At the age of 25, Sam Clemens had every reason to feel pleased with himself. He was already one of the “aristocrats of the river” – a Mississippi steamboat pilot earning the princely sum of $250 a month. His job gave him the leisure to continue his process of self-education during slow stretches aboard, as he dipped into the works of Darwin and Macaulay, Suetonius and Shakespeare. The income gave him the wherewithal to live like a prince: in the finest New Orleans restaurants, the youth from Hannibal, Mo. dined on shrimp and oysters, washed them down with good brandy, smoked the very best cigars, and bought his brother Orion a splendid $12 pair of alligator-skin boots.
On this particular day, he had just finished a voyage aboard the side-wheeler steamboat Alonzo Child, bringing her safely 500 miles upriver from New Orleans. But apparently his mind still dwelt upon something that happened just before his departure. When he sat down to write Orion a long letter, he said nothing about the journey, but a great deal about a curious encounter in the Crescent City a week or two earlier: a visit to a psychic.
That Feb. 6, 1861 letter is one of few detailed ones to survive from a pivotal time in Sam Clemens’s life. It casts a strange – perhaps even unearthly – light on the complicated young man who would soon be Mark Twain.
He had known about the fortune-teller for a long time; the only reason he finally went to see her – as he assured his brother, a bit too emphatically to be wholly convincing – was that he was bored. Madame Caprell’s advertisements and handbills, which she distributed liberally throughout New Orleans, touted her gifts as a “clairvoyant” and “seeress.”
http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/02/05/mark-twain-and-the-fortune-teller/?nl=todaysheadlines&emc=thab1