Twains Letters vol 2 1867-1875 | Page 5

like better to converse with. If they're not narrow minded and
bigoted they make good companions.
I asked them to send the N. Y. Weekly to you--no charge. I am not
going to write for it. Like all other, papers that pay one splendidly it
circulates among stupid people and the 'canaille.' I have made no
arrangement with any New York paper--I will see about that Monday

or Tuesday. Love to all Good bye, Yrs affy SAM.
The "immoral" room-mate whose conduct was to be an "eloquent
example" was Dan Slote, immortalized in the Innocents as "Dan" --a
favorite on the ship, and later beloved by countless readers.
There is one more letter, written the night before the Quaker City
sailed-a letter which in a sense marks the close of the first great period
of his life--the period of aimless wandering--adventure --youth.
Perhaps a paragraph of explanation should precede this letter. Political
changes had eliminated Orion in Nevada, and he was now undertaking
the practice of law. "Bill Stewart" was Senator Stewart, of Nevada, of
whom we shall hear again. The "Sandwich Island book," as may be
imagined, was made up of his letters to the Sacramento Union. Nothing
came of the venture, except some chapters in 'Roughing It', rewritten
from the material. "Zeb and John Leavenworth" were pilots whom he
had known on the river.
To Mrs. Jane Clemens and family in St. Louis:
NEW YORK, June 7th, 1867. DEAR FOLKS, I suppose we shall be
many a league at sea tomorrow night, and goodness knows I shall be
unspeakably glad of it.
I haven't got anything to write, else I would write it. I have just written
myself clear out in letters to the Alta, and I think they are the stupidest
letters that were ever written from New York. Corresponding has been
a perfect drag ever since I got to the states. If it continues abroad, I
don't know what the Tribune and Alta folks will think. I have
withdrawn the Sandwich Island book--it would be useless to publish it
in these dull publishing times. As for the Frog book, I don't believe that
will ever pay anything worth a cent. I published it simply to advertise
myself--not with the hope of making anything out of it.
Well, I haven't anything to write, except that I am tired of staying in
one place--that I am in a fever to get away. Read my Alta letters--they
contain everything I could possibly write to you. Tell Zeb and John
Leavenworth to write me. They can get plenty of gossip from the pilots.
An importing house sent two cases of exquisite champagne aboard the
ship for me today--Veuve Clicquot and Lac d'Or. I and my room-mate
have set apart every Saturday as a solemn fast day, wherein we will
entertain no light matters of frivolous conversation, but only get drunk.
(That is a joke.) His mother and sisters are the best and most homelike

people I have yet found in a brown stone front. There is no style about
them, except in house and furniture.
I wish Orion were going on this voyage, for I believe he could not help
but be cheerful and jolly. I often wonder if his law business is going
satisfactorily to him, but knowing that the dull season is setting in now
(it looked like it had already set in before) I have felt as if I could
almost answer the question myself--which is to say in plain words, I
was afraid to ask. I wish I had gone to Washington in the winter instead
of going West. I could have gouged an office out of Bill Stewart for
him, and that would atone for the loss of my home visit. But I am so
worthless that it seems to me I never do anything or accomplish
anything that lingers in my mind as a pleasant memory. My mind is
stored full of unworthy conduct toward Orion and towards you all, and
an accusing conscience gives me peace only in excitement and restless
moving from place to place. If I could say I had done one thing for any
of you that entitled me to your good opinion, (I say nothing of your
love, for I am sure of that, no matter how unworthy of it I may make
myself, from Orion down you have always given me that, all the days
of my life, when God Almighty knows I seldom deserve it,) I believe I
could go home and stay there and I know I would care little for the
world's praise or blame. There is no satisfaction in the world's praise
anyhow, and it has no worth to me save in the way of business. I tried
to gather up its compliments to send to