mark twain riverboat captain

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This Day In History : April 9

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Mark Twain receives steamboat pilot’s license

On April 9, 1859, a 23-year-old Missouri youth named Samuel Langhorne Clemens receives his steamboat pilot’s license .

Clemens had signed on as a pilot’s apprentice in 1857 while on his way to Mississippi. He had been commissioned to write a series of comic travel letters for the Keokuk Daily Post, but after writing five, decided he’d rather be a pilot than a writer. He piloted his own boats for two years, until the Civil War halted steamboat traffic. During his time as a pilot, he picked up the term “ Mark Twain ,” a boatman’s call noting that the river was only two fathoms deep, the minimum depth for safe navigation. When Clemens returned to writing in 1861, working for the Virginia City Territorial Enterprise, he wrote a humorous travel letter signed by “Mark Twain” and continued to use the pseudonym for nearly 50 years.

Clemens was born in Florida, Missouri, and was apprenticed to a printer at age 13. He later worked for his older brother, who established the Hannibal Journal . In 1864, he moved to San Francisco to work as a reporter. There he wrote the story that made him famous, "The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County."

In 1866, he traveled to Hawaii as a correspondent for the Sacramento Union. Next, he traveled the world writing accounts for papers in California and New York, which he later published as the popular book The Innocents Abroad (1869). In 1870, Clemens married the daughter of a wealthy New York coal merchant and settled in Hartford, Connecticut, where he continued to write travel accounts and lecture. In 1875, his novel Tom Sawyer was published, followed by Life on the Mississippi (1883) and his masterpiece Huckleberry Finn (1885). Bad investments left Clemens bankrupt after the publication of Huckleberry Finn , but he won back his financial standing with his next three books. In 1903, he and his family moved to Italy, where his wife died. Her death left him sad and bitter, and his work, while still humorous, grew distinctly darker. He died in 1910.

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Mark Twain Claimed He Got His Pen Name From a Riverboat Captain. He May Have Actually Gotten It in a Saloon

P owerful gravity drew young men west during the Civil War, especially after the armies began drafting to fill their ranks. One of the thousands who traveled “the plains across” was an obscure Missourian named Samuel Langhorne Clemens who had spent a few weeks riding with a band of Confederate irregulars. Despite Sam’s mild secessionist sympathies, his older brother Orion Clemens had campaigned for Abraham Lincoln. As reward, the new president appointed Orion secretary of the Nevada Territory, then in the throes of a mining frenzy centered on the Comstock Lode beneath booming Virginia City, the largest town in the territory. Sam went west with his brother on the overland stage in the late summer of 1861, there being, as his first great biographer wryly observed, “no place in the active Middle West just then for an officer of either army who had voluntarily retired from service.”

Orion Clemens took up his official duties in Carson City while Sam dashed about the territory trying to attach himself to some of its fabled wealth. (Writing as Mark Twain a decade later, he’d immortalize the experiences in Roughing It , making judicious use of “improved facts.”) Sam Clemens spent the rest of the year mining, and he found the labor “hard and long and dismal,” not to mention dangerous and un-remunerative.

Clemens did a measure of hard work as a miner through the first half of 1862, more than he allowed in Roughing It. One of his letters told of “picking” until blisters covered his hands. Clemens owned “feet,” meaning “shares,” in several promising mines, and his hopes for riches ran high. Clemens described one prospect to his brother as “a dead sure thing” before adding, realistically, “but then it’s the d—dest country for disappointments the world ever saw.”

Fortunately for American literary destiny, none of Clemens’s mines came in rich, or anything close. A gifted yarner, he amused his companions with lively storytelling, and he wrote burlesque sketches, a few of which found their way into the pages of Virginia City’s leading newspaper, the Territorial Enterprise , over the pseudonym “Josh,” a pen name presumably intended as more verb than noun. Like so many others in the Nevada Territory, Sam Clemens was rich in “feet,” but poor in cash. By July 1862, he was trying to sell writing to newspapers all over the West.

Joseph T. Goodman, publisher of the Enterprise , recognized a talent for clear, colorful, humorous writing in the author of the “Josh” letters and offered Clemens a job at $25 per week, steady employment that promised to save Clemens from penury. Accepting it meant surrendering his dream of mining wealth. After some soul-searching, Clemens resigned himself to the dead sure thing.

In simple frontier language, the budding but unpolished genius quickly demonstrated a unique ability to use embellishment, hyperbole, satire, caricature, parody, mock-flattery, and ridicule to flay bare essential truth. As his voice matured, Clemens’s stories, hoaxes, and brutal sketches grew into something entirely American, encapsulating the terrible whimsy, painful irony, and outrageous hilarity of life on the mining frontier. No conceit, swelled head, or stuffed shirt lived safe from his slashing pen, and the Enterprise soon raised his salary. “They pay me six dollars a day,” Clemens wrote his sister, “and I make 50 per cent profit by only doing three dollars worth of work.”

No matter. The readership reveled in his half day’s labor. Clemens had become widely known in Virginia City — if not necessarily widely liked — by the time the pseudonym Mark Twain first appeared in the Enterprise on February 3, 1863. A decade later, Clemens claimed he’d appropriated his by-then-famous nom de plume from a staid Mississippi riverboat captain. However, according to more convincing Virginia City legend, Clemens acquired the nickname before it appeared in print, derived from his habit of striding into the Old Corner Saloon and calling out to the barkeep to “Mark Twain!” a phrase Mississippi river boatmen sang out with their craft in two fathoms of water, but that in Virginia City meant bring two blasts of whisky to Sam Clemens and make two chalk marks against his account on the back wall of the saloon.

Although later in life, Clemens claimed not to have had “a large experience in the matter of alcoholic drinks,” men who knew him in Virginia City remembered substantial quantities of chalk ground down to a nub on his behalf. Regardless, one of the Comstockers Clemens had become acquainted with was the quiet, industrious, up-and-coming, and largely abstemious Irishman who superintended the Milton mine — John Mackay.

One day, Clemens visited Mackay in the Milton’s new office. Clemens found Mackay’s situation “rather sumptuous, for that day and place.” Mackay hadn’t been in “such very smooth circumstances” before. His office “had part of a carpet on the floor and two chairs instead of a candle-box.” Perhaps needing fodder for one of his fancy sketches, Clemens proposed they switch jobs. Mackay could have his place on the Enterprise . Clemens would run the Milton.

Mackay considered the offer. Superintending a mine required knowing how to bore, sink, stope, and ventilate underground workings, pump water, and hoist ore. A superintendent needed to understand the basics of static and dynamic mechanics, surveying, mineralogy, and geology, and possess the ability to lead and motivate men. Ever the practical and considerate man, Mackay asked how much Clemens’s newspaper job was worth.

“Forty dollars a week,” Clemens answered.

“I never swindled anybody in my life, and I don’t want to begin with you,” Mackay stammered. “This business of mine is not worth $40 a week. You stay where you are and I will try to get a living out of this.”

Decades later, when Mark Twain was the most famous American writer and raconteur in the world, he delighted in the light the anecdote shone on John Mackay, a man who was not just his friend, but who had by then become, in Twain’s description, “the first of the hundred millionaires.”

They stayed friends until Mackay’s death in 1902, with the taciturn old miner justifying his relationship with often testy Mark Twain by saying, “I’m addicted to the society of literary men.” By then, Clemens hadn’t set foot in mining country in more than thirty years, but he looked back on his formative years on the Comstock Lode with affection. As he wrote a mutual friend of both his and Mackay’s three years after Mackay’s death, “Those were the days!—those old ones. They will come no more. Youth will come no more. They were so full to the brim with the wine of life; there have been no others like them.”

From The Bonanza King by Gregory Crouch. Copyright © 2018 by Gregory Crouch. Reprinted by permission of Scribner, an Imprint of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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Commentary: Mark Twain’s work as a steamboat pilot earned his pen name

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Samuel Langhorne Clemens, more famously known by his pen name, Mark Twain, is one of America’s most popular writers.

Most Americans have read his work “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.” The story is written from the viewpoint of a young boy from Missouri who describes his journey down the Mississippi River with a runaway slave.

There are all sorts of adventures and mishaps, which open the eyes of the boy and the reader to the human condition. The book is written in the colloquial language of the South and is full of humor that brings enlightenment to the various situations.

This famous writer only had a fifth-grade education. By the time he was 12, both of his parents had died, so Clemens left his home to become a printer’s apprentice.

