The piety-endingⒶapparatus note was used also by Franklin and Johnson, and possibly by the rest of the Club—most likely by the rest of the Club. But I recall that that ending was a custom with Franklin and with Johnson. Franklin was a bluff old soldier. He was a West Pointer and, I think, had served in the Mexican warⒶapparatus note. He commanded one of McClellan’s armies in the Civil War at the time that McClellan was commander-in-chiefⒺexplanatory note. He was an ideal soldier, simple-hearted, good, kind, affectionate; set in his opinions, his partialities and his prejudices, believing everything which he had been taught to believe about politics, religion, and military matters; thoroughly well educated in the military science—Ⓐapparatus notein fact I have already said that, because I have said he was a West Pointer. He knew all that was worth knowing in that specialty, and was able to reason well upon his knowledge, but his reasoning faculty did not shine when he was discussing other things.Ⓐapparatus note Johnson was a member of Trinity, and was easily the most brilliant member of the ClubⒺexplanatory note. But his fine light shone not in public, but in the privacy of the Club, and his qualities were not known outside of Hartford.
I had long been suffering from these intolerable and inexcusable exudations of misplaced piety, and for years had wanted to enter a protest against them, but had struggled against the impulse and had always been able to conquer it, until now. But this time PerkinsⒶapparatus note was too much for me. He was the feather that broke the camel’s back. The substance of his wandering twaddle—if by chance it had substance—was that there is nothing in dreams. Dreams merely proceed from indigestion—Ⓐapparatus notethere is no quality of intelligence in them—they are thoroughly fantastic and without beginning, logical sequence, or definite end. Nobody, in our day, but the stupid or the ignorant attaches any significance to them. And then he went on blandly and pleasantly to say that dreams had once had a mighty importance, that they had had the illustrious honor of being used by the Almighty as a means of conveying desires, warnings, commands, to people whom He loved or hated—that these dreams are set down in Holy Writ; thatⒶapparatus note no sane man challenges their authenticity, their significance, their verity.
I followed Perkins,Ⓐapparatus note and I remember with satisfaction that I said not one harsh thing, vexed as I was, but merely remarked, without warmth, that these tiresome damned prayer-meetingsⒶapparatus note might better be adjourned to the garret of some church, where they belonged. It is centuries ago that I did that thing. It was awayⒶapparatus note back, back, back, so many, many years ago—and yet I have always regretted it, because from that time forth, to the last meeting which I attended (which would be at the beginning of the spring of 1891) the piety-endingⒶapparatus note was never used again. No, perhaps I am going too far; maybe I am putting too much emphasis upon my regret. Possibly when I said that about regret,Ⓐapparatus note I was doing what people so often unconsciously do, trying to place myself in a favorable light after having made a confession that makes such a thing more or less difficult. No, I think it quite likely that I never regretted it at all.
Anybody could see that the piety-endingⒶapparatus note had no importance, for the reason that it was manifestly perfunctory. The Club was founded by a great clergyman; it always had more clergymen in it than good people. Clergymen are not able to sink the shopⒺexplanatory note without falling under suspicion. It was quite natural that the original members should introduce that kind of ending to their speeches. It was also quite natural that the rest of the membership, being church [begin page 274] members, should take up the custom, turn it into a habit, and continue it without ever happening to notice that it was merely a mouth function, had no heart in it, and thereforeⒶapparatus note utterly valueless to themselves and to everybodyⒶapparatus note else.
I do not now remember what form my views concerning dreams took at thatⒶapparatus note time. I don’t remember now what my notion about dreams was then, but I do remember telling a dream by way of illustrating some detail of myⒶapparatus note speech, and I alsoⒶapparatus note remember that when I had finished it Rev. Dr. Burton made that doubtingⒶapparatus note remark which contained that word I have already spoken of sixteen or seventeen timesⒶapparatus note as having been uttered by my mother, in some such connection, forty or fifty years before. I was probably engaged in trying to make those people believe that now and then, by some accident, or otherwise, a dream which was prophetic turned up in the dreamer’s mind. The date of my memorableⒶapparatus note dream was about the beginning of May, 1858. It was a remarkable dream, and I had been telling it several times every year for more than fifteen years—and now I was telling it again, here in the ClubⒶapparatus note.
