the night that was to come anight which we prophetically
felt, and this feeling oppressed us and made us sad. I re
member that Howells s voice broke twice, and it was only
with great difficulty that he was able to go on ; in the end
he wept. For he had hoped to be an auctioneer. He told
of his early struggles to climb to his goal, and how at last
4 o6 MY BOYHOOD DREAMS
he attained to within a single step of the coveted summit.
But there misfortune after misfortune assailed him, and he
went down, and down, and down, until now at last, weary
and disheartened, he had for the present given up the struggle
and become the editor of the Atlantic Monthly. This was in
1830. Seventy years are gone since, and where now is his
dream ? It will never be fulfilled. And it is best so ; he
is no longer fitted for the position ; no one would take him
now ; even if he got it, he would not be able to do him
self credit in it, on account of his deliberateness of speech
and lack of trained professional vivacity ; he would be put on
real estate, and would have the pain of seeing younger and
abler men intrusted with the furniture and other such goods
goods which draw a mixed and intellectually low order of
customers, who must be beguiled of their bids by a vulgar
and specialised humour and sparkle, accompanied with antics.
But it is not the thing lost that counts, but only the
disappointment the loss brings to the dreamer that had coveted
that thing and had set his heart of hearts upon it, and when
we remember this, a great wave of sorrow for Howells rises
in our breasts, and we wish for his sake that his fate could
have been different.
At that time Hay s boyhood dream was not yet past
hope of realisation, but it was fading, dimming, wasting
away, and the wind of a growing apprehension was blowing
cold over the perishing summer of his life. In the pride of
his young ambition he had aspired to be a steamboat mate ;
and in fancy saw himself dominating a forecastle some day
on the Mississippi and dictating terms to roustabouts in high
and wounding tones. I look back now, from this far dis
tance of seventy years, and note with sorrow the stages ot
that dream s destruction. Hay s history is but Howells s,
with differences of detail. Hay climbed high toward his
MY BOYHOOD DREAMS 407
ideal ; when success seemed almost sure, his foot upon the
very gang-plank, his eye upon the capstan, misfortune came
and his fall began. Down down down ever down :
Private Secretary to the President ; Colonel in the field ;
Charge d Affaires in Paris ; Charge" d Affaires in Vienna ;
Poet ; Editor of the Tribune ; Biographer of Lincoln ;
Ambassador to England ; and now at last there he lies
Secretary of State, Head of Foreign Affairs. And he has
fallen like Lucifer, never to rise again. And his dream
where now is his dream r Gone down in blood and tears
with the dream of the auctioneer.
And the young dream of Aldrich where is that ? I
remember yet how he sat there that night fondling it,
petting it ; seeing it recede and ever recede ; trying to be
reconciled and give it up, but not able yet to bear the
thought ; for it had been his hope to be a horse-doctor.
He also climbed high, but, like the others, fell ; then fell
again, and yet again, and again and again. And now at
last he can fall no further. He is old now, he has ceased
to struggle, and is only a poet. No one would risk a horse
with him now. His dream is over.
Has any boyhood dream ever been fulfilled ? I must
doubt it. Look at Brander Matthews. He wanted to be
a cowboy. What is he to-day ? Nothing but a professor
in a university. Will he ever be a cowboy ? It is hardly
conceivable.
Look at Stockton. What was Stockton s young
dream ? He hoped to be a barkeeper. See where he has
landed.
Is it better with Cable ? What was Cable s young
dream ? To be ring-master in the circus, and swell around
and crack the whip. What is he to-day ? Nothing but a
theologian and novelist.
4 o8 MY BOYHOOD DREAMS
And Uncle Remus what was his young dream ? To
be a buccaneer. Look at him now.
Ah, the dreams of our youth, how beautiful they are,
and how perishable ! The ruins of these might-have-beens,
how pathetic ! The heart-secrets that were revealed that
night now so long vanished, how they touch me as I give
them voice ! Those sweet privacies, how they endeared us
to each other ! We were under oath never to tell any of
these things, and I have always kept that oath inviolate
when speaking with persons whom I thought not worthy
to hear them.
Oh, our lost Youth God keep its memory green in
our hearts ! for Age is upon us, with the indignity of its
infirmities, and Death beckons !