Eventually he started writing articles for the newspaper. When he was 18, he left Missouri to work as a printer in New York, then Philadelphia, St. Louis and Cincinnati. In the evenings he visited the library to read and study on his own.

Clemens had always wanted to become a steamboat man on the great Mississippi River, so he returned to the land of his youth to become a pilot, that is, one who steered the great paddle ships safely past the sandbars, rocks, floating trees, shifting currents and debris along the Mississippi.

This life provided him with his pen name (plume de nom), Mark Twain, meaning 2 fathoms in depth, which indicated it would be safe for a steamship to pass safely in dangerous areas of the Mississippi River.

When the Civil War broke out, Twain headed West to Nevada and ended up writing for a local newspaper. Eventually his career took him to the Sandwich Islands (Hawaii) and then to the Mediterranean, Europe and the Middle East. He wrote about these travels in his book, “The Innocents Abroad.”

Eventually Twain moved to Hartford, Conn., where he enjoyed a tremendously successful writing career. Unfortunately, after 17 happy years in Hartford with his family, Twain ran into financial troubles with bad investments.

Suddenly it became necessary for the family to downsize and recreate life anew. Twain, his wife and three daughters left for Europe where they lived and traveled for several years while Twain continued to write.

Soon Twain began a profitable and popular lecture tour that helped stabilize his finances. Sadly, while Twain yearned to return to his beloved home in Hartford with his family, this was not to be.

Time stands still for no man, and life changes while we must adapt. Twain lived his last years in New York City, continuing with his lectures and his writing. He died April 21, 1910, but his life and work live on in our memories.

Newport Beach resident SHERRY MARRON has a doctorate in American studies. She has taught at the University of Connecticut and Orange Coast College.

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Index | Intro | Cub Pilot | Licensed Pilot | River Tour 1882 | 1902 Farewell | Steamboat Men | Glossary

Samuel Clemens grew up on the banks of the Mississippi River near Hannibal, Missouri with a youthful burning ambition to be a steamboat river pilot. He wrote:

When I was a boy, there was but one permanent ambition among my comrades in our village on the west bank of the Mississippi River. That was, to be a steamboatman. We had transient ambitions of other sorts, but they were only transient. When a circus came and went, it left us all burning to become clowns; the first negro minstrel show that came to our section left us all suffering to try that kind of life; now and then we had a hope that if we lived and were good, God would permit us to be pirates. These ambitions faded out, each in its turn; but the ambition to be a steamboatman always remained. - Life on the Mississippi

For a few short years from 1857-1861 Clemens realized his dream--a dream which ended with the Civil War between the North and South. The dates Clemens' served as a cub pilot and licensed pilot aboard the steamboats described in this feature are based on the best reconstruction of events possible from Clemens' letters, notebooks, recollections, as well as other historical documents. In time, additional evidence may surface from the historical record to further define and clarify Clemens' movements along the Mississippi River.

In 1882 Clemens returned to the Mississippi River to gather thoughts for a book titled Life on the Mississippi. During his tour around the world in 1895, Clemens delivered at least one speech in Australia recalling his 1882 tour. ( See the text of the Yorick Club speech available at this site. )

In June 1902 he paid his final visit to the River when he accepted an honorary degree at the University of Missouri in Columbia and helped dedicate a steamboat named in his honor. In September 1902 he gave an interview to the New York World and reminisced about his first stow away trip in a steamboat.

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From Life on the Mississippi by Mark Twain

Mark Twain (Samuel L. Clemens) became intimate with the Mississippi River while working on steamboats for about five years, first as a “cub” or apprentice, and later as a pilot until the Civil War broke out. He once said he knew stretches of the mighty river as well as he knew the hallway of his own house in the dark. Twain had planned the book that became Life on the Mississippi for nearly two decades before it was published in 1883. Enjoy contrasting some excerpts of Twain’s observations with the preceding story about kayaking the river today.

From Chapter 1, The River and Its History

The Mississippi is well worth reading about. It is not a commonplace river, but on the contrary is in all ways remarkable. Considering the Missouri its main branch, it is the longest river in the world—four thousand three hundred miles. It seems safe to say that it is also the crookedest river in the world, since in one part of its journey it uses up one thousand three hundred miles to cover the same ground that the crow would fly over in six hundred and seventy-five. It discharges three times as much water as the St. Lawrence, twenty-five times as much as the Rhine, and three hundred and thirty-eight times as much as the Thames. No other river has so vast a drainage-basin: it draws its water supply from twenty-eight States and Territories; from Delaware, on the Atlantic seaboard, and from all the country between that and Idaho on the Pacific slope—a spread of forty-five degrees of longitude. The Mississippi receives and carries to the Gulf water from fifty-four subordinate rivers that are navigable by steamboats, and from some hundreds that are navigable by flats and keels. The area of its drainage-basin is as great as the combined areas of England, Wales, Scotland, Ireland, France, Spain, Portugal, Germany, Austria, Italy, and Turkey; and almost all this wide region is fertile; the Mississippi valley, proper, is exceptionally so.

It is a remarkable river in this: that instead of widening toward its mouth, it grows narrower; grows narrower and deeper. From the junction of the Ohio to a point half way down to the sea, the width averages a mile in high water: thence to the sea the width steadily diminishes, until, at the ‘Passes,’ above the mouth, it is but little over half a mile. At the junction of the Ohio the Mississippi’s depth is eighty-seven feet; the depth increases gradually, reaching one hundred and twenty-nine just above the mouth. …

An article in the New Orleans ‘Times-Democrat,’ based upon reports of able engineers, states that the river annually empties four hundred and six million tons of mud into the Gulf of Mexico—which brings to mind Captain Marryat’s rude name for the Mississippi—‘the Great Sewer.’ This mud, solidified, would make a mass a mile square and two hundred and forty-one feet high.

The mud deposit gradually extends the land—but only gradually; it has extended it not quite a third of a mile in the two hundred years which have elapsed since the river took its place in history. The belief of the scientific people is that the mouth used to be at Baton Rouge, where the hills cease, and that the two hundred miles of land between there and the Gulf was built by the river. This gives us the age of that piece of country, without any trouble at all—one hundred and twenty thousand years. Yet it is much the youthfullest batch of country that lies around there anywhere.

The Mississippi is remarkable in still another way—its disposition to make prodigious jumps by cutting through narrow necks of land, and thus straightening and shortening itself. More than once it has shortened itself thirty miles at a single jump! These cut-offs have had curious effects: they have thrown several river towns out into the rural districts, and built up sand bars and forests in front of them. The town of Delta used to be three miles below Vicksburg: a recent cut-off has radically changed the position, and Delta is now two miles above Vicksburg. …

The world and the books are so accustomed to use, and over-use, the word ‘new’ in connection with our country, that we early get and permanently retain the impression that there is nothing old about it. We do of course know that there are several comparatively old dates in American history, but the mere figures convey to our minds no just idea, no distinct realization, of the stretch of time which they represent. To say that De Soto, the first white man who ever saw the Mississippi River, saw it in 1542, is a remark which states a fact without interpreting it: it is something like giving the dimensions of a sunset by astronomical measurements, and cataloguing the colors by their scientific names;—as a result, you get the bald fact of the sunset, but you don’t see the sunset. It would have been better to paint a picture of it.

The date 1542, standing by itself, means little or nothing to us; but when one groups a few neighboring historical dates and facts around it, he adds perspective and color, and then realizes that this is one of the American dates which is quite respectable for age. …

… When De Soto took his glimpse of the river, Ignatius Loyola was an obscure name; the order of the Jesuits was not yet a year old; Michael Angelo’s paint was not yet dry on the Last Judgment in the Sistine Chapel; Mary Queen of Scots was not yet born, but would be before the year closed. Catherine de Medici was a child; Elizabeth of England was not yet in her teens; … lax court morals and the absurd chivalry business were in full feather, and the joust and the tournament were the frequent pastime of titled fine gentlemen who could fight better than they could spell, while religion was the passion of their ladies, and classifying their offspring into children of full rank and children by brevet their pastime. …

Unquestionably the discovery of the Mississippi is a datable fact which considerably mellows and modifies the shiny newness of our country, and gives her a most respectable outside-aspect of rustiness and antiquity.

