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 himself 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 terms. I look back
now, from this far distance of seventy years, and note with sorrow the
stages of that dream's destruction. Hay's history is but Howells's, with
differences of detail. Hay climbed high toward his 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? 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