The only adventures we have is in drifting into rough seas now and then.  They are not dangerous, but they go thro’ all the motions of it.  Yesterday when we shot the Bridge of the Holy Spirit it was probably in charge of some inexperienced deputy spirit for the day, for we were allowed to go through the wrong arch, which brought us into a tourbillon below which tried to make this old scow stand on its head.  Of course I lost my temper and blew it off in a way to be heard above the roar of the tossing waters.  I lost it because the admiral had taken that arch in deference to my opinion that it was the best one, while his own judgment told him to take the one nearest the other side of the river.  I could have poisoned him I was so mad to think I had hired such a turnip.  A boatman in command should obey nobody’s orders but his own, and yield to nobody’s suggestions.

It was very sweet of you to write me, dear, and I thank you ever so much. 
With greatest love and kisses,
                                   Papa.

To Mrs. Clemens, in Ouchy, Switzerland: 

Arles, Sept. 30, noon.  Livy darling, I hain’t got no time to write today, because I am sight seeing industriously and imagining my chapter.

Bade good-bye to the river trip and gave away the boat yesterday evening.  We had ten great days in her.

We reached here after dark.  We were due about 4.30, counting by
distance, but we couldn’t calculate on such a lifeless current as we
found. 
               I love you, sweetheart. 
          
                              Saml.

It had been a long time since Clemens had written to his old friend Twichell, but the Rhone trip must have reminded him of those days thirteen years earlier, when, comparatively young men, he and Twichell were tramping through the Black Forest and scaling Gemmi Pass.  He sent Twichell a reminder of that happy time.

To Rev. Joseph H. Twichell, in Hartford, Conn: 

Nimes, Oct. 1, ’91.  Dear Joe,—­I have been ten days floating down the Rhone on a raft, from Lake Bourget, and a most curious and darling kind of a trip it has been.  You ought to have been along—­I could have made room for you easily—­and you would have found that a pedestrian tour in Europe doesn’t begin with a raft-voyage for hilarity and mild adventure, and intimate contact with the unvisited native of the back settlements, and extinction from the world and newspapers, and a conscience in a state of coma, and lazy comfort, and solid happiness.  In fact there’s nothing that’s so lovely.

But it’s all over.  I gave the raft away yesterday at Arles, and am
loafing along back by short stages on the rail to Ouchy-Lausanne where
the tribe are staying. 
                         Love to you all
          
                              mark.