From Chapter 10, Completing My Education

The next few months showed me strange things. … We met a great rise coming down the river. The whole vast face of the stream was black with drifting dead logs, broken boughs, and great trees that had caved in and been washed away. It required the nicest steering to pick one’s way through this rushing raft, even in the day-time, when crossing from point to point; and at night the difficulty was mightily increased; every now and then a huge log, lying deep in the water, would suddenly appear right under our bows, coming head-on; no use to try to avoid it then; we could only stop the engines, and one wheel would walk over that log from one end to the other, keeping up a thundering racket and careening the boat in a way that was very uncomfortable to passengers. Now and then we would hit one of these sunken logs a rattling bang, dead in the center, with a full head of steam, and it would stun the boat as if she had hit a continent. Sometimes this log would lodge, and stay right across our nose, and back the Mississippi up before it; we would have to do a little craw-fishing, then, to get away from the obstruction. We often hit white logs, in the dark, for we could not see them till we were right on them; but a black log is a pretty distinct object at night. A white snag is an ugly customer when the daylight is gone.

Of course, on the great rise, down came a swarm of prodigious timber-rafts from the head waters of the Mississippi, coal barges from Pittsburgh, little trading scows from everywhere, and broad-horns from ‘Posey County,’ Indiana, freighted with ‘fruit and furniture’—the usual term for describing it, though in plain English the freight thus aggrandized was hoop-poles and pumpkins. Pilots bore a mortal hatred to these craft; and it was returned with usury. The law required all such helpless traders to keep a light burning, but it was a law that was often broken. All of a sudden, on a murky night, a light would hop up, right under our bows, almost, and an agonized voice, with the backwoods ‘whang’ to it, would wail out—

‘Whar’n the —— you goin’ to! Cain’t you see nothin’, you dash-dashed aig-suckin’, sheep-stealin’, one-eyed son of a stuffed monkey!’ Then for an instant, as we whistled by, the red glare from our furnaces would reveal the scow and the form of the gesticulating orator as if under a lightning-flash, and in that instant our firemen and deck-hands would send and receive a tempest of missiles and profanity, one of our wheels would walk off with the crashing fragments of a steering-oar, and down the dead blackness would shut again. And that flatboatman would be sure to go into New Orleans and sue our boat, swearing stoutly that he had a light burning all the time, when in truth his gang had the lantern down below to sing and lie and drink and gamble by, and no watch on deck.

Once, at night, in one of those forest- bordered crevices (behind an island) which steamboatmen intensely describe with the phrase ‘as dark as the inside of a cow,’ we should have eaten up a Posey County family, fruit, furniture, and all, but that they happened to be fiddling down below, and we just caught the sound of the music in time to sheer off, doing no serious damage, unfortunately, but coming so near it that we had good hopes for a moment. These people brought up their lantern, then, of course; and as we backed and filled to get away, the precious family stood in the light of it—both sexes and various ages—and cursed us till everything turned blue. Once a coalboatman sent a bullet through our pilot-house, when we borrowed a steering oar of him in a very narrow place.

From Chapter 13, A Pilot’s Needs

But I am wandering from what I was intending to do, that is, make plainer than perhaps appears in the previous chapters, some of the peculiar requirements of the science of piloting. First of all, there is one faculty which a pilot must incessantly cultivate until he has brought it to absolute perfection. Nothing short of perfection will do. That faculty is memory. He cannot stop with merely thinking a thing is so and so; he must know it; for this is eminently one of the ‘exact’ sciences. With what scorn a pilot was looked upon, in the old times, if he ever ventured to deal in that feeble phrase ‘I think,’ instead of the vigorous one ‘I know!’ One cannot easily realize what a tremendous thing it is to know every trivial detail of twelve hundred miles of river and know it with absolute exactness. If you will take the longest street in New York, and travel up and down it, conning its features patiently until you know every house and window and door and lamp-post and big and little sign by heart, and know them so accurately that you can instantly name the one you are abreast of when you are set down at random in that street in the middle of an inky black night, you will then have a tolerable notion of the amount and the exactness of a pilot’s knowledge who carries the Mississippi River in his head.

From Chapter 14, Rank and Dignity of Piloting

By long habit, pilots came to put all their wishes in the form of commands. It ‘gravels’ me, to this day, to put my will in the weak shape of a request, instead of launching it in the crisp language of an order. In those old days, to load a steamboat at St. Louis, take her to New Orleans and back, and discharge cargo, consumed about twenty-five days, on an average. Seven or eight of these days the boat spent at the wharves of St. Louis and New Orleans, and every soul on board was hard at work, except the two pilots; they did nothing but play gentleman up town, and receive the same wages for it as if they had been on duty. The moment the boat touched the wharf at either city, they were ashore; and they were not likely to be seen again till the last bell was ringing and everything in readiness for another voyage.

When a captain got hold of a pilot of particularly high reputation, he took pains to keep him. When wages were four hundred dollars a month on the Upper Mississippi, I have known a captain to keep such a pilot in idleness, under full pay, three months at a time, while the river was frozen up. … When pilots from either end of the river wandered into our small Missouri village, they were sought by the best and the fairest, and treated with exalted respect. Lying in port under wages was a thing which many pilots greatly enjoyed and appreciated; especially if they belonged in the Missouri River in the heyday of that trade (Kansas times), and got nine hundred dollars a trip, which was equivalent to about eighteen hundred dollars a month. Here is a conversation of that day. A chap out of the Illinois River, with a little stern-wheel tub, accosts a couple of ornate and gilded Missouri River pilots—

“Gentlemen, I’ve got a pretty good trip for the upcountry, and shall want you about a month. How much will it be?”

“Eighteen hundred dollars apiece.”

“Heavens and earth! You take my boat, let me have your wages, and I’ll divide!”

From Chapter 18, I Take a Few Extra Lessons

The figure that comes before me oftenest, out of the shadows of that vanished time, is that of Brown, of the steamer ‘Pennsylvania’—the man referred to in a former chapter, whose memory was so good and tiresome. He was a middle-aged, long, slim, bony, smooth-shaven, horse-faced, ignorant, stingy, malicious, snarling, fault hunting, mote-magnifying tyrant. I early got the habit of coming on watch with dread at my heart. …

I still remember the first time I ever entered the presence of that man. The boat had backed out from St. Louis and was ‘straightening down;’ I ascended to the pilot-house in high feather, and very proud to be semi-officially a member of the executive family of so fast and famous a boat. Brown was at the wheel. I paused in the middle of the room, all fixed to make my bow, but Brown did not look around. I thought he took a furtive glance at me out of the corner of his eye, but as not even this notice was repeated, I judged I had been mistaken. By this time he was picking his way among some dangerous ‘breaks’ abreast the woodyards; therefore it would not be proper to interrupt him; so I stepped softly to the high bench and took a seat.

There was silence for ten minutes; then my new boss turned and inspected me deliberately and painstakingly from head to heel for about—as it seemed to me—a quarter of an hour. After which he removed his countenance and I saw it no more for some seconds; then it came around once more, and this question greeted me—

‘Are you Horace Bigsby’s cub?’

‘Yes, sir.’

After this there was a pause and another inspection. Then—

‘What’s your name?’

I told him. He repeated it after me. It was probably the only thing he ever forgot; for although I was with him many months he never addressed himself to me in any other way than ‘Here!’ and then his command followed.

‘Where was you born?’

‘In Florida, Missouri.’

A pause. Then—

‘Dern sight better staid there!’ …

‘How long you been on the river?’

I told him. After a pause—

‘Where’d you get them shoes?’

I gave him the information.

‘Hold up your foot!’

I did so. He stepped back, examined the shoe minutely and contemptuously, scratching his head thoughtfully, tilting his high sugar-loaf hat well forward to facilitate the operation, then ejaculated, ‘Well, I’ll be dod derned!’ and returned to his wheel.

What occasion there was to be dod derned about it is a thing which is still as much of a mystery to me now as it was then. It must have been all of fifteen minutes—fifteen minutes of dull, homesick silence—before that long horse-face swung round upon me again—and then, what a change! It was as red as fire, and every muscle in it was working. Now came this shriek—

‘Here!—You going to set there all day?’

I lit in the middle of the floor, shot there by the electric suddenness of the surprise. As soon as I could get my voice I said, apologetically:—‘I have had no orders, sir.’

‘You’ve had no orders! My, what a fine bird we are! We must have orders! Our father was a gentleman—owned slaves—and we’ve been to school. Yes, we are a gentleman, too, and got to have orders! Orders, is it? Orders is what you want! Dod dern my skin, I’ll learn you to swell yourself up and blow around here about your dod-derned orders! G’way from the wheel!’ (I had approached it without knowing it.)

