Clemens was tempted, no doubt.  Perhaps, if he had yielded, he would today have had one more claim on immortality.

CVII

Howells, Clemens, and “George”

Howells and Clemens were visiting back and forth rather oftener just then.  Clemens was particularly fond of the Boston crowd—­Aldrich, Fields, Osgood, and the rest—­delighting in those luncheons or dinners which Osgood, that hospitable publisher, was always giving on one pretext or another.  No man ever loved company more than Osgood, or to play the part of host and pay for the enjoyment of others.  His dinners were elaborate affairs, where the sages and poets and wits of that day (and sometimes their wives) gathered.  They were happy reunions, those fore-gatherings, though perhaps a more intimate enjoyment was found at the luncheons, where only two or three were invited, usually Aldrich, Howells, and Clemens, and the talk continued through the afternoon and into the deepening twilight, such company and such twilight as somehow one seems never to find any more.

On one of the visits which Howells made to Hartford that year he took his son John, then a small boy, with him.  John was about six years old at the time, with his head full of stories of Aladdin, and of other Arabian fancies.  On the way over his father said to him: 

“Now, John, you will see a perfect palace.”

They arrived, and John was awed into silence by the magnificence and splendors of his surroundings until they went to the bath-room to wash off the dust of travel.  There he happened to notice a cake of pink soap.

“Why,” he said, “they’ve even got their soap painted!” Next morning he woke early—­they were occupying the mahogany room on the ground floor —­and slipping out through the library, and to the door of the dining-room, he saw the colored butler, George—­the immortal George—­setting the breakfast-table.  He hurriedly tiptoed back and whispered to his father: 

“Come quick!  The slave is setting the table!”

This being the second mention of George, it seems proper here that he should be formally presented.  Clemens used to say that George came one day to wash windows and remained eighteen years.  He was precisely the sort of character that Mark Twain loved.  He had formerly been the body-servant of an army general and was typically racially Southern, with those delightful attributes of wit and policy and gentleness which go with the best type of negro character.  The children loved him no less than did their father.  Mrs. Clemens likewise had a weakness for George, though she did not approve of him.  George’s morals were defective.  He was an inveterate gambler.  He would bet on anything, though prudently and with knowledge.  He would investigate before he invested.  If he placed his money on a horse, he knew the horse’s pedigree and the pedigree of the horses against it,