rincipal request being for some incident
that may prove helpful to the young. It is my mission to teach, and
I am always glad to furnish something. There have been a lot of
incidents in my career to help me along--sometimes they helped me
along faster than I wanted to go.

He took some papers from his pocket and started to unfold one of them;
then, as if remembering, he asked how long he had been talking. The
answer came, "Thirty-five minutes." He made as if to leave the stage,
but the audience commanded him to go on.

"All right," he said, "I can stand more of my own talk than any one I
ever knew." Opening one of the papers, a telegram, he read:

"In which one of your works can we find the definition of a gentleman?"
Then he added:

I have not answered that telegram. I couldn't. I never wrote any
such definition, though it seems to me that if a man has just,
merciful, and kindly instincts he would be a gentleman, for he would
need nothing else in this world.

He opened a letter. "From Howells," he said.

My old friend, William Dean Howells--Howells, the head of American
literature. No one is able to stand with him. He is an old, old
friend of mine, and he writes me, "To-morrow I shall be sixty-nine
years old." Why, I am surprised at Howells writing so. I have
known him myself longer than that. I am sorry to see a man trying
to appear so young. Let's see. Howells says now, "I see you have
been burying Patrick. I suppose he was old, too."

The house became very still. Most of them had read an account of Mark
Twain's journey to Hartford and his last service to his faithful
servitor. The speaker's next words were not much above a whisper, but
every syllable was distinct.

No, he was never old-Patrick. He came to us thirty-six years ago.
He was our coachman from the day that I drove my young bride to our
new home. He was a young Irishman, slender, tall, lithe, honest,
truthful, and he never changed in all his life. He really was with
us but twenty-five years, for he did not go with us to Europe; but
he never regarded that a separation. As the children grew up he was
their guide. He was all honor, honesty, and affection. He was with
us in New Hampshire last summer, and his hair was just as black, his
eyes were just as blue, his form just as straight, and his heart
just as good as on the day we first met. In all the lo