I moved back a step or two, and stood as in a dream, all my senses stupefied by this frantic assault. …

Brown was always watching for a pretext to find fault; and if he could find no plausible pretext, he would invent one. He would scold you for shaving a shore, and for not shaving it; for hugging a bar, and for not hugging it; for ‘pulling down’ when not invited, and for not pulling down when not invited; for firing up without orders, and for waiting for orders. In a word, it was his invariable rule to find fault with everything you did; and another invariable rule of his was to throw all his remarks (to you) into the form of an insult.

One day we were approaching New Madrid, bound down and heavily laden. Brown was at one side of the wheel, steering; I was at the other, standing by to ‘pull down’ or ‘shove up.’ He cast a furtive glance at me every now and then. I had long ago learned what that meant; viz., he was trying to invent a trap for me. I wondered what shape it was going to take. By and by he stepped back from the wheel and said in his usual snarly way—

‘Here!—See if you’ve got gumption enough to round her to.’

This was simply bound to be a success; nothing could prevent it; for he had never allowed me to round the boat to before; consequently, no matter how I might do the thing, he could find free fault with it. He stood back there with his greedy eye on me, and the result was what might have been foreseen: I lost my head in a quarter of a minute, and didn’t know what I was about; I started too early to bring the boat around, but detected a green gleam of joy in Brown’s eye, and corrected my mistake; I started around once more while too high up, but corrected myself again in time; I made other false moves, and still managed to save myself; but at last I grew so confused and anxious that I tumbled into the very worst blunder of all—I got too far down before beginning to fetch the boat around. Brown’s chance was come.

His face turned red with passion; he made one bound, hurled me across the house with a sweep of his arm, spun the wheel down, and began to pour out a stream of vituperation upon me which lasted till he was out of breath. In the course of this speech he called me all the different kinds of hard names he could think of, and once or twice I thought he was even going to swear—but he didn’t this time.

‘Dod dern’ was the nearest he ventured to the luxury of swearing, for he had been brought up with a wholesome respect for future fire and brimstone.

That was an uncomfortable hour; for there was a big audience on the hurricane deck. When I went to bed that night, I killed Brown in seventeen different ways—all of them new.

From Chapter 22, I Return to My Muttons

Next morning, we drove around town [ St. Louis ] in the rain. The city seemed but little changed. It was greatly changed, but it did not seem so; because in St. Louis, as in London and Pittsburgh, you can’t persuade a new thing to look new; the coal smoke turns it into an antiquity the moment you take your hand off it. The place had just about doubled its size, since I was a resident of it, and was now become a city of 400,000 inhabitants; still, in the solid business parts, it looked about as it had looked formerly. Yet I am sure there is not as much smoke in St. Louis now as there used to be. The smoke used to bank itself in a dense billowy black canopy over the town, and hide the sky from view. This shelter is very much thinner now; still, there is a sufficiency of smoke there, I think. I heard no complaint. …

The first time I ever saw St. Louis, I could have bought it for six million dollars, and it was the mistake of my life that I did not do it. It was bitter now to look abroad over this domed and steepled metropolis, this solid expanse of bricks and mortar stretching away on every hand into dim, measure-defying distances, and remember that I had allowed that opportunity to go by. Why I should have allowed it to go by seems, of course, foolish and inexplicable today. …

But the change of changes was on the ‘levee.’ This time, a departure from the rule. Half a dozen sound-asleep steamboats where I used to see a solid mile of wide-awake ones! This was melancholy, this was woeful. The absence of the pervading and jocund steamboatman from the billiard-saloon was explained. He was absent because he is no more. …

Mississippi steamboating was born about 1812; at the end of thirty years, it had grown to mighty proportions; and in less than thirty more, it was dead! A strangely short life for so majestic a creature.

Chapter 25, From Cairo to Hickman

The scenery, from St. Louis to Cairo—two hundred miles—is varied and beautiful. The hills were clothed in the fresh foliage of spring now, and were a gracious and worthy setting for the broad river flowing between. Our trip began auspiciously, with a perfect day, as to breeze and sunshine, and our boat threw the miles out behind her with satisfactory dispatch.

We found a railway intruding at Chester, Illinois; Chester has also a penitentiary now, and is otherwise marching on. At Grand Tower, too, there was a railway; and another at Cape Girardeau. The former town gets its name from a huge, squat pillar of rock, which stands up out of the water on the Missouri side of the river—a piece of nature’s fanciful handiwork—and is one of the most picturesque features of the scenery of that region. For nearer or remoter neighbors, the Tower has the Devil’s Bake Oven—so called, perhaps, because it does not powerfully resemble anybody else’s bake oven; and the Devil’s Tea Table—this latter a great smooth-surfaced mass of rock, with diminishing wine-glass stem, perched some fifty or sixty feet above the river, beside a beflowered and garlanded precipice, and sufficiently like a tea-table to answer for anybody, Devil or Christian. Away down the river we have the Devil’s Elbow and the Devil’s Race-course, and lots of other property of his which I cannot now call to mind.

The Town of Grand Tower was evidently a busier place than it had been in old times, but it seemed to need some repairs here and there, and a new coat of whitewash all over. Still, it was pleasant to me to see the old coat once more. ‘Uncle’ Mumford,’ our second officer, said the place had been suffering from high water, and consequently was not looking its best now. But he said it was not strange that it didn’t waste white-wash on itself, for more lime was made there, and of a better quality, than anywhere in the West; and added—‘On a dairy farm you never can get any milk for your coffee, nor any sugar for it on a sugar plantation; and it is against sense to go to a lime town to hunt for white-wash.’ …

Cape Girardeau is situated on a hillside, and makes a handsome appearance. There is a great Jesuit school for boys at the foot of the town by the river. Uncle Mumford said it had as high a reputation for thoroughness as any similar institution in Missouri! There was another college higher up on an airy summit—a bright new edifice, picturesquely and peculiarly towered and pinnacled—a sort of gigantic casters, with the cruets all complete. Uncle Mumford said that Cape Girardeau was the Athens of Missouri, and contained several colleges besides those already mentioned; and all of them on a religious basis of one kind or another. He directed my attention to what he called the ‘strong and pervasive religious look of the town,’ but I could not see that it looked more religious than the other hill towns with the same slope and built of the same kind of bricks. Partialities often make people see more than really exists. …

No vestige of Hat Island is left now; every shred of it is washed away. I do not even remember what part of the river it used to be in, except that it was between St. Louis and Cairo somewhere. …

One of the islands formerly called the Two Sisters is gone entirely; the other, which used to lie close to the Illinois shore, is now on the Missouri side, a mile away; it is joined solidly to the shore, and it takes a sharp eye to see where the seam is—but it is Illinois ground yet, and the people who live on it have to ferry themselves over and work the Illinois roads and pay Illinois taxes: singular state of things! …

The Mississippi is a just and equitable river; it never tumbles one man’s farm overboard without building a new farm just like it for that man’s neighbor. This keeps down hard feelings.

Going into Cairo, we came near killing a steamboat which paid no attention to our whistle and then tried to cross our bows. By doing some strong backing, we saved him; which was a great loss, for he would have made good literature.

“Piloting on the Mississippi River was not work to me; it was play— delightful play, vigorous play, adventurous play—and I loved it.” —The Autobiography of Mark Twain, edited by Charles Neider

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Mark Twain: A Good Riverboat Pilot and a Great Writer…

His real name was Samuel Langhorne Clemens, but he’s best known by his pen name: Mark Twain.  

Sam Clemons grew up in Hannibal, Missouri, which is a town located along the Mississippi River. So, it’s no surprise that as a young boy, Sam dreamed of becoming the captain a riverboat. He accomplished his dream by earning his pilot’s license, and he drove boats for a few years. But eventually he became a writer. Writing became the career that made him famous.  He  wrote funny stories and serious books. And, many of his stories were about life on the Mississippi.

Young Sam Clemons achieved one big dream (to become a riverboat pilot) and then achieved a different dream that was even bigger. So, don’t stop dreaming…and don’t be afraid to change dreams in mid-stream if you discover something better!

Quotes by Mark Twain

“Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear, not the absence of fear.”  

“Kindness is the language the deaf can hear and the blind can see.”

“The secret of getting ahead is getting started.”

“Give every day the chance to be the most beautiful day of your life.”

“Continuous improvement is better than delayed perfection.”

“Courage is the foundation of integrity.”

