November 21 Wednesday – Sam wrote from St. Louis to his brother Orion and family about running the Alonzo Child aground, about prices of poultry, eggs, and apples in New Orleans. Sam, ever the speculator, wrote:

My Dear Brother:

At last, I have succeeded in scraping together moments enough to write you. And it’s all owing to my own enterprise, too—for, running in the fog, on the coast, in order to beat another boat, I grounded the “Child” on the bank, at nearly flood-tide, where we had to stay until the “great” tide ebbed and flowed again (24 hours,) before she floated off. And that dry-bank spell so warped and twisted the packet, and caused her to leak at such a rate, that she had to enter protest and go on the dock, here, which delays us until Friday morning. We had intended to leave today. As soon as we arrived here last Sunday morning, I jumped aboard the “McDowell” and went down to look at the river—grounded 100 miles below here—25 miles this side of the “crossing” which I started down to look at—stayed aground 24 hours—and by that time I grew tired and returned here to be ready for to-day. I am sorry now that I did not hail a down-stream boat and go on—I would have had plenty of time.

The New Orleans market fluctuates. If any man doubts this proposition, let him try it once. Trip before last, chickens sold rapidly on the levee at $700 per doz—last trip they were not worth $300. Trip before last, eggs were worth $35 @ 40 cper doz—last trip they were selling at 12½— which was rather discouraging, considering that we were in the market with 3,600 dozen, which we paid 15 cents for—together with 18 barrels of apples, which were not worth a d—m— We expected to get $6 or 7 per bbl. for them. We stored the infernal produce, and shall wait for the market to fluctuate again. But in the meantime, Nil desperandum—I am deep in another egg purchase, now.

I am ashamed of myself for not having sent you any money for such a long time. But the fact is, I’ll be darned if I had it. I went to the clerk awhile ago and asked him “how we stood?” “Twenty-two days’ wages—$183.33⅓.” “Deduct my egg speculation and give me the balance.” And he handed me $35 00

So much for eggs. I gave the money to Ma. However, we shall have been here 4 days to-morrow. I’ll go and collect that and divide with you.

When I go to Memphis, Mo, I will see what can be done about produce in your part of the country.

Now, as I understand the “house,” business, you can get a big, respectable house to live in for $110 00 a year—per. centage—which is cheap enough rent it seems to me—and 10 years to pay the principal—in law. Take it—and take the whole town on the same terms if you can get it. Furnish the house nicely, and move into it—and then, if you’ll invite me, I’ll be happy to pay you a visit. Let me know how much money you want to furnish the house with. About the other house I can tell nothing. If it be best to purchase—why—pitch in. I’ll raise the money in some way. You owe Uncle Billy Patterson and old Jimmy Clemens Jr. money—and if they were to die, their administrators would “gobble up” everything you’ve got. Therefore, put no property in your own name—either put your share in Ma’s name and my half in my own, or else put it all in Ma’s or mine—Ma’s will do me—and you, too, I reckon. If you can buy both houses with “law and 10 per cent,” take them—but see that the contract is carefully written out. Because, for one reason, the law business of an influential man like Downing is worth a great deal more money in the influence it carries with it, than simply the money which is paid for it. Yes—you might advertize for cheap lots in your local paper. But perhaps you had better wait until I see whether this last egg speculation of mine is going to “smash” me or not.

Blast it—you didn’t ask Belle where she got that stone—and if I don’t get another pretty soon I’ll lose the setting—and it’s fine gold, and I want to save it.

“In conclusion”—Pamela has got a baby—which you may have heard before this. She is now reposing on her honors—seemingly well satisfied with the personal appearance of the very unexpected but not unwelcome young stranger—and deeming the matter “glory enough for one day.” (Sub rosa—a very small amount of this kind of glory would go a good way with the subscriber—if I were married—“which” I am not married, owing to the will of Providence and the “flickering” of my last.) And her nurse is almost the counterpart of Mrs. Gamp in “Martin Chuzzlewit”—who used to say—“No—no—which them is the very words I have said more nor once to Mrs. Harris—No, m’a’m—I am opposed to drinking, I says—not that I mean to say that I do nor I don’t, or I will or I won’t, myself. But what I say, is, ‘leave the bottle on the mantle-shelf, and let me put my lips to it when I’m so disposed.[’]” I don’t mean to say that this Mrs. Gamp drinks—but I do say she looks just like the other Mrs. Gamp.

Like all the letters of the family, this is to you and Mollie and Jennie—all. And as I am “strapped”—and pushed for time, we’ll sing the doxology, as follows—hoping to hear from all of you soon:

“In the world’s great field of battle,
In the bivuac of life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle—
Be a hero in the strife.”
Amen.
Vôtre frère,
Sam. L. Clemens [MTL 1: 103-6].

Notes: The baby Sam spoke of, implying a premature birth, was his nephew, Samuel Erasmus Moffett, on Nov. 5, to sister Pamela, her second child. Premature birth seemed to run in the family. Downing is unidentified. The verse at the end is from Longfellow’s Voices of the Night (1839).