In 1858 I was a steersman on board the swift and popular New Orleans and St. Louis packet, Pennsylvania,Ⓐapparatus note Captain KlinefelterⒶapparatus note. I had been lent to Mr. Brown, one of the pilots of the Pennsylvania,Ⓐapparatus note by my owner, Mr. Horace E. Bixby, and I had been steering for Brown about eighteen months, I think. Then in the early days of May, 1858, came a tragicⒶapparatus note tripⒶapparatus note—the last trip of that fleet and famous steamboat. I have told all about itⒶapparatus note in one of my books called “Old Times on the Mississippi.” But it is not likely that I told the dream in that book. I will ask Miss Lyon to see—but I will go on and dictate the dream now, and it can go into the waste-basket if it shall turn out that I have already published it.Ⓐapparatus note It is impossible that I can everⒶapparatus note have published it, I think, because I never wanted my mother to know about thatⒶapparatus note dreamⒺexplanatory note, and she lived several years after I published that volume.
I had found a place on the PennsylvaniaⒶapparatus note for my brother Henry, who was two years my junior. It was not a place of profit, it was only a place of promise. He was “mud” clerk. Mud clerks received no salary, but they were in the line of promotion. They could become, presently, third clerk and second clerk, then chief clerk—that is to say, purser. The dream begins when Henry had been mud clerk about three months. We were lying in port at St. Louis. Pilots and steersmen had nothing to do during the three days that the boat lay in port in St. Louis and New Orleans, but the mud clerk had to begin his labors at dawn and continue them into the night, by the light of pine-knot torches. Henry and I, moneyless and unsalaried, had billetedⒶapparatus note ourselves upon our brother-in-law, Mr. MoffettⒺexplanatory note, as night lodgers while in port. We took our meals on board the boat. No, I mean I lodged at the house, not Henry. He spent the evenings at the house, from nine until eleven, then went to the boat to be ready for his early duties. On the night of the dream he started away at eleven, shaking hands with the family, and said good-byeⒶapparatus note according toⒶapparatus note custom. IⒶapparatus note may mention that hand-shakingⒶapparatus note as a good-byeⒶapparatus note was not merely the custom of that family, but the custom of the region—the custom of Missouri, I may say. In all my life, up to that time, I had never seen one member of the Clemens family kiss another one—except once. When my father lay dying in our home in Hannibal—Ⓐapparatus notethe 24th of MarchⒶapparatus note 1847—he put his arm around my sister’s neck and drew her down and kissed her, saying “Let me die.” I remember that, and I remember the death rattle which swiftly followed those words, which were his lastⒶapparatus note. These good-byes of Henry’sⒶapparatus note were always executed in the family sitting-room [begin page 275] on the second floor, and Henry went from that room and down stairsⒶapparatus note without further ceremony. But this time my mother went with him to the head of the stairs and said good-byeⒶapparatus note againⒶapparatus note. As I remember it she was moved to this by something in Henry’s manner, and she remained at the head of the stairs while he descended. When he reached the door he hesitated, and climbed the stairs and shook hands good-byeⒶapparatus note once more.Ⓐapparatus note
InⒶapparatus note the morning, when I awoke I had been dreaming, and the dream was so vivid, so like reality, that it deceived me, and I thought it was real. In the dream I had seen Henry a corpse. He lay in a metallic burial caseⒶapparatus note. He was dressed in a suit of my clothing, and on his breast lay a great bouquet of flowers, mainly white roses, with a red rose in the centreⒶapparatus note. The casket stood upon a couple of chairs. I dressed, and moved toward that door, thinking I would go in there and look at it, but I changed my mind. I thought I could not yet bear to meet my mother. I thought I would wait a whileⒶapparatus note and make some preparation for that ordeal. The house was in Locust streetⒶapparatus note, a little above 13th, and I walked to 14th, and to the middle of the block beyond, before it suddenly flashed upon me that there was nothing real about this—it was only a dream. I can still feel something of the grateful upheaval of joy of that moment, and I can also still feel the remnant of doubt, the suspicion that maybe it wasⒶapparatus note real, after all. I returned to the house almost on a run, flew up the stairs two or three steps at a jump, and rushed into that sitting-room—Ⓐapparatus noteand was made glad again, for there was no casket there.