About the Mississippi River

It’s a Fact:  Mark Twain (1835-1910) earned his riverboat pilot’s license in 1859 and spent two years on the job before the Civil War halted steamboat traffic on the river.

It’s a Fact: The name Mississippi comes from the Ojibway Indian tribe. Mississippi means “big river” in their language.

It’s a Fact:  10 states border the Mississippi River. They are:  Minnesota , Wisconsin , Iowa , Illinois , Missouri , Kentucky , Tennessee , Arkansas , Mississippi , and Louisiana .

It’s a Fact:  A single drop of water takes about 90 days to flow from Lake Itasca, where the Mississippi River begins, to the Gulf of Mexico, where the river ends.

It’s a Fact : The Mississippi River empties into the Gulf of Mexico, which a large body of water that borders several southern states and Mexico.

Fun Fact : Mark Twain grew up along the Mississippi River. His lived in a town called Hannibal, Missouri. Today, his boyhood home is a museum. Next time you’re in Hannibal, be sure to drop by!

Fun Fact :  When Sam Clemens published a story in 1861, he signed it using the pen name “Mark Twain” which was a riverboat term that meant that the water was at least 12 feet deep. Water that was 12 feet deep was safe for a riverboat to pass through without hitting bottom.

Fun Fact : At its widest point, the Mississippi River is about 7 miles wide.

Fun Fact : At its deepest point, the Mississippi River is about 200 feet deep.

Just for fun,

Does the mississippi river empty into the atlantic ocean, the pacific ocean, or the gulf of mexico, about how long does it take water to flow from the beginning of the mississippi river to the gulf of mexico is it approximately 10 days, 30 days, or 90 days, did the word "mississippi" come from an american indian name or was it the name of a famous european explorer, did mark twain grow up in hannibal, missouri or in hannibal, mississippi.

If you have time, you can write a story of your own.

Here are a couple of story ideas you can choose from..

Story Idea #1: You could write a story about the amazing life of Mark Twain.

Story Idea #2: You could write a story about being a riverboat captain (like Mark Twain). What would you see? Do you think it would be scary to drive your boat?

You help you write a great story, we have some timely tips and helpful hints.

Check out “10 Tips for Writing Better Essays.”

Here's a riddle for you:

Why does the mississippi river see better than the ohio river.

For fun-to-read books about a girl detective who homeschools on a train... check out  The Mystery Ryders , a series from the creators of the Homeschool Express.

Thanks for stopping by... have a great homeschool day!

Old Times on the Mississippi (Part II)

The second installment in a seven-part series about the author’s youthful training as a riverboat pilot

II. A “Cub” Pilot’s Experience; or, Learning the River

What with lying on the rocks four days at Louisville, and some other delays, the poor old Paul Jones fooled away about two weeks in making the voyage from Cincinnati to New Orleans. This gave me a chance to get acquainted with one of the pilots, and he taught me how to steer the boat, and thus made the fascination of river life more potent than ever for me.

It also gave me a chance to get acquainted with a youth who had taken deck passage—more’s the pity; for he easily borrowed six dollars of me on a promise to return to the boat and pay it back to me the day after we should arrive. But he probably died or forgot, for he never came. It was doubtless the former, since he had said his parents were wealthy, and he only traveled deck passage because it was cooler. 1

I soon discovered two things. One was that a vessel would not be likely to sail for the mouth of the Amazon under ten or twelve years; and the other was that the nine or ten dollars still left in my pocket would not suffice for so imposing an exploration as I had planned, even if I could afford to wait for a ship. Therefore it followed that I must contrive a new career. The Paul Jones was now bound for St. Louis. I planned a siege against my pilot, and at the end of three hard days he surrendered. He agreed to teach me the Mississippi River from New Orleans to St. Louis for five hundred dollars, payable out of the first wages I should receive after graduating. I entered upon the small enterprise of “learning” twelve or thirteen hundred miles of the great Mississippi River with the easy confidence of my time of life. If I had really known what I was about to require of my faculties, I should not have had the courage to begin. I supposed that all a pilot had to do was to keep his boat in the river, and I did not consider that that could be much of a trick, since it was so wide.

The boat backed out from New Orleans at four in the afternoon, and it was “our watch” until eight. Mr. B——, my chief, “straightened her up,” plowed her along past the sterns of the other boats that lay at the Levee, and then said, “Here, take her; shave those steamships as close as you’d peel an apple.” I took the wheel, and my heart went down into my boots; for it seemed to me that we were about to scrape the side off every ship in the line, we were so close. I held my breath and began to claw the boat away from the danger; and I had my own opinion of the pilot who had known no better than to get us into such peril, but I was too wise to express it. In half a minute I had a wide margin of safety intervening between the Paul Jones and the ships; and within ten seconds more I was set aside in disgrace, and Mr. B—— was going into danger again and flaying me alive with abuse of my cowardice. I was stung, but I was obliged to admire the easy confidence with which my chief loafed from side to side of his wheel, and trimmed the ships so closely that disaster seemed ceaselessly imminent. When he had cooled a little he told me that the easy water was close ashore and the current outside, and therefore we must hug the bank, up-stream, to get the benefit of the former, and stay well out, downstream, to take advantage of the latter. In my own mind I resolved to be a down-stream pilot and leave the up-streaming to people dead to prudence.

Now and then Mr. B—— called my attention to certain things. Said he, “This is Six-Mile Point.” I assented. It was pleasant enough information, but I could not see the bearing of it. I was not conscious that it was a matter of any interest to me. Another time he said, “This is Nine-Mile Point.” Later he said, “This is Twelve-Mile Point.” They were all about level with the water’s edge; they all looked about alike to me; they were monotonously unpicturesque. I hoped Mr. B—— would change the subject. But no; he would crowd up around a point, hugging the shore with affection, and then say: “The slack water ends here, abreast this bunch of China-trees; now we cross over.” So he crossed over. He gave me the wheel once or twice, but I had no luck. I either came near chipping off the edge of a sugar plantation, or else I yawed too far from shore, and so I dropped back into disgrace again and got abused.

The watch was ended at last, and we took supper and went to bed. At midnight the glare of a lantern shone in my eyes, and the night watchman said: —

“Come! turn out!”

And then he left. I could not understand this extraordinary procedure; so I presently gave up trying to, and dozed off to sleep. Pretty soon the watchman was back again, and this time he was gruff. I was annoyed. I said: —

“What do you want to come bothering around here in the middle of the night for? Now as like as not I’ll not get to sleep again to-night.”

The watchman said: —

“Well, if this an’t good, I’m blest.”

The “off-watch” was just turning in, and I heard some brutal laughter from them, and such remarks as “Hello, watchman! an’t the new cub turned out yet? He’s delicate, likely. Give him some sugar in a rag and send for the chambermaid to sing rock-a-by-baby to him.”

About this time Mr. B—— appeared on the scene. Something like a minute later I was climbing the pilot-house steps with some of my clothes on and the rest in my arms. Mr. B—— was close behind, commenting. Here was something fresh—this thing of getting up in the middle of the night to go to work. It was a detail in piloting that had never occurred to me at all. I knew that boats ran all night, but somehow I had never happened to reflect that somebody had to get up out of a warm bed to run them. I began to fear that piloting was not quite so romantic as I had imagined it was; there was something very real and work-like about this new phase of it.

It was a rather dingy night, although a fair number of stars were out. The big mate was at the wheel, and he had the old tub pointed at a star and was holding her straight up the middle of the river. The shores on either hand were not much more than a mile apart, but they seemed wonderfully far away and ever so vague and indistinct. The mate said: —

“We’ve got to land at Jones’s plantation, sir.”

The vengeful spirit in me exulted. I said to myself, I wish you joy of your job, Mr. B——; you’ll have a good time finding Mr. Jones’s plantation such a night as this; and I hope you never will find it as long as you live.

Mr. B—— said to the mate: —

“Upper end of the plantation, or the lower?”

“I can’t do it. The stumps there are out of water at this stage. It’s no great distance to the lower, and you’ll have to get along with that.”

“All right, sir. If Jones don’t like it hell have to lump it, I reckon.”

And then the mate left. My exultation began to cool and my wonder to come up. Here was a man who not only proposed to find this plantation on such a night, but to find either end of it you preferred. I dreadfully wanted to ask a question, but I was carrying about as many short answers as my cargo-room would admit of, so I held my peace. All I desired to ask Mr. B—— was the simple question whether he was ass enough to really imagine he was going to find that plantation on a night when all plantations were exactly alike and all the same color. But I held in. I used to have fine inspirations of prudence in those days.

