LETTERS.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXV, Issue 19986, 30 June 1928, Page 1 (Supplement)

LETTERS.

BT JAXE BALL AN.

A DECADENT DELIGHT.

I have an insatiable curiosity m re " gard to letters. Not only do I revel in those written to myself, but I suffer the most alarming curiosity concerning those written to other people. Do I thereby forego all claim to ladyhood? Beyond our gate is a pillar box. Some night I shall assuage my letter hunger by rilling that pillar box. What a" 01 SJ * shall have! I wonder shall I I " or oncc know satisfaction, or shall I be utterh dashed by finding the letters mostly commonplace, full of commerce, weathers, and healths? On the other hand I could perhaps intimidate a postman. l> u t Ire pudiate this unworthy thought. I have always fostered a tender feeling toward the postman. For many years he has helped weave the pattern of my day- lime for the postman," I say each morning to the clock and I do my chores softly, listcningly. Perhaps there are people indifferent' to his whistle, I drop everything and fly forth, though he's sure to be some blocks away. Then * loiter mechanically along garden paths pulling a weed here, plucking a dead flower there —with my back broadly turned (and my cars Hat against my head in an intensity of listening) until he is actually at my gate.

A letter is such a simple thing to hope for. Is it the faily-tale lore from childhood rampaging in our subconscious? Or just our heaven-sent trust in our " certain star." Nothing is beyond our dreams—fairy godmothers —glass slippers —pumpkin coaches! The whole box and dice, as anyone knows, have tumbled out of an envelope before now. So your letters, Air. Postman, quickly ! Time stands st ill while I open it. But first my eves have snatched anything the handwritten address might divulge —have pounced upon the stamp against the possibility of a bill. Fingers over-eager have mutilated the envelope—it drops an empty husk at my feet, llien if it is a friendly screed how I warm and glow with pleasure in it. I want to share it, and even more I want to answer it. Replying. Of course, I begin immediately. Faster than pen ever travelled flies my mind. I once peeled some potatoes quite away in my mental enthusiasm. But in this what anticipatory delight is taken in the answering! I seem possessed of facility of expression, nothing—nothing need be rejected—down they go — All the floating thoughts I find Upon the surface of my mind. What a letter!. Oh for the leisure to sit down and put pen to paper. Not that I really want to. Something warns me that no letter could be in reality as perfect' as mine in imagination. And yet — and yet —if I had time. Of course 10 minutes wouldn't do. I've too much to say to write an odd page or two—and the days slide on until all that is left of niv enthusiasm is a conscious smitten " I must write that letter! "

Eventually I drive myself to the task. The household pen (and it took some finding), revolts me with its chewed handle. Examination of the nib realised my worst fears. Crossed! I sat miserably. The notepapcr yawns blankly before me. Stcrotyped phrases crowd my brain. I have doubts if after all there is anything important enough to say. I squirm before the thought of my probable dullness. The letter-writing mood has taken wings and left but leaden feet. If only one could drop a pincli of salt on its tail. There is nothing to do but draw pigs, or : play noughts and crosses on the empty paper. The Desire to Write. When at last the letter goes forth the form it takes is ... " at last a moment . . . very glad . . . hope you are well . . . the" weather . . . dance last week . . blue georgette dress . . . our own tomatoes . . . mumps . . . well as can be expected . . . love to all . . . remain . . -vours truly, Jane Ballan." In shame I post it, bill I solemnly vow that in future I shall go my ways equipped with pen and pad to church—to the bath —to bed the mood shall never catch me again unprepared. Any one could write a letter in bed. In that sea of whiteness how the ink flies! One is inspired, though it is a puzzle to keep the ink between pen and paper. It is said that the art of letter-writing is dead. The penny-post murdered it long ago. Telephony, telegraphy, fountain pens and postcards prevent its resuscitation. But if the art of letter-writing is dead then the desire to write must be dead. And it isn't dead. It's been rolled out and smoothed by convention, and parched up by modern "hurry. It's dried up into the please-and-thank-you type of note which swells the revenue of the country so considerably. There it slumbers, but at times it stirs uneasily within us. This very day, instead of repudiating Aunt Dora's gift for the hideous insult she no doubt intended, I wrote the usual conventional letter of thanks. I hope I shall never quite fail in these social amenities, and yet I like to bo tempted. I enjoy these inner warrings, these faint rumours that all is not dead as dust within me, and as I drive my sulky pen I hug the promise that sonic day it will lift its nib to paper and slide,. glide,, away we shall go with never a please or thank you to say, but all just for the fun of it. Pleasure in the Pen. And what better reason could one find for writing a letter. llow happy Charles Lamb, Lady Montagu, Robert Louis Stevenson, were in their scribblements! Letter writing to them was sheer indulgence—weakness. One feels the words skip from (heir quills, brim over sheet after shejet of paper; one appreciates their skill and their abundant pleasuro in it. Ilerc is a Charles Lamb letter of apology to his hosts for having got drunk at their party: But then you will say: What a shocking sight to sec a middle-aged gentleman-aud-a-iialf riding on a gentleman buck up Parson's Lano at -midnight!- Exactly the time for that sort of conveyance, when nobody can see him. nobody hut heaven and bis own conscience; now Hecven makes fools and don't expect much from her own creation; and as for conscience, she .ind I have long 6ince come to a compromise. I have given up false modesty, and she allows me, to abate a little of the true. I like to be liked, but I ( ' on cure about being respected. I _ don t respect myself. But. as T was snynv;. 1 thought he would have to let- me down just as we got to Barker's coal shed, but, by a cunning jerk I eased myself, and righted my oosture. I protest I thought myself in a palanquin, and never felt myself so grand!" carried. It" was a slave under me. . . . My sister has begged me to write an apology to Mrs. A. and yourself for disgracing your party; now it does seem to me that I rather honoured your warty for every one that was not drunk must have set off greatly in contrast to me. I was the scapegoat. _ The soberer they seemed. By the way. is magnesia good on these occasions?

Who can doubt that the writer of this letter found just as much joy in it as tho receiver ?