A BOX OF OLD LETTERS

Otago Witness, Issue 2817, 4 March 1908, Page 89

A BOX OF OLD LETTERS

By Thos. J. Pembekton.

\ We ha.%e heard of economy in string 1 , economy in pins, economy in notepaper. There are those whose one really serious occupation in life is to save up the little , bits of string that stray across their path. 1 Whoever wrote the couplet beginning "To see a pin and let it lie " could hardly n have reali^d what he was imposing on t future generations. It has had more s influence on the Anglo-Saxon, race than the battle of Trafalgar. Hundreds, nay r thousands, of men and women every day throughout the world stoop to pick up \ rusty pine when by the expenditure of a penny at the nearest draper's shop they could have a pan for almost every day of 9 the year, clean and bright, and incident^ c ally save their backs. I think in earlier 6 years I must have lost a rec^jpt and had t to pay my tailor twice for one suit of t clothes — a thing I have never done since; y raifcher the reverse: pay once for two 3 suits, — certain it is, however, I dread the j idea of destroying letters or written communications of any kind. It is a fad, a typo of madness perhaps, but who is there ■ that has not his touch of madness? Coupled P with this fad is a supreme contempt for 7 system; consequently a small packing case 3 contains an olla podrida of papers — the r letters and bills of the past nine years. I I once knew a man who kept all his letters, k amorous and otherwise, tied up with dif- . ferent coloured ribbons, all arranged ac- i cording to date and writef. The bundles j from his " well-beloved," under various 3 names, exhausted all the colours of the • rainbow, in ribbons, and a lot more beside. I But he was coullbss It is more human to r throw the contents of one's pockets into a 1 box from time to time without regard to quality or kind. Certainly I couldn't lay [ lay hand on a particular communication without a day's notice, but it is comfortin? to Tcnow they are all there should necessity arise for their production. And » when occasion doea arise for a search • through those papers, what memories, what • thrills, what regrets ! 1 How strange to commune with the Deail! Dead joys, dead loves; — and! wishes j •thwarted ; Heie's cruel proof of friendships fled, And, sad enough, of friends departed. I Old letters! wipe away the tear , For vows and hope so vainly worded; A pilgrim finds' hi* journal her© ' Sine© first his youthful loins were girded. Here are letters from an old schoolmate. How often we sat those dreary detention ! hours out together; heeled out the ball in the scrum from the front rank of the pack i together; drifted to the bottom of the class together, because we had been out on a wild escapade the night before ! The memories of school days are undoubtedly delightful, more delightful than the days . themselves. They seem to mellow with age ; at the time they are not the halcyon <3ayfe they are co often made out, to be — at least the days are not; th© nights — well, they were different. How could we study when the nights were co fine and there 1 was always so much to do? We talked in those times, we had something to discuss, the philosophy of life was new and real ; we eighed not to "remould it nearer to the heart's desire." I read the letters now and find sentiments that have been hugged a hundred times — simple and false; they served their purpose and were rast aside. But those nights- of discussion were such as Emerson describes: wo sat like gods all round Olympus and talked from mountain top to mountain top. I quote from a letter from Edinburgh written some years later when the claims of scholarship and the more serious pursuits of life had clipped the- youthful wings: '" Heve- you no par&lytic pulsations down your spine as you recall those blessed days, or rather nights? Why, man, it almost brings tears to my eyes to think of those days when we lived as ' bloomin' gawds.' " So on through 40 closely-written pages— who would write 40 pages now? — to the conclusion: "I have a dreary sense of ( | loneliness often in Scotland. As water to a thirsty soul, so is good news from a far country. I wonder where life will lead us; and where and when we shall meet again. ; Beyond the clouds, beyond the waves that , Toar, , There may indeed or may not be a shore s Where fields as green and hands and hearts f as true . The old forgotten semblance may renew, And offer exiles driven far o'er the salt sea 1 foam ~ , Another home. ** ' . But toil and pain must wear out many a eley And days be«r weeks, and weeks bear months away, Ere, if tut all, the weary traveller hear, With accents whispered in Me way worn ear, A voice he dares to listen to, say home to the true home." But we drift and friendships pass away. And here is a note from one whose bones now He beneath the African veldt. And here are bills, bilk — well, I hope they have all been paid. But here is a bill of another kind, a play bill, and memories of that J wild night with a monomaniac come back J to me. He had wandered into the office , of the " Rag" in that little sleepy town where yesterday is like to-day, and to-day is like 30 years ago — the one place in New { Zealand where the population was greater 50 years eince than it ie now. He wanted amateur assistants to help to produce a «_ "specially arranged version (abridged) of that finest example of modern melodrama 'The Silver King.'" That is how he worded it on the bill I have before me now. It was to be a social and dramatio winter evening entertainment, and^the performance was to conclude with an amusing farce entitled " Sans Ceremonie." It did, but it wasn't a farce; it was deadly earnest. I went to town for three days, and on my return found the bills plastered up all over " Sleepy Hollow." There were three days to rehearse, and our hero assured me that the bulk of hia company was coming from town. They didn't come, so he enlisted the services of the iourneyman butcher, the bank clerk, and the painter's assistant, and also the local pianist at a stated fee to i play 6o:t music. We had four rehearsals, and the attendance diminished on each occasion. When the night arrived the hall was more than half full, many being present to hear the famous war lecture that was to constitute half the programme. But two of our actors were missing and the third went out to look for them and lost himeelf. The play had to be further abridged while we were maldng-up until there was really not much left of it but ! the dream speech and ths murder scene, which had to be converted into a euioide « «4 there wasn't anyone to be the murderer. ' I