Mr. B—— made for the shore and soon was scraping it, just the same as if it had been daylight. And not only that, but singing—

“Father in heaven the day is declining,” etc.

It seemed to me that I had put my life in the keeping of a peculiarly reckless outcast. Presently he turned on me and said: —

“What’s the name of the first point above New Orleans?”

I was gratified to be able to answer promptly, and I did. I said I didn’t know.

“Don’t know ?”

This manner jolted me. I was down at the foot again, in a moment. But I had to say just what I had said before.

“Well, you’re a smart one,” said Mr. B——. “What’s the name of the next point?”

Once more I didn’t know.

“Well this beats anything. Tell me the name of any point or place I told you.”

I studied a while and decided that I couldn’t.

“Look-a-here! What do you start out from, above Twelve-Mile Point, to cross over?”

“I—I—don’t know.”

“You—you—don’t know?” mimicking my drawling manner of speech. “What do you know?”

“I—I—nothing, for certain.”

“By the great Cæsar’s ghost I believe you! You’re the stupidest dunderhead I ever saw or ever heard of, so help me Moses! The idea of you being a pilot— you ! Why, you don’t know enough to pilot a cow down a lane.”

Oh, but his wrath was up! He was a nervous man, and he shuffled from one side of his wheel to the other as if the floor was hot. He would boil a while to himself, and then overflow and scald me again.

“Look-a-here! What do you suppose I told you the names of those points for?”

I tremblingly considered a moment, and then the devil of temptation provoked me to say: —

“Well—to—to—be entertaining, I thought.”

This was a red rag to the bull. He raged and stormed so (he was crossing the river at the time) that I judge it made him blind, because he ran over the steering-oar of a trading-scow. Of course the traders sent up a volley of red-hot profanity. Never was a man so grateful as Mr. B—— was: because he was brim full, and here were subjects who would talk back . He threw open a window, thrust his head out, and such an irruption followed as I never had heard before. The fainter and farther away the scowmen’s curses drifted, the higher Mr. B—— lifted his voice and the weightier his adjectives grew. When he closed the window he was empty. You could have drawn a seine through his system and not caught curses enough to disturb your mother with. Presently he said to me in the gentlest way: —

“My boy, you must get a little memorandum-book, and every time I tell you a thing, put it down right away. There’s only one way to be a pilot, and that is to get this entire river by heart. You have to know it just like A B C.”

That was a dismal revelation to me; for my memory was never loaded with anything but blank cartridges. However, I did not feel discouraged long. I judged that it was best to make some allowances, for doubtless Mr. B—— was “stretching.” Presently he pulled a rope and struck a few strokes on the big bell. The stars were all gone, now, and the night was as black as ink. I could hear the wheels churn alone, the bank, but I was not entirely certain that I could see the shore. The voice of the invisible watchman called up from the hurricane deck: —

“What’s this, sir?”

“Jones’s plantation.”

I said to myself, I wish I might venture to offer a small bet that it isn’t. But I did not chirp. I only waited to see. Mr. B—— handled the engine bells, and in due time the boat’s nose came to the land, a torch glowed from the forecastle, a man skipped ashore, a darky’s voice on the bank said, “Gimme de carpet-bag, Mars’ Jones,” and the next moment we were standing up the river again, all serene. I reflected deeply a while, and then said, — but not aloud, — Well, the finding of that plantation was the luckiest accident that ever happened; but it couldn’t happen again in a hundred years. And I fully believed it was an accident, too.

By the time we had gone seven or eight hundred miles up the river, I had learned to be a tolerably plucky up-stream steersman, in daylight, and before we reached St. Louis I had made a trifle of progress in night-work, but only a trifle. I had a note-book that fairly bristled with the names of towns, “points,” bars, islands, bends, reaches, etc.; but the information was to be found only in the note-book—none of it was in my head. It made my heart ache to think I had only got half of the river set down; for as our watch was four hours off and four hours on, day and night, there was a long four-hour gap in my book for every time I had slept since the voyage began.

My chief was presently hired to go on a big New Orleans boat, and I packed my satchel and went with him. She was a grand affair. When I stood in her pilot-house I was so far above the water that I seemed perched on a mountain; and her decks stretched so far away, fore and aft, below me, that I wondered how I could ever have considered the little Paul Jones a large craft. There were other differences, too. The Paul Jones’s pilot-house was a cheap, dingy, battered rattle-trap, cramped for room: but here was a sumptuous glass temple; room enough to have a dance in; showy red and gold window-curtains; an imposing sofa; leather cushions and a back to the high bench where visiting pilots sit, to spin yarns and “look at the river;” bright, fanciful “cuspadores” instead of a broad wooden box filled with sawdust; nice new oil-cloth on the floor; a hospitable big stove for winter; a wheel as high as my head, costly with inlaid work; a wire tiller-rope; bright brass knobs for the bells; and a tidy, white-aproned, black “texas-tender,” to bring up tarts and ices and coffee during mid-watch, day and night. Now this was “something like;” and so I began to take heart once more to believe that piloting was a romantic sort of occupation after all. The moment we were under way I began to prowl about the great steamer and fill myself with joy. She was as clean and as dainty as a drawing-room; when I looked down her long, gilded saloon, it was like gazing through a splendid tunnel; she had an oil-picture, by some gifted sign-painter, on every state-room door; she glittered with no end of prism-fringed chandeliers; the clerk’s office was elegant, the bar was marvelous, and the bar-keeper had been barbered and upholstered at incredible cost. The boiler deck (i.e., the second story of the boat, so to speak) was as spacious as a church, it seemed to me; so with the forecastle; and there was no pitiful handful of deck-hands, firemen, and roust-abouts down there, but a whole battalion of men. The fires were fiercely glaring from a long row of furnaces, and over them were eight huge boilers! This was unutterable pomp. The mighty engines—but enough of this. I had never felt so fine before. And when I found that the regiment of natty servants respectfully “sir’d” me, my satisfaction was complete.

When I returned to the pilot-house St. Louis was gone and I was lost. Here was a piece of river which was all down in my book, but I could make neither head nor tail of it: you understand, it was turned around. I had seen it, when coming up-stream, but I had never faced about to see how it looked when it was behind me. My heart broke again, for it was plain that I had got to learn this troublesome river both ways .

The pilot-house was full of pilots, going down to “look at the river.” What is called the “upper river” (the two hundred miles between St. Louis and Cairo, where the Ohio comes in) was low; and the Mississippi changes its channel so constantly that the pilots used to always find it necessary to run down to Cairo to take a fresh look, when their boats were to lie in port a week, that is, when the water was at a low stage. A deal of this “looking at the river” was done by poor fellows who seldom had a berth, and whose only hope of getting one lay in their being always freshly posted and therefore ready to drop into the shoes of some reputable pilot, for a single trip, on account of such pilot’s sudden illness, or some other necessity. And a good many of them constantly ran up and down inspecting the river, not because they ever really hoped to get a berth, but because (they being guests of the boat) it was cheaper to “look at the river” than stay ashore and pay board. In time these fellows grew dainty in their tastes, and only infested boats that had an established reputation for setting good tables. All visiting pilots were useful, for they were always ready and willing, winter or summer, night or day, to go out in the yawl and help buoy the channel or assist the boat’s pilots in any way they could. They were likewise welcome because all pilots are tireless talkers, when gathered together, and as they talk only about the river they are always understood and are always interesting. Your true pilot cares nothing about anything on earth but the river, and his pride in his occupation surpasses the pride of kings.

We had a fine company of these river-inspectors along, this trip. There were eight or ten; and there was abundance of room for them in our great pilot-house. Two or three of them wore polished silk hats, elaborate shirt-fronts, diamond breastpins, kid gloves, and patent-leather boots. They were choice in their English, and bore themselves with a dignity proper to men of solid means and prodi0ious reputation as pilots. The others were more or less loosely clad, and wore upon their heads tall felt cones that were suggestive of the days of the Commonwealth.

I was a cipher in this august company, and felt subdued, not to say torpid. I was not even of sufficient consequence to assist at the wheel when it was necessary to put the tiller hard down in a hurry; the guest that stood nearest did that when occasion required—and this was pretty much all the time, because of the crookedness of the channel and the scant water. I stood in a corner; and the talk I listened to took the hope all out of me. One visitor said to another: —

“Jim, how did you run Plum Point, coming up?”

