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 long years
Patrick never made a mistake. He never needed an order; he never
received a command. He knew. I have been asked for my idea of an
ideal gentleman, and I give it to you--Patrick McAleer.

It was the sort of thing that no one but Mark Twain has quite been able
to do, and it was just that recognized quality behind it that had made
crowds jam the street and stampede the entrance to be in his presence-to
see him and to hear his voice.

CCXLI. GORKY, HOWELLS, AND MARK TWAIN

Clemens was now fairly back again in the wash of banquets and
speech-making that had claimed him on his return from England, five
years before. He made no less than a dozen speeches altogether that
winter, and he was continually at some feasting or other, where he
was sure to be called upon for remarks. He fell out of the habit of
preparing his addresses, relying upon the inspiration of the moment,
merely following the procedure of his daily dictations, which had
doubtless given him confidence for this departure from his earlier
method. There was seldom an afternoon or an evening that he was not
required, and seldom a morning that the papers did not have some report
of his doings. Once more, and in a larger fashion than ever, he had
become "the belle of New York." But he was something further. An
editorial in the Evening Mail said:

Mark Twain, in his "last and best of life f