The piety1 ending 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 bluff2 old soldier. He was a West Pointer and, I think, had served in the Mexican War. He commanded one of McClellan's armies in the Civil War at the time that McClellan was commander-in-chief. 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; thoroughly3 well educated in the military science--in fact, I have already said that, because I have said he was a West Pointer. He knew all that was worth knowing in that specialty4 and was able to reason well upon his knowledge, but his reasoning faculty5 did not shine when he was discussing other things. Johnson was a member of Trinity, and was easily the most brilliant member of the club. 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 ---- 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--there 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 blandly6 and pleasantly to say that dreams had once had a mighty7 importance, that they had had the illustrious honor of being used by the Almighty8 as a means of conveying desires, warnings, commands, to people whom He loved or hated--that these dreams are set down in Holy Writ9; that no sane10 man challenges their authenticity11, their significance, their verity12.
I followed ---- and I remember with satisfaction that I said not one harsh thing, vexed13 as I was, but merely remarked, without warmth, that these tiresome14 damned prayer-meetings might better be adjourned15 to the garret of some church, where they belonged. It is centuries ago that I did that thing. It was away back, back, back, so many, many years ago--and yet I have always regretted it, because from that time forth16, to the last meeting which I attended (which would be at the beginning of the spring of 1891) the piety ending 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, I was doing what people so often unconsciously do, trying to place myself in a favorable light after having made a confession17 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" 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 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 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 was utterly18 valueless to themselves and to everybody else.
I do not now remember what form my views concerning dreams took at that time. I don't remember now what my notion about dreams was then, but I do remember telling a dream by way of illustrating19 some detail of my speech, and I also remember that when I had finished it Reverend Doctor Burton made that remark which contained that word I have already spoken of sixteen or seventeen times 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 memorable20 dream was about the beginning of May, 1858. It was a remarkable21 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.
In 1858 I was a steersman on board the swift and popular New Orleans and St. Louis packet, Pennsylvania, Captain Kleinfelter. I had been lent to Mr. Brown, one of the pilots of the Pennsylvania, by my owner. Mr. Horace E. Bixby, and I had been steering22 for Brown about eighteen months, I think. Then in the early days of May, 1858, came a tragic23 trip--the last trip of that fleet and famous steamboat. I have told all about it in one of my books, called Life on the Mississippi. But it is not likely that I told the dream in that book. I will ask my secretary to see--but I will go on and dictate24 the dream now, and it can go into the waste basket if it shall turn out that I have already published it. It is impossible that I can have published it, I think, because I never wanted my mother to know about that dream, and she lived several years after I published that volume.
I had found a place on the Pennsylvania 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 promotion25. 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 labors26 at dawn and continue them into the night, by the light of pine-knot torches. Henry and I, moneyless and unsalaried, had billeted ourselves upon our brother-in-law, Mr. Moffett, as night lodgers27 while in port. We took our meals on board the boat. No, I mean I lodged28 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-by according to custom. I may mention that handshaking as a good-by 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, Missouri--the 24th of March, 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 rattle29 which swiftly followed those words, which were his last. These good-bys were always executed in the family sitting room on the second floor, and Henry went from that room and downstairs without further ceremony. But this time my mother went with him to the head of the stairs and said good-by again. 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 descended30. When he reached the door he hesitated, and climbed the stairs and shook hands good-by again. In 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 corpse31. He lay in a metallic32 burial case. He was dressed in a suit of my clothing, and on his breast lay a great bouquet33 of flowers, mainly white roses, with a red rose in the center. 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 awhile and make some preparation for that ordeal34. The house was in Locust35 Street, a little above Thirteenth, and I walked to Fourteenth 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 upheaval37 of joy of that moment, and I can also still feel the remnant of doubt, the suspicion that maybe it was 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, and 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. Brown1 which resulted in his requiring that I be left ashore38 at New Orleans. 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 I gave Henry some advice. I said: "In case of disaster to the boat, don't lose your head--leave that unwisdom to the passengers--they are competent--they'll attend to it. But you rush for the hurricane deck, and astern to the solitary39 lifeboat lashed36 aft the wheelhouse on the port side, 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 ashore without any trouble." Two or three days afterward40 the boat's boilers41 exploded at Ship Island, below Memphis, early one morning--and what happened afterward I have already told in Life on the Mississippi. As related there, I followed the Pennsylvania 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 mattress42 on the floor of a great building, along with thirty or forty other scalded and wounded persons, and was promptly43 informed, by some indiscreet person, that he had inhaled44 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 to persons who had a chance of being saved. They were short-handed in the matter of physicians and nurses, and Henry 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 Doctor 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. He never committed himself with prognostications which might not materialize, but at eleven o'clock one night he told me that Henry was out of danger and would get well. Then he said, "At midnight these poor fellows lying here and there and all over this place will begin to mourn and mutter and lament45 and make outcries, and if this commotion46 should disturb Henry it will be bad for him; therefore ask the physicians 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."
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, I don't remember as to that. He was carried to the dead-room 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 coffins47 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 Henry lay in that open case, and he was dressed in a suit of my clothing. 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, 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 center 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, I suppose.
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1
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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3
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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4
specialty
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| n.(speciality)特性，特质；专业，专长 | |
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5
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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6
blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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7
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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8
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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9
writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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10
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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authenticity
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| n.真实性 | |
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12
verity
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| n.真实性 | |
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13
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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14
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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15
adjourned
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| （使）休会， （使）休庭( adjourn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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16
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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17
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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18
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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19
illustrating
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的现在分词 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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20
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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23
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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24
dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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26
labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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27
lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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28
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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29
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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30
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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31
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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32
metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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33
bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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34
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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locust
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| n.蝗虫；洋槐，刺槐 | |
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36
lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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37
upheaval
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| n.胀起，(地壳)的隆起；剧变，动乱 | |
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38
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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39
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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40
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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41
boilers
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| 锅炉，烧水器，水壶( boiler的名词复数 ) | |
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42
mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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43
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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44
inhaled
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| v.吸入( inhale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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46
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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47
coffins
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| n.棺材( coffin的名词复数 )；使某人早亡[死，完蛋，垮台等]之物 | |
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