“It was in the night, there, and I ran it the way one of the boys on the Diana told me; started out about fifty yards above the wood pile on the false point, and held on the cabin under Plum Point till I raised the reef—quarter less twain—then straightened up for the middle bar till I got well abreast the old one-limbed cotton-wood in the bend, then got my stern on the cottonwood and head on the low place above the point, and came through a-booming—nine and a half.”

“Pretty square crossing, an’t it?”

“Yes, but the upper bar’s working down fast.”

Another pilot spoke up and said: —

“I had better water than that, and ran it lower down; started out from the false point—mark twain—raised the second reef abreast the big snag in the bend, and had quarter less twain.”

One of the gorgeous ones remarked: “I don’t want to find fault with your leadsmen, but that’s a good deal of water for Plum Point, it seems to me.”

There was an approving nod all around as this quiet snub dropped on the boaster and “settled” him. And so they went on talk-talk-talking. Meantime, the thing that was running in my mind was, “Now if my ears hear aright, I have not only to get the names of all the towns and islands and bends, and so on, by heart, but I must even get up a warm personal acquaintanceship with every old snag and one-limbed cotton-wood and obscure wood pile that ornaments the banks of this river for twelve hundred miles; and more than that, I must actually know where these things are in the dark, unless these guests are gifted with eyes that can pierce through two miles of solid blackness; I wish the piloting business was in Jericho and I had never thought of it.”

At dusk Mr. B—— tapped the big bell three times (the signal to land), and the captain emerged from his drawing-room in the forward end of the texas, and looked up inquiringly. Mr. B—— said: —

“We will lay up here all night, captain.”

“Very well, sir.”

That was all. The boat came to shore and was tied up for the night. It seemed to me a fine thing that the pilot could do as he pleased without asking so grand a captain’s permission. I took my supper and went immediately to bed, discouraged by my day’s observations and experiences. My late voyage’s note-booking was but a confusion of meaningless names. It had tangled me all up in a knot every time I had looked at it in the daytime. I now hoped for respite in sleep; but no, it reveled all through my head till sunrise again, a frantic and tireless nightmare.

Next morning I felt pretty rusty and low-spirited. We went booming along, taking a good many chances, for we were anxious to “get out of the river” (as getting out to Cairo was called) before night should overtake us. But Mr. B——’s partner, the other pilot, presently grounded the boat, and we lost so much time getting her off that it was plain the darkness would over-take us a good long way above the mouth. This was a great misfortune, especially to certain of our visiting pilots, whose boats would have to wait for their return, no matter how long that might be. It sobered the pilot-house talk a good deal. Coming up-stream, pilots did not mind low water or any kind of darkness; nothing stopped them but fog. But down-stream work was different; a boat was too nearly helpless, with a stiff current pushing behind her; so it was not customary to run down-stream at night in low water.

There seemed to be one small hope, however: if we could get through the intricate and dangerous Hat Island crossing before night, we could venture the rest, for we would have plainer sailing and better water. But it would be insanity to attempt Hat Island at night. So there was a deal of looking at watches all the rest of the day, and a constant ciphering upon the speed we were making; Hat Island was the eternal subject; sometimes hope was high and sometimes we were delayed in a bad crossing, and down it went again. For hours all hands lay under the burden of this suppressed excitement; it was even communicated to me, and I got to feeling so solicitous about Hat Island, and under such an awful pressure of responsibility, that I wished I might have five minutes on shore to draw a good, full, relieving breath, and start over again. We were standing no regular watches. Each of our pilots ran such portions of the river as he had run when coming up-stream, because of his greater familiarity with it; but both remained in the pilot-house constantly.

An hour. before sunset, Mr. B—— took the wheel and Mr. W—— stepped aside. For the next thirty minutes every man held his watch in his hand and was restless, silent, and uneasy. At last somebody said, with a doomful sigh.

“Well, yonder’s Hat Island—and we can’t make it.”

All the watches closed with a snap, everybody sighed and muttered something about its being “too bad, too bad—ah, if we could only have got here half an hour sooner!” and the place was thick with the atmosphere of disappointment. Some started to go out, but loitered, hearing no bell-tap to land. The sun dipped behind the horizon, the boat went on. Inquiring looks passed from one guest to another; and one who had his hand on the door-knob, and had turned it, waited, then presently took away his hand and let the knob turn back again. We bore steadily down the bend. More looks were exchanged, and nods of surprised admiration—but no words. Insensibly the men drew together behind Mr. B—— as the sky darkened and one or two dim stars came out. The dead silence and sense of waiting became oppressive. Mr. B—— pulled the cord, and two deep, mellow notes from the big bell floated off on the night. Then a pause, and one more note was struck. The watchman’s voice followed, from the hurricane deck: —

“Labboard lead, there! Stabboard lead!”

The cries of the leadsmen began to rise out of the distance, and were gruffly repeated by the word-passers on the hurricane deck.

“M-a-r-k three! M-a-r-k three! Quarter-less-three! Half twain! Quarter twain! M-a-r-k twain! Quarter-less”—

Mr. B—— pulled two bell-ropes, and was answered by faint jinglings far below in the engine-room, and our speed slackened. The steam began to whistle through the gauge-cocks. The cries of the leadsmen went on—and it is a weird sound, always, in the night. Every pilot in the lot was watching, now, with fixed eyes, and talking under his breath. Nobody was calm and easy but Mr. B——. He would put his wheel down and stand on a spoke, and as the steamer swung into her (to me) utterly invisible marks—for we seemed to be in the midst of a wide and gloomy sea—he would meet and fasten her there. Talk was going on, now, in low voices: —

“There; she’s over the first reef all right!”

After a pause, another subdued voice: —

“Her stern’s coming down just exactly right, by George ! Now she’s in the marks; over she goes!”

Somebody else muttered: —

“Oh, it was done beautiful— beautiful !”

Now the engines were stopped altogether, and we drifted with the current. Not that I could see the boat drift, for I could not, the stars being all gone by this time. This drifting was the dismalest work; it held one’s heart still. Presently I discovered a blacker gloom than that which surrounded us. It was the head of the island. We were closing right down upon it. We entered its deeper shadow, and so imminent seemed the peril that I was likely to suffocate; and I bad the strongest impulse to do something , anything, to save the vessel. But still Mr. B—— stood by his wheel, silent, intent as a cat, and all the pilots stood shoulder to shoulder at his back.

“She’ll not make it!” somebody whispered.

The water grew shoaler and shoaler by the leadsmen’s cries, till it was down to—

“Eight-and-a-half! E-i-g-h-t feet! E-i-g-h-t feet! Seven-and”—

Mr. B—— said warningly through his speaking tube to the engineer: —

“Stand by, now!”

“Aye-aye, sir.”

“Seven-and-a-half! Seven feet! Six-and”—

We touched bottom! Instantly Mr. B—— set a lot of bells ringing, shouted through the tube, “ Now let her have it every ounce you’ve got!” then to his partner, “Put her hard down! snatch her! snatch her!” The boat rasped and ground her way through the sand, hung upon the apex of disaster a single tremendous instant, and then over she went! And such a shout as went up at Mr. B——’s back never loosened the roof of a pilot-house before!

There was no more trouble after that. Mr. B—— was a hero that night; and it was some little time, too, before his exploit ceased to be talked about by river men.

Fully to realize the marvelous precision required in laying the great steamer in her marks in that murky waste of water, one should know that not only must she pick her intricate way through snags and blind reefs, and then shave the head of the island so closely as to brush the overhanging foliage with her stern, but at one place she must pass almost within arm’s reach of a sunken and invisible wreck that would snatch the hull timbers from under her if she should strike it, and destroy a quarter of a million dollars’ worth of steamboat and cargo in five minutes, and maybe a hundred and fifty human lives into the bargain.

The last remark I heard that night was a compliment to Mr. B——, uttered in soliloquy and with unction by one of our guests. He said: —

“By the Shadow of Death, but he’s a lightning pilot!”

• “Deck” passage—i. e., steerage passage. ↩

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Mark twain claimed he got his pen name from a riverboat captain.

Clemens had become widely known in Virginia City — if not necessarily widely liked — by the time the pseudonym Mark Twain first appeared in the Enterpriseon February 3, 1863. A decade later, Clemens claimed he’d appropriated his by-then-famous nom de plume from a staid Mississippi riverboat captain. However, according to more convincing Virginia City legend, Clemens acquired the nickname before it appeared in print, derived from his habit of striding into the Old Corner Saloon and calling out to the barkeep to “Mark Twain!” a phrase Mississippi river boatmen sang out with their craft in two fathoms of water, but that in Virginia City meant bring two blasts of whisky to Sam Clemens and make two chalk marks against his account on the back wall of the saloon.

