Last evening I dined at Geo. W. Smalley’s, No. 8 Chester Place, Hyde Park Square, the first time I have ever been in this new residence of his. It is a comfortable, and good sized house, newly and tastefully furnished, Mr. Smalley evidently having taken some hints on the subject from Mr. Geo. H. Boughton, the artist, especially in the matter of oak and walnut furniture and Venetian glass.

The company consisted of Mr. & Mrs. Smalley, a Miss White of New York, a pleasant girl and friend of Horace Greeley’s daughters; Mrs. Mack, her sister; Mrs. Jones, an Irish literary lady; Mr. Herbert Spencer the political writer; Mr. Clements (Mark Twain) and his pretty, dark eyed wife, myself, and Mr. & Mrs. Thomas Hughes. I sat between Mrs. Jones and Miss White. We were a small, but joyous party and had a great deal of fun, Mark Twain being our principal source of amusement. He speaks with an inconceivably comical drawl, which seems natural, but which one occasionally suspects is put on in order to turn over in his mind what he shall say before he utters it. His remarks were all shrewd, his language terse and appropriate, and his manner entirely free from affectation. His pretty wife has a girlish appearance, is lithe and graceful of figure, is a brunette of decided spirit and does not look to be more than 25 years old. She is evidently very fond of her lord.

I found him familiar with the writings of all our early humorists, Jack Downing, Judge Longstreet and others; and judging from his good memory and familiarity with their best stories, I am sure that his wit received an impulse first from theirs.

Mr. Herbert Spencer is a chippy sort of man, and is too deeply immersed in political speculation to be a good table talker. He dresses badly and wears a big black neck-handkerchief, which don’t look well among white ties at a dinner table. (Moran, 35:217–20)