TO THE ABOVE OLD PEOPLE
Sleep ! for the Sun that scores another Day
Against the Tale allotted You to stay,
Reminding You, is Risen, and now
Serves Notice ah, ignore it while You may !
The chill Wind blew, and those who stood before
The Tavern murmured, Having drunk his Score,
Why tarries He with empty Cup? Behold,
The Wine of Youth once poured, is poured no more
Come, leave the Cup, and on the Winter s Snow
Your Summer Garment of Enjoyment throw :
Your Tide of Life is ebbing fast, and it,
Exhausted once, for You no more shall flow.
While yet the Phantom of false Youth was mine,
I heard a Voice from out the Darkness whine,
O Youth, O whither gone ? Return,
And bathe my Age in thy reviving Wine.
MY BOYHOOD DREAMS 409
In this subduing Draught of tender green
And kindly Absinth, with its wimpling Sheen
Of dusky half-lights, let me drown
The haunting Pathos of the Might-Have-Been.
For every nickeled Joy, marred and brief,
We pay some day its Weight in golden Grief
Mined from our Hearts. Ah, murmur not
From this one-sided Bargain dream of no Relief !
The Joy of Life, that streaming through their Veins
Tumultuous swept, falls slack and wanes
The Glory in the Eye and one by one
Life s Pleasures perish and make place for Pains.
Whether one hide in some secluded Nook
Whether at Liverpool or Sandy Hook
Tis one. Old Age will search him out and He-
He He when ready will know where to look.
From Cradle unto Grave I keep a House
Of Entertainment where may drowse
Bacilli and kindred Germs or feed or breed
Their festering Species in a deep Carouse.
Think in this battered Caravanserai,
Whose Portals open stand all Night and Day,
How Microbe after Microbe with his Pomp
Arrives unasked, and comes to stay.
Our ivory Teeth, confessing to the Lust
Of masticating, once, now own Disgust
Of Clay-plug d Cavities full soon our Snags
Arc emptied, and our Mouths are filled with Dust.
Our Gums forsake the Teeth and tender grow,
And fat, like over-ripened Figs we know
The Sign the Riggs Disease is ours, and we
Must list this Sorrow, add another Woe ;
4 io MY BOYHOOD DREAMS
Our Lungs begin to fail and soon we Cough,
And chilly Streaks play up our Backs, and off
Our fever d Foreheads drips an icy Sweat
We scoffed before, but now we may not scoff.
Some for the Bunions that afflict us prate
Of Plasters unsurpassable, and hate
To Cut a corn ah cut, and let the Plaster go,
Nor murmur if the Solace come too late.
Some for the Honours of Old Age, and -some
Long for its Respite from the Hum
And Clash of sordid Strife O Fools,
The Past should teach them what s to Come :
Lo, for the Honours, cold Neglect instead !
For Respite, disputatious Heirs a Bed
Of Thorns for them will furnish. Go,
Seek not Here for Peace but Yonder with the Dead.
For whether Zal and Rustam heed this Sign,
And even smitten thus, will not repine,
Let Zal and Rustam shuffle as they may,
The Fine once levied they must Cash the Fine.
O Voices of the Long Ago that were so dear !
Fall n Silent, now, for many a Mould ring Year,
O whither are ye flown ? Come back,
And break my Heart, but bless my grieving ear.
Some happy Day my Voice will Silent fall,
And answer not when some that love it call :
Be glad for Me when this you note and think
I ve found the Voices lost, beyond the Pall.
So let me grateful drain the Magic Bowl
That medicines hurt Minds and on the Soul
The Healing of its Peace doth lay if then
Death claim me Welcome be his Dole I
SANNA, SWEDEN, September i$th.
MY BOYHOOD DREAMS 411
Private. If you don t know what Riggs s Disease of the Teeth is,
the dentist will tell you. I ve had it and it is more than interesting.
M. T.
EDITORIAL NOTE
Fearing that there might be some mistake, we submitted a proof of
this article to the (American) gentlemen named in it, and asked them to
correct any errors of detail that might have crept in among the facts.
