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 its gleaming summit clothed in
everlasting ice and snow! I have seen it several times, but it is always
a new picture--totally new--you seem to see nothing the second time
which you saw the first. We took the opera glass, and examined its
beauties minutely, for the naked eye cannot discern the little wayside
flowers, and soft shadows and patches of sunshine, and half-hidden
bunches of grass and jets of water which form some of its most
enchanting features. There is no slurring of perspective effect about
it--the most distant--the minutest object in it has a marked and
distinct personality--so that you may count the very leaves on the
trees. When you first see the tame, ordinary-looking picture, your first
impulse is to turn your back upon it, and say “Humbug”--but your third
visit will find your brain gasping and straining with futile efforts to
take all the wonder in--and appreciate it in its fulness--and understand
how such a miracle could have been conceived and executed by human brain
and human hands. You will never get tired of looking at the picture, but
your reflections--your efforts to grasp an intelligible Something--you
hardly know what--will grow so painful that you will have to go away
from the thing, in order to obtain relief. You may find relief, but you
cannot banish the picture--It remains with you still. It is in my mind
now--and the smallest feature could not be removed without my detecting
it. So much for the “Heart of the Andes.”
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 fences, but I restrained them. They were not
aware before that shrubbery could be made to take any queer shape which
a skilful gardener might choose to twist it into, so they found not only
beauty but novelty in their visit. We went out to Lake Pontchartrain in
the cars. Your Brother