The Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg, and Other Stories

by Mark Twain

  MY BOYHOOD DREAMS

  The dreams of my boyhood? No, they have not been realised. For all whoare old, there is something infinitely pathetic about the subject whichyou have chosen, for in no greyhead's case can it suggest any but onething--disappointment. Disappointment is its own reason for its pain:the quality or dignity of the hope that failed is a matter aside. Thedreamer's valuation of the thing lost--not another man's--is the onlystandard to measure it by, and his grief for it makes it large andgreat and fine, and is worthy of our reverence in all cases. We shouldcarefully remember that. There are sixteen hundred million people inthe world. Of these there is but a trifling number--in fact, onlythirty-eight millions--who can understand why a person should have anambition to belong to the French army; and why, belonging to it, heshould be proud of that; and why, having got down that far, he shouldwant to go on down, down, down till he struck the bottom and got on theGeneral Staff; and why, being stripped of this livery, or set freeand reinvested with his self-respect by any other quick and thoroughprocess, let it be what it might, he should wish to return to hisstrange serfage. But no matter: the estimate put upon these things bythe fifteen hundred and sixty millions is no proper measure of theirvalue: the proper measure, the just measure, is that which is put uponthem by Dreyfus, and is cipherable merely upon the littleness or thevastness of the disappointment which their loss cost him. There you haveit: the measure of the magnitude of a dream-failure is the measure ofthe disappointment the failure cost the dreamer; the value, in others'eyes, of the thing lost, has nothing to do with the matter. With thisstraightening out and classification of the dreamer's position tohelp us, perhaps we can put ourselves in his place and respect hisdream--Dreyfus's, and the dreams our friends have cherished and revealto us. Some that I call to mind, some that have been revealed to me, arecurious enough; but we may not smile at them, for they were precious tothe dreamers, and their failure has left scars which give them dignityand pathos. With this theme in my mind, dear heads that were brown whenthey and mine were young together rise old and white before me now,beseeching me to speak for them, and most lovingly will I do it.Howells, Hay, Aldrich, Matthews, Stockton, Cable, Remus--how their younghopes and ambitions come flooding back to my memory now, out of thevague far past, the beautiful past, the lamented past! I remember it sowell--that night we met together--it was in Boston, and Mr. Fiends wasthere, and Mr. Osgood, Ralph Keeler, and Boyle O'Reilly, lost to usnow these many years--and under the seal of confidence revealed to eachother what our boyhood dreams had been: dreams which had not as yet beenblighted, but over which was stealing the grey of the night that was tocome--a night which we prophetically felt, and this feeling oppressed usand made us sad. I remember that Howells's voice broke twice, and itwas only with great difficulty that he was able to go on; in the endhe wept. For he had hoped to be an auctioneer. He told of his earlystruggles to climb to his goal, and how at last he attained to within asingle step of the coveted summit. But there misfortune after misfortuneassailed him, and he went down, and down, and down, until now at last,weary and disheartened, he had for the present given up the struggleand become the editor of the Atlantic Monthly. This was in 1830. Seventyyears are gone since, and where now is his dream? It will never befulfilled. 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 todo himself credit in it, on account of his deliberateness of speech andlack of trained professional vivacity; he would be put on real estate,and would have the pain of seeing younger and abler men intrustedwith the furniture and other such goods--goods which draw a mixed andintellectually low order of customers, who must be beguiled of theirbids by a vulgar and specialised humour and sparkle, accompaniedwith antics. But it is not the thing lost that counts, but only thedisappointment the loss brings to the dreamer that had coveted thatthing and had set his heart of hearts upon it, and when we rememberthis, a great wave of sorrow for Howells rises in our breasts, and wewish for his sake that his fate could have been different. At that timeHay's boyhood dream was not yet past hope of realisation, but it wasfading, dimming, wasting away, and the wind of a growing apprehensionwas blowing cold over the perishing summer of his life. In the pride ofhis young ambition he had aspired to be a steamboat mate; and in fancysaw himself dominating a forecastle some day on the Mississippi anddictating terms to roustabouts in high and wounding terms. I look backnow, from this far distance of seventy years, and note with sorrow thestages of that dream's destruction. Hay's history is but Howells's, withdifferences of detail. Hay climbed high toward his ideal; when successseemed almost sure, his foot upon the very gang-plank, his eye uponthe capstan, misfortune came and his fall began. Down--down--down--everdown: Private Secretary to the President; Colonel in the field; Charged'Affaires in Paris; Charge d'Affaires in Vienna; Poet; Editor of theTribune; Biographer of Lincoln; Ambassador to England; and now at lastthere he lies--Secretary of State, Head of Foreign Affairs. And he hasfallen like Lucifer, never to rise again. And his dream--where nowis his dream? Gone down in blood and tears with the dream of theauctioneer. And the young dream of Aldrich--where is that? I rememberyet how he sat there that night fondling it, petting it; seeing itrecede and ever recede; trying to be reconciled and give it up, butnot able yet to bear the thought; for it had been his hope to be ahorse-doctor. He also climbed high, but, like the others, fell; thenfell again, and yet again, and again and again. And now at last he canfall no further. He is old now, he has ceased to struggle, and is only apoet. No one would risk a horse with him now. His dream is over. Hasany boyhood dream ever been fulfilled? I must doubt it. Look at BranderMatthews. He wanted to be a cowboy. What is he to-day? Nothing buta professor in a university. Will he ever be a cowboy? It is hardlyconceivable. Look at Stockton. What was Stockton's young dream? He hopedto 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 swellaround and crack the whip. What is he to-day? Nothing but a theologianand novelist. And Uncle Remus--what was his young dream? To be abuccaneer. Look at him now. Ah, the dreams of our youth, how beautifulthey are, and how perishable! The ruins of these might-have-beens, howpathetic! The heart-secrets that were revealed that night now so longvanished, 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 tellany of these things, and I have always kept that oath inviolate whenspeaking with persons whom I thought not worthy to hear them. Oh, ourlost Youth--God keep its memory green in our hearts! for Age is upon us,with the indignity of its infirmities, and Death beckons!