surging noise like a steam-boat, too-hence the name.  We put eggs in a handkerchief and dip them in the springs—­they “soft boil” in 2 Minutes, and boil as hard as a rock in 4 minutes.  These fissures extend more than a quarter of a mile, and the long line of steam columns looks very pretty.  A large bath house is built over one of the springs, and we go in it and steam ourselves as long as we can stand it, and then come out and take a cold shower bath.  You get baths, board and lodging, all for $25 a week—­cheaper than living in Virginia without baths..... 
                                   Yrs aft
          
                                   mark.

It was now the autumn of 1863.  Mark Twain was twenty-eight years old.  On the Coast he had established a reputation as a gaily original newspaper writer.  Thus far, however, he had absolutely no literary standing, nor is there any evidence that he had literary ambitions; his work was unformed, uncultivated—­all of which seems strange, now, when we realize that somewhere behind lay the substance of immortality.  Rudyard Kipling at twenty-eight had done his greatest work.

Even Joseph Goodman, who had a fine literary perception and a deep knowledge of men, intimately associated with Mark Twain as he was, received at this time no hint of his greater powers.  Another man on the staff of the Enterprise, William Wright, who called himself “Dan de Quille,” a graceful humorist, gave far more promise, Goodman thought, of future distinction.

It was Artemus Ward who first suspected the value of Mark Twain’s gifts, and urged him to some more important use of them.  Artemus in the course of a transcontinental lecture tour,