Some for the Bunions that afflict us prate Of Plasters unsurpassable, and hate To Cut a corn--ah cut, and let the Plaster go, Nor murmur if the Solace come too late.
Some for the Honours of Old Age, and some Long for its Respite from the Hum And Clash of sordid Strife--O Fools, The Past should teach them what's to Come:
Lo, for the Honours, cold Neglect instead! For Respite, disputatious Heirs a Bed Of Thorns for them will furnish. Go, Seek not Here for Peace--but Yonder--with the Dead.
For whether Zal and Rustam heed this Sign, And even smitten thus, will not repine, Let Zal and Rustam shuffle as they may, The Fine once levied they must Cash the Fine.
O Voices of the Long Ago that were so dear! Fall'n Silent, now, for many a Mould'ring Year, O whither are ye flown? Come back, And break my heart, but bless my grieving ear.
Some happy Day my Voice will Silent fall, And answer not when some that love it call: Be glad for Me when this you note--and think I've found the Voices lost, beyond the Pall.
So let me grateful drain the Magic Bowl That medicines hurt Minds and on the Soul The Healing of its Peace doth lay--if then Death claim me--Welcome be his Dole!
SANNA, SWEDEN, September 15th.
Private.--If you don't know what Riggs's Disease of the Teeth is, the dentist will tell you. I've had it--and it is more than interesting. M.T.
EDITORIAL NOTE
Fearing that there might be some mistake, we submitted a proof of this article to the (American) gentlemen named in it, and asked them to correct any errors of detail that might have crept in among the facts. They reply with some asperity that errors cannot creep in among facts where there are no facts for them to creep in among; and that none are discoverable in this article, but only baseless aberrations of a disordered mind. They have no recollection of any such night in Boston, nor elsewhere; and in their opinion there was never any such night. They have met Mr. Twain, but have had the prudence not to intrust any privacies to him--particularly under oath; and they think they now see that this prudence was justified, since he has been untrustworthy enough to even betray privacies which had no existence. Further, they think it a strange thing that Mr. Twain, who was never invited to meddle with anybody's boyhood dreams but his own, has been so gratuitously anxious to see that other people's are placed before the world that he has quite lost his head in his zeal and forgotten to make any mention of his own at all. Provided we insert this explanation, they are willing to let his article pass; otherwise they must require its suppression in the interest of truth.
P.S.--These replies having left us in some perplexity, and also in some fear lest they distress Mr. Twain if published without his privity, we judged it but fair to submit them to him and give him an opportunity to defend himself. But he does not seem to be troubled, or even aware that he is in a delicate situation. He merely says: 'Do not worry about those former young people. They can write good literature, but when it comes to speaking the truth, they have not had my training.--MARK TWAIN.' The last sentence seems obscure, and liable to an unfortunate construction. It plainly needs refashioning, but we cannot take the responsibility of doing it.--EDITOR.
IN MEMORIAM
OLIVIA SUSAN CLEMENS
DIED AUGUST 18, 1896; AGED 24
In a fair valley--oh, how long ago, how long ago!-- Where all the broad expanse was clothed in vines, And fruitful fields and meadows starred with flowers, And clear streams wandered at their idle will; And still lakes slept, their burnished surfaces A dream of painted clouds, and soft airs Went whispering with odorous breath, And all was peace--in that fair vale, Shut from the troubled world, a nameless hamlet drowsed.
Hard by, apart, a temple stood; And strangers from the outer world Passing, noted it with tired eyes, And seeing, saw it not: A glimpse of its fair form--an answering momentary thrill-- And they passed on, careless and unaware.