At five minutes to 8, howerer, ■ our hero stole out to the back grate, but finding iti locked proceeded to climb the fence, and! ■when I found him he was caught in the barbed wire at the top. He suffered himself to be dragged back ignominiously to the green room. The curtain went up, and after five unsuccessful attempts to shoot! myself I had to apologise, like a certain' ancient king, for the unconscionable time I took in dying. Then the revolver- ex; ploded on the sixth Attempt, and I ex« pired gracefully. It was all a horrid night* mare, and as I lay dead on that stage I had visions of being hounded out of thet town next day, but I remember there) was to be a certain man dropped over the* end of the wharf into the harbour' f&atf same night. The dream speech was not a* success, for the audience could not contain their joy, and the dead man signalled to the boy at the curtain ropes, who let thei ;i curtain drop suddenly across the dead! man's chest. There" "was no war lecture' after that, for our monomaniac retired as . far as possible out of eight and shivered! and sobbed at intervals, and wild horsea could not have dragged him on to thatl ' stage again. For the rest— well, what? i matters it? — it is too painful a memory.And what is this imbedded amidst thet 1 papers? Ah, a little photograph! So", eweetly coy she looks! Dark-eyed Dorothy,. a dainty litt'e maid you were in those days, hair down your back, just out front school with a Vong sunshiny life before you., and you used to cry when »n unkind word! [ was spoken. Then you would smile thrdugbi ; your tears, and the birds would sing agam,' j for they never ceased to siiyr for long} I when you were near. But that was then.i Poor child, you're been married and unjt married sinoe those days. More photoV graphs! I think I remember you. You! were (he subject of a pastoral romance, at glad butterfly that made a vivid epiasb of colour on the landscape and was gone* And this — married. And this one — thd same. Gillian's married — God test her bier! — • How I loved her twenty y«axs syne!-* MVri&n's married and I sit here, Alive and merry s,t forty year, Dipping my beak in the Gascon wine. Letters daintily written on coloured papef* letters bold and peremptory, letters plain* tive, letters with tear Wots on them whioh) were probably done with water from tier nearest flower vase ; faded rose petals, their{ origin long since forgotten, all these araj here and retch recreates the past and brined baok the years " when we went- down the) primrose path to the sound of flutes." , And here's a soore of notes at last, With "love" and "dove," and "sevex* " never," — i Though hope, though passion may be pastg Their perfume seems as sweet as ever.