We made the usual eventless trip to New Orleans—no, it was not eventless, for it was on the way down that I had the fight with Mr. Brown* which resulted in his requiring that I be left ashore at New OrleansⒺexplanatory note. In New Orleans I always had a job. It was my privilege to watch the freight-piles from seven in the evening until seven in the morning, and get three dollars for it. It was a three-night job and occurred every thirty-five days. Henry always joined my watch about nine in the evening, when his own duties were ended, and we often walked my rounds and chatted together until midnight. This time we were to part, and so the night before the boat sailedⒶapparatus note I gave Henry some advice. I saidⒶapparatus note “In case of disaster to the boat, don’t lose your head—leave that unwisdomⒶapparatus note to the passengers—they are competent—they’ll attend to it.Ⓐapparatus note But you rush for the hurricane-deck,Ⓐapparatus note and asternⒶapparatus note to one of the life-boatsⒶapparatus note lashed aft the wheel-houseⒺexplanatory note,Ⓐapparatus note and obey the mate’s orders—thus you will be useful. When the boat is launched, give such help as you can in getting the women and children into it, and be sure you don’t try to get into it yourself. It is summer weather, the river is only a mile wide, as a rule, and you can swim that without any trouble.” Two or three days afterward the boat’s boilers exploded at Ship Island, belowⒶapparatus note Memphis, early one morning—and what happened afterwardⒶapparatus note I have already told in “Old Times on the Mississippi.”Ⓐapparatus note Ⓔexplanatory note As related there, I followed the PennsylvaniaⒶapparatus note about a day later, on another boat, and we began to get news of the disaster at every port we touched at, and so by the time we reached Memphis we knew all about it.
I found Henry stretched upon a mattress on the floor of a great building, along with
thirty or
forty other scalded and wounded persons, and was promptly informed,Ⓐapparatus note by some indiscreet person, that he had inhaled steam; that his body was badly scalded,
and that he would live but a little
while; also, I was told that the physicians and nurses were giving their whole attention
*See “Old Times on the Mississippi.”Ⓐapparatus note [begin page 276] to persons who had a chance of being saved. They were short-handed in the matter of physicians and nurses;Ⓐapparatus note and HenryⒶapparatus note and such others as were considered to be fatally hurt were receiving only such attention as could be spared, from time to time, from the more urgent cases. But Dr. Peyton, a fine and large-hearted old physician of great reputation in the community, gave me his sympathy and took vigorous hold of the case, and in about a week he had brought Henry around. Dr. PeytonⒶapparatus note never committed himself with prognostications which might not materialize, but at eleven o’clockⒶapparatus note one night he told me that Henry was out of danger, and would get well. Then he saidⒶapparatus note “At midnight these poor fellows lying here and thereⒶapparatus note all over this place will begin to mourn and mutter and lament and make outcries, and if this commotion should disturb Henry it will be bad for him;Ⓐapparatus note therefore ask the physiciansⒶapparatus note on watch to give him an eighth of a grain of morphine, but this is not to be done unless Henry shall show signs that he is being disturbed.”Ⓐapparatus note
Oh well, never mind the rest of it. The physicians on watch were young fellows hardly out of the medical college, and they made a mistake—they had no way of measuring the eighth of a grain of morphine, so they guessed at it and gave him a vast quantity heaped on the end of a knife-blade, and the fatal effects were soon apparent. I think he died about dawnⒺexplanatory note, I don’t remember as to that. He was carried to the dead-roomⒶapparatus note and I went away for a while to a citizen’s house and slept off some of my accumulated fatigue—and meantime something was happening. The coffins provided for the dead were of unpainted white pine, but in this instance some of the ladies of Memphis had made up a fund of sixty dollars and bought a metallic case, and when I came back and entered the dead-roomⒶapparatus note Henry lay in that open case, and he was dressed in a suit of my clothing. He had borrowed it without my knowledge during our last sojourn in St. Louis; and I recognized instantly that my dream of several weeks before was here exactly reproduced, so far as these details went—and I think I missed one detail;Ⓐapparatus note but that one was immediately supplied, for just then an elderly lady entered the place with a large bouquet consisting mainly of white roses, and in the centreⒶapparatus note of it was a red rose, and she laid it on his breast.
