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 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.  And Uncle Remus—­what