Although later in life, Clemens claimed not to have had “a large experience in the matter of alcoholic drinks,” men who knew him in Virginia City remembered substantial quantities of chalk ground down to a nub on his behalf. Regardless, one of the Comstockers Clemens had become acquainted with was the quiet, industrious, up-and-coming, and largely abstemious Irishman who superintended the Milton mine — John Mackay.

Hannibal River Cruises on the Mark Twain Riverboat

The Mark Twain Riverboat brings the mystique of the Mississippi River and the history of Hannibal to life through one-hour sightseeing cruises, two-hour dinner cruises, and the Captain's Sunday Lunch events.

Schedule can vary, call for times.

Cruises on the Mark Twain Riverboat have been a tradition for decades

The Mark Twain Riverboat has been a unique fixture on the banks of the Mississippi for more than 30 years, offering visitors an up-close view of the Mississippi River during 1-hour narrated sightseeing cruises or 2-hour dinner cruises.

Hannibal river cruises give visitors the opportunity to explore the Mississippi just like Tom and Huck.  This Mississippi River Cruise departs from Center Street Landing three times daily between Memorial Day and Labor Day, with two departures daily during September and October.  Dinner cruises depart at 6:30 p.m; check for availability. Built in 1964, the Mark Twain Riverboat is 120 ft. long, 33 ft. wide and has a 400-passenger capacity, so there is plenty of room aboard the vessel, which is wheelchair accessible (w/ some limitations.)

1-Hour Sightseeing Mississippi River Cruise

If you have an afternoon to spare in Hannibal, the Mark Twain Riverboat is a must-stop.  One-hour sightseeing cruises on the river include commentary on river history, legends, and sights.  You will see Jackson’s Island, Lover’s Leap, and of course, the Mighty Mississippi rolling along.  Beverages and sandwiches are available on-ship for purchase during these tours.  A cruise aboard the Mark Twain Riverboat is great for family events.  Whether you are a visitor or resident of Hannibal, you can make wonderful memories aboard our unique riverboat experience!

2-Hour Dinner Cruises on the Mark Twain Riverboat

For an extended Mississippi River cruise, be sure to reserve your spot on a 2-hour dinner cruise aboard the Mark Twain Riverboat.

Guests aboard Mark Twain Riverboat dinner cruises are treated to live music, a buffet meal featuring Riverboat Roast Beef, Baked Boneless Chicken Breast, Baked Potatoes, Seasoned Green Beans, the Captain’s Favorite Pasta Salad, a Deluxe Tossed Salad, Dinner Rolls and Dessert.  Iced Tea and Coffee are included, and a cash bar is also available.

Once on board, you are escorted to your table, then you are free to roam the boat until the captain announces that dinner is ready.  After dinner, you are free to dance or sit back and enjoy the music.  Live entertainment is included on Dinner Cruises.  It may be The Rivermen playing modern jazz (Saturday night from Memorial Day thru September), or you might get to enjoy the music of Tim Hart (Mondays & Tuesdays), or Adam Ledbetter and David Damm (Sunday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday).  Listen or dance to their favorite tunes — and they have been known to take a request or two.  And you never know when a crew member or two may step up on the stage and join in.

It’s a fun night of music for the young and the young at heart!  The dancefloor is available after dinner if you are so inclined, or you can choose to dance under the stars on the outer decks (no dancing on the tables and chairs, please).

The Captain’s Sunday Lunch

Enjoy lunch and a cruise on a lovely Sunday!  The dockside meal includes a buffet of Roast Beef, Mashed Potatoes and Gravy, Seasoned Green Beans, Deluxe Lettuce Salad with dressing, Dinner Roll, and the Captain’s Favorite Pasta Salad.  Iced tea, coffee and water accompany the meal.  Top all of this with a delicious Ghirardelli Triple Chocolate Brownie.

Following lunch, enjoy a delightful one-hour sightseeing cruise on the “Mighty Mississippi” complete with river history, facts about Mark Twain, riverboat stories, and a few (or more!) tall-tales.

Lunch begins at 12:30 p.m.  Departure from the dock will be at 1:30 p.m. and returns at 2:30 p.m.

We hope you will join us for a delicious meal and casual river cruise; where you’re sure to become more like family by the time the landing whistle blows across the hills of Hannibal!

Other Attractions

Mark Twain Riverboat

• Water Rides

Steam into the Past

Board an old-fashioned steam-powered vessel for a half-mile journey into the heart of the American frontier. 

During the charming, 14-minute trip around Pirate’s Lair on Tom Sawyer Island , spot delightful sights along the river’s edge, including: 

• The north bank of the Columbia Gorge, complete with a beautiful waterfront and 5 sparkling waterfalls 
• A rustic frontier cabin 
• An idyllic Native American village 
• A busy beaver at work chewing on the train trestle 
• Mountain lions relaxing in the sun 
• The Disneyland Railroad steaming into the wilderness 

Along the way, hear lively narration about a time gone by.

Along the Mississippi

The Mark Twain is an authentic reproduction of the historic vessels that ferried people up and down the mighty Mississippi River. A working steam engine converts the water from the Rivers of America into steam that in turn powers the large paddle that propels the boat. 

Featuring meticulously detailed wood craftsmanship, the 28-foot tall, 105-foot-long riverboat is comprised of 4 pristine decks: 

• Pilothouse , also known as the top deck, features the wheelhouse and Captain’s Quarters 
• Promenade Deck includes a salon and a collection of vintage photos and maps 
• Texas (or Sun) Deck is the perfect place to enjoy the outdoors as you float down the river 
• Main Deck includes the boiler and pistons that run the paddlewheel 

Limited seating is available.

A Tribute to America’s Writer

Walt Disney named the Mark Twain after the pen name of Samuel Langhorne Clemens. The famed author of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Adventures of Huckleberry Finn —and Walt’s personal hero—Clemens was also a riverboat pilot as a young man. 

That experience inspired his pen name: “mark twain” is a boating term that means a vessel is at a safe depth.

Alternate Adventures

Disneyland app.

Related Activities

Frontierland, plan your day with disney genie service, safety, accessibility and guest policies, times for mark twain riverboat.

Sightseeing Tour

Trip Highlights

Soak in beautiful scenery along the mississippi river, listen to the narrated history, legends, and sights of the area, description.

This one-hour sightseeing cruise travels along the mighty Mississippi River, allowing you to soak up the scenery at a relaxing, rhythmic pace. Listen as the captain guides your cruise with historical commentary on the history, legends, and sights of the Mississippi River.

A cruise aboard the Mark Twain Riverboat is great for family events. Whether you are a visitor or resident of Hannibal, you can make wonderful memories aboard our unique riverboat experience! Looking forward to having you onboard!

Departure time: Varies - check calendar Yearly availability: April 1 - Nov. 4 Weekly availability: Daily

300 Riverfront Drive Hannibal MO

Things to know

Food and bevarages.

A fully stocked bar and a concession stand are available to purchase sandwiches, snacks, and beverages.

Departure Time

Varies - check calendar

All cruises depart from 300 Riverfront Drive on the waterfront in historic Hannibal, MO. Boarding begins 30 minutes before scheduled departure time.

Adults (Ages 13 and older) - $26.18 + tax

Children (Ages 5-12) - $16.08 + tax

Wee Ones (Ages 4 and under) - FREE

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Check availability, more experiences .accent-svg{fill:#8c241a;}.

Dinner Cruise

Enjoy a night of dinner and dancing on this cruise on the Mighty Mississippi. Indulge in a delicious buffet and share a wonderful dinner with your family or friends, then enjoy live music from the dance floor or the deck.

Once on board, you are escorted to your table, then you are free to roam the boat until the captain announces that dinner is ready. After dinner, you are free to dance or sit back and enjoy the music. Live entertainment is included on our Dinner Cruises. It may be The Rivermen playing modern jazz (Saturday night from Memorial Day thru October), or you might get to enjoy the music of Tim Hart (Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday) and David Damm (Thursday and Friday). Listen or dance to their favorite tunes — and they have been known to take a request or two. And you never know when a crew member or two may step up on the stage and join in.

Departure time: 6:30 pm (5:30 pm in October) Yearly availability: May 3 - Oct 28 Weekly availability: Varies - check calendar