Horrid man, how did you know the way I behave in a thunderstorm?  Have you been secreted in the closet or lurking on the shed roof?  I hope you got thoroughly rained on; and worst of all is that you made me laugh at myself; my real terrors turned round and grimaced at me:  they were sublime, and you have made them ridiculous just come out here another year and have four houses within a few rods of you struck and then see if you write an article of such exasperating levity.  I really hate you, but you are funny.

In addition to his own work, he conceived a plan for Orion.  Clemens himself had been attempting, from time to time, an absolutely faithful autobiography; a document in which his deeds and misdeeds, even his moods and inmost thoughts, should be truly set down.  He had found it an impossible task.  He confessed freely that he lacked the courage, even the actual ability, to pen the words that would lay his soul bare, but he believed Orion equal to the task.  He knew how rigidly honest he was, how ready to confess his shortcomings, how eager to be employed at some literary occupation.  It was Mark Twain’s belief that if Orion would record in detail his long, weary struggle, his succession of attempts and failures, his past dreams and disappointments, along with his sins of omission and commission, it would make one of those priceless human documents such as have been left by Benvenuto Cellini, Cazenova, and Rousseau.

“Simply tell your story to yourself,” he wrote, “laying all hideousness utterly bare, reserving nothing.  Banish the idea of the audience and all hampering things.”

Orion, out in Keokuk, had long since abandoned the chicken farm and a variety of other enterprises.  He had prospected insurance, mining, journalism, his old trade of printing, and had taken down and hung up his law shingle between each of these seizures.  Aside from business, too, he had been having a rather spectacular experience.  He had changed his politics three times (twice in one day), and his religion as many more.  Once when he was delivering a political harangue in the street, at night, a parade of the opposition (he had but just abandoned them) marched by carrying certain flaming transparencies, which he himself had made for them the day before.  Finally, after delivering a series of infidel lectures; he had been excommunicated and condemned to eternal flames by the Presbyterian Church.  He was therefore ripe for any new diversion, and the Autobiography appealed to him.  He set about it with splendid enthusiasm, wrote a hundred pages or so of his childhood with a startling minutia of detail and frankness, and mailed them to his brother for inspection.

They were all that Mark Twain had expected; more than he had expected.  He forwarded them to Howells with great satisfaction, suggesting, with certain excisions, they be offered anonymously to the Atlantic readers.

But Howells’s taste for realism had its limitations.  He found the story interesting—­indeed, torturingly, heart-wringingly so—­and, advising strongly against its publication, returned it.