They reply with some asperity that errors cannot creep in among facts
where there are no facts for them to creep in among ; and that none are
discoverable in this article, but only baseless aberrations of a disordered
mind. They have no recollection of any such night in Boston, nor else
where ; and in their opinion there was never any such night. They
have met Mr. Twain, but have had the prudence not to intrust any
privacies to him particularly under oath ; and they think they now see
that this prudence was justified, since he has been untrustworthy enough
to even betray privacies which had no existence. Further, they think it
a strange thing that Mr. Twain, who was never invited to meddle with
anybody s boyhood dreams but his own, has been so gratuitously anxious
to see that other people s are placed before the world that he has quite lost
his head in his zeal and forgotten to make any mention of his own at all.
Provided we insert this explanation, they are willing to let his article
pass ; otherwise they must require its suppression in the interest of truth.
P.S. These replies having left us in some perplexity, and also in
some fear lest they might distress Mr. Twain if published without his
privity, we judged it but fair to submit them to him and give him an
opportunity to defend himself. But he docs not seem to be troubled, or
even aware that he is in a delicate situation. He merely says :
Do not worry about those former young people. They can write
good literature, but when it comes to speaking the truth, they have not
had my training. MARK TWAIN.
The last sentence seems obscure, and liable to an unfortunate con
struction. It plainly needs refashioning, but we cannot take the responsi
bility of doing it. EDITOR.
412 IN MEMORIAM
IN MEMORIAM
OLIVIA SUSAN CLEMENS
DIED AUGUST 18, 1896 ; AGED 24
IN a fair valley oh, how long ago, how long ago !
Where all the broad expanse was clothed in vines,
And fruitful fields and meadows starred with flowers,
And clear streams wandered at their idle will ;
And still lakes slept, their burnished surfaces
A dream of painted clouds, and soft airs
Went whispering with odorous breath,
And all was peace in that fair vale,
Shut from the troubled world, a nameless hamlet drowsed.
Hard by, apart, a temple stood ;
And strangers from the outer world
Passing, noted it with tired eyes,
And seeing, saw it not :
A glimpse of its fair form an answering momentary
thrill
And they passed on, careless and unaware.
They could not know the cunning of its make ;
They could not know the secret shut up in its heart ;
IN MEMORIAM 413
Only the dwellers of the hamlet knew
They knew that what seemed brass was gold j
What marble seemed, was ivory ;
The glories that enriched the milky surfaces
The trailing vines, and interwoven flowers,
And tropic birds a-wing, clothed all in tinted fires
They knew for what they were, not what they seemed :
Encrustings all of gems, not perishable splendours of the
brush.
They knew the secret spot where one must stand
They knew the surest hour, the proper slant of sun
To gather in, unmarred, undimmed,
The vision of the fane in all its fairy grace,
A fainting dream against the opal sky.
And more than this. They knew
That in the temple s inmost place a spirit dwelt,
Made all of light !
For glimpses of it they had caught
Beyond the curtains when the priests
That served the altar came and went.
All loved that light and held it dear
That had this partial grace ;
But the adoring priests alone who lived
By day and night submerged in its immortal glow
Knew all its power and depth, and could appraise the loss
If it should fade and fail and come no more.
All this was long ago so long ago !
The light burned on ; and they that worshipped it,
And they that caught its flash at intervals and held it dear,
4 i4 IN MEMORIAM
Contented lived in its secure possession. Ah,
How long ago it was !
And then when they
Were nothing fearing, and God s peace was in the air,
And none was prophesying harm,
The vast disaster fell :
Where stood the temple when the sun went down
Was vacant desert when it rose again !
Ah, yes ! Tis ages since it chanced !
So long ago it was,
That from the memory of the hamlet-folk the Light has
passed
They scarce believing, now, that once it was,
Or if believing, yet not missing it,
And reconciled to have it gone.
Not so the priests ! Oh, not so
The stricken ones that served it day and night,
Adoring it, abiding in the healing of its peace :
They stand, yet, where erst they stood
Speechless in that dim morning long ago ;
And still they gaze, as then they gazed,
And murmur, { It will come again ;
It knows our pain it knows it knows
Ah surely it will come again.
S. L. C.
LAKE LUCERNE, August 18, 1897.
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