I told the dream there in the Club that night just as I have told it here.Ⓐapparatus note
Franklin was a . . . West Pointer . . . Mexican war . . . Civil War at the time that McClellan was commander-in-chief] General William Buel Franklin (1823–1903) graduated first in the West Point class of 1843, then served capably with the army’s Topographical Engineers, and in the Mexican War (1846–48). His Civil War service, in part under General George B. McClellan, was checkered, however. Despite successes, he was blamed, evidently unfairly, for the Union loss at Fredericksburg (1862) and served the rest of his army career in relative obscurity. After his resignation from the army in 1866 he became vice-president of Colt’s Patent Fire-Arms Manufacturing Company in Hartford, a post he held until 1888. He joined the Hartford Monday Evening Club in 1871 (“Franklin Dead,” Hartford Courant, 9 Mar 1903, 13).
Johnson was a member of Trinity . . . most brilliant member of the Club] Charles Frederick Johnson (1836–1931), a literary historian, critic, and poet, was a professor of mathematics at the U.S. Naval Academy from 1865 to 1870 and then a professor of English literature, active and emeritus, at Trinity College in Hartford from 1883 until his death. He became a member of the Monday Evening Club in 1886 (“Prof. Charles F. Johnson,” New York Times, 10 Jan 1931, 11).
not able to sink the shop] Not able to refrain from “talking shop.”
In 1858 I was a steersman . . . never wanted my mother to know about that dream] Clemens recounted his and his nineteen-year-old brother Henry’s employment aboard the steamer Pennsylvania in chapters 18–20 of Life on the Mississippi. He began his temporary service under pilot William Brown in November 1857. On 13 June 1858 three or four of the Pennsylvania’s boilers exploded and the boat sank, causing the deaths of between fifty and a hundred and fifty passengers and crew, including Henry and Brown (see also the note at 275.20–21). Mentioned in this passage are Captain John S. Klinefelter (1810–85) and Horace E. Bixby (1826–1912), who supervised Clemens’s piloting apprenticeship (for Clemens’s on-the-spot account of the Pennsylvania disaster and Henry’s death, see 15 June 1858 to Moffett through 21 June 1858 to Moffett, L1, 80–86; see also Branch 1985). At the time of this dictation, Clemens had not described his prophetic dream of Henry in that book or elsewhere; he later published this account in the North American Review, as part of the series of “Chapters from My Autobiography,” in April 1907 (NAR 16). Clemens’s niece, Annie Moffett, said in recollections published by her son in 1946 that Jane Clemens did know of the dream, and
often talked about it. He had told them about it before he went away, but the family were not impressed; indeed they were amused that he took it so seriously.
