I have always been sorry we threw up that play embodying Orion which you began.  It was a mistake to do that.  Do keep that Ms and tackle it again.  It will work out all right; you will see.  I don’t believe that that character exists in literature in so well-developed a condition as it exists in Orion’s person.  Now won’t you put Orion in a story?  Then he will go handsomely into a play afterwards.  How deliciously you could paint him—­it would make fascinating reading—­the sort that makes a reader laugh and cry at the same time, for Orion is as good and ridiculous a soul as ever was.

Ah, to think of Bayard Taylor!  It is too sad to talk about.  I was so
glad there was not a single sting and so many good praiseful words in the
Atlantic’s criticism of Deukalion. 
                                   Love to you all
                                             Yrs Ever
          
                                        Mark

We remain here till middle of March.

In ‘A Tramp Abroad’ there is an incident in which the author describes himself as hunting for a lost sock in the dark, in a vast hotel bedroom at Heilbronn.  The account of the real incident, as written to Twichell, seems even more amusing.

The “Yarn About the Limburger Cheese and the Box of Guns,” like “The Stolen White Elephant,” did not find place in the travel-book, but was published in the same volume with the elephant story, added to the rambling notes of “An Idle Excursion.”

With the discovery of the Swiss note-book, work with Mark Twain was
going better.  His letter reflects his enthusiasm.

To Rev. J. H. Twichell, in Hartford: 

Munich, Jan 26 ’79.  Dear old Joe,—­Sunday.  Your delicious letter arrived exactly at the right time.  It was laid by my plate as I was finishing breakfast at 12 noon.  Livy and Clara, (Spaulding) arrived from church 5 minutes later; I took a pipe and spread myself out on the sofa, and Livy sat by and read, and I warmed to that butcher the moment he began to swear.  There is more than one way of praying, and I like the butcher’s way because the petitioner is so apt to be in earnest.  I was peculiarly alive to his performance just at this time, for another reason, to wit:  Last night I awoke at 3 this morning, and after raging to my self for 2 interminable hours, I gave it up.  I rose, assumed a catlike stealthiness, to keep from waking Livy, and proceeded to dress in the pitch dark.  Slowly but surely I got on garment after garment—­all down to one sock; I had one slipper on and the other in my hand.  Well, on my hands and knees I crept softly around, pawing and feeling and scooping along the carpet, and among chair-legs for that missing sock; I kept that up; and still kept it up and kept it up.  At first I only said to myself, “Blame that sock,” but that soon ceased to answer;