The story as the family used to tell it was not quite like Uncle Sam’s version. They said his dream occurred in the daytime. The family including Henry were in my mother’s room and Sam was asleep in the next room. He came in and told them what he had dreamed. My grandmother said he went back and dreamed the same dream a second and third time, but I think that was her embellishment. ( MTBus , 37)
our brother-in-law, Mr. Moffett] William A. Moffett, a St. Louis commission merchant, married Clemens’s older sister, Pamela Ann, in 1851 (link note preceding 24 Aug 1853 to JLC, L1, 2; see the Appendix “Family Biographies” (p. 655).
I had the fight . . . I be left ashore at New Orleans] In chapter 19 of Life on the Mississippi Clemens recalled his fight with Brown. In order to prevent him from assaulting Henry with “a ten-pound lump of coal,” he had used “a heavy stool” to hit “Brown a good honest blow which stretched him out.” The incident evidently occurred on 3 June 1858. Although Captain Klinefelter was sympathetic to Clemens, his inability to replace Brown, and Brown’s refusal to continue supervising Clemens, led to his being left in New Orleans ( L1: link note following 1 June 1857 to Taylor, 75; 18 June 1858 to MEC, 82 n. 2).
hurricane-deck . . . wheel-house] The hurricane deck usually was the third deck. “The name was derived from the ever-present breeze that made it a favorite viewing place on warm evenings. It was the location of the boat’s large signal bell.” Wheelhouses covered the paddlewheels (“Glossary of Steamboat Terms” 2008; for diagrams of a typical Mississippi River steamboat, see HF 2003, 405).
I have already told in “Old Times on the Mississippi.”] In chapter 20 of Life on the Mississippi, Clemens wrote that after Henry was thrown into the river by the explosion, he returned to the burning boat to help others before he was overcome by his own injuries. But in an article written in late June or early July 1858, in which he precisely reconstructed the effect of the explosion on Henry, Clemens made no mention of this heroism (reproduced in facsimile in Branch 1985, 36). Here, as elsewhere, Clemens refers to Life on the Mississippi as “Old Times on the Mississippi,” the series of Atlantic Monthly articles that were reprinted in chapters 4–17 and form the core of the book (SLC 1875a; see 18 June 1858 to MEC, L1, 84 n. 7).
Dr. Peyton . . . fatal effects were soon apparent. I think he died about dawn] Clemens recalled Thomas F. Peyton in an 1876 letter: “What a magnificent man he was! What healing it was just to look at him & hear his voice!” (25 Oct 1876 to Unidentified, Letters 1876–1880 ). Henry died on 21 June 1858; Clemens’s identification of the immediate cause of death as an inadvertent overdose of morphine has not been confirmed.
Source documents.
TS1 Typescript, leaves numbered 74–83, made from Hobby’s notes and revised.TS2 Typescript, leaves numbered 215–25, made from the revised TS1 and further revised.
TS3 Typescript, pages 7–15, made from the revised TS2 and further revised (the same extent as NAR 16).
NAR 16pf (lost) Galley proofs of NAR 16, typeset from the revised TS3; now lost.
NAR 16 North American Review 184 (19 April 1907), 788–92: ‘I do . . . I suppose.’ (4.1–10.15).
Clemens circled two references to Charles E. Perkins in blue pencil on TS1 to suggest temporary suppression. Paine reviewed TS2 for possible publication in the NAR; he then marked and queried the first few pages and deleted them, suggesting that the excerpt begin at ‘I do’ (4.1). In addition, he bracketed several passages to suggest omission; the one that fell within the chosen extract was deleted in pencil. Clemens made only two marks on TS2 before Hobby retyped it to create TS3, which comprises a catena of excerpts from the ADs of 12 January, 13 January, and 15 January 1906 (see Contents and Pagination of TS3, Batch 4). Clemens revised TS3 to serve as printer’s copy for NAR 16. Collation reveals no clear evidence of authorial revision on the lost NAR 16pf. There is one substantive change between TS3 and NAR 16—‘that’ altered to ‘the’ (at 4.20)—which has been rejected as editorial interference or compositorial error.
Marginal Notes on TS2 Concerning Publication in the NAR