ALICE'S LETTER TO HER READERS.

Otago Witness, Issue 1989, 7 April 1892, Page 41

ALICE'S LETTER TO HER READERS.

I have nothing at all to write about to-day, and so perhaps I cannot do better than to take "Nothing" for a subject. That word plays a rather important part in our everyday life when you come to think of it. " What is the matter ? " we ask a companion. "Nothing" is the reply, given in the most doleful way. " What have you been doing 1 " the mother asks the guilty-looking child. "Nothing," he replies. "What are you thinking of ? " one questions or another ; and "Nothing "is the answer. "Wbatareyou going to do to-day 1 " is a question often asked, the rejoinder being the familiar word " Nothing." Yet how often when nothing is the matter with us we feel very bad. We could not for the life of us give any name for the intangible shadow that haunted us all day yesterday ; but haunted we were. The phantom looked us in the face as soon as we awoke, and before we had got our stockings on wo knew we were in for a bad day. The sense of oppression may have taken its rise in our liver or in our wounded vanity, which so often passes for our " feeling," or perhaps in the weather ; but so unable are we to name the cause, and fix upon it, and meet it as an enemy, and have it out, that when asked at the brea kfast tablewhat is the matter, we are driven into a corner, and reply with a sickly assumption of cheerfulness, " Nothing." But all the day how miserable we were, and how miserable we made other people. The cupboard that held the skeleton had the door open all day, and in every corner of the house we could hear its bones rattling ; while from behind every screen and through every window we could see imps peeping. We were certain something was going to happen. We thought of past troubles, and although we could but remember how many " hill difficulties " we had been enabled to surmount we were quite confident that the one we dimly discerned looming through* the fcg was unsurmountable, and we prepared ourselves for great disaster, and suffered as much as though it had befallen us. We have always had true-hearted friends worth loving, and being loved by, but yesterday we were certain there was cause, for distrust, and that after all perhaps we were very foolish for caring so much about them, quite forgetful that even if they were no better than our suspicions represented, they were quite as good as we are.

That "nothing" spoilt the whole day. We saw nothing quite worth living for, nothing that could fully compensate us for the effort of keepiug alive, and when at last the day was over our last; conscious hour, tucked up warmly under the bed clothes, quite justified* us in our belief that we were very badly used, for, think of what we would, all seemed " vanity and vexation of spirit." This morniDg when we awoke we hunted all round for our phantom and couldn't find it— neither in our mind, nor in our heart, nor in our circumstances. We waited for a few moments for it to appear, but no ; and jumping lightly out of bed, we began to dress and hum a tune. The cat heard us in the kitchen and came I and rubbed herself against us ; the canary heard us and'began to Bing, and before breakfast was half over several members of the household bad imparted little confidences to us. We got through our work well, and wondered that the skeleton didn't bother us a bit. The cupboard wris double locked and barred, the imps were nowhere to be seen, or were sporting wings, and as. to our friends who yesterday seemed so-unworthy — well, we wondered intensely to-day whatever , they could see in us to be so jtond of when there were so many other nicer people about, and that, the world tolerated us at all. We ieallj were astonished to remember that we believed last night that life was a weariness, and we were tired of it— tired of it, too, when more than one heart was giving us its very best, and others who are weaker than we need us to help them to be strong. - Sometimes we are questioned, " What have you done to So-and-so to make them dislike you ? " and we answer with a very prompt and emphatic " Nothing." Well, we haven't beaten them perhaps, or stolen from them, or planned and executed any deadly wrong towards them either by tongue or band, but we haven't, liked them. That is nothing ; but our dislike has travelled through ihe mind world and struck them many a blow, which they have felt and winced under. In their anxieties and difficulties we have never sympathised, simply because we have teen supremely indifferent ; and if anyone had told us such an one was overwhelmed with grief the " Oh " of our response would really mean " I don't care ; it doesn't trouble me in the least"; yet when they tell somebody that they don't like us, we say we have done nothing to deserve their dislike.

Some people we can't believe in. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, ia their life to justify U3 in this feeling, which is a " long doubt and trouble "to us. They are always kind to us and considerate of us. Nobody has told us anything to their discredit— like things that have been said aoout ourselves, for instance, to other friends who trust us in spite of it all. Sometimes we are mean enough to wish that eomebody would do so, so that we could say to ourselves in justifica-

tion, "That is the reason of my distrust." Bat months and years go on, and the object we tell ourselves we unjustly distrust pursues a path more upright than our own, and bears trials with dignity and wins honour — more honour by far than is ever likely to be justly ourfc ; while all this time we have been taking into our hearts and trusts and daily companionship those whom we know are not nearly so correct, and about whom could be proved, as well as said, several things, any one of which would be sufficient reason in a novel or play to justify the heroine in breaking off a match, and the good brother In requesting the unmasked offender to leave the house. Yet we are more indignant, more hurt, more suspicious of that other who has never done anything, and has only offended us by that " nothing," which, like the other nothings, has more power to wound than any half-dozen - separate somethings that we can allot and name. Really, when you come to think about it, we are in a worse plight when we are dreadfully hurt by "nothing" than by a something which we can name, for in the former trouble no one can help us, nor can we help ourselves, while in the latter we can at least expect sympathy ; and if we don't get it, we have a right to feel aggrieved. In the right to feel aggrieved there is an untold consolation, but one denied to us when we don't know what is the matter with us. Our talk-aboutable worries are blessings in disguise, for if they don't reveal to us the limits^ of our own endurance, they reveal the endurance of our friends, and it is very nice to know how unutterably irritating we can sometimes be and not be turned out of doors. We forgive our enemies, even the very worst of them, when a reasonable amount of time has been allowed us to forget them in; and harder still, we forgive our false friends when new ones have healed our wounded self love by demonstrating dearly by their fraternity that the faithless ones were to blame in their desertion, not appreciating the good that is in us; but it is impossible to forgive that " nothing " which daily confronts and tantalises and reproves and contradicts and ever eludes us. If we believed in the reincarnation of souls we might be templed to account for the fact by suspecting that our spirit bad met and recognised in the spirit of the blameless man an old time enemy ; but always supposing that our acquaintance dates at least no further back than the cradle, and that never once daring the present lifetime have we been tangibly shocked, or hurt, or deceived by the object of our unconquerable distrust, we can only conclude that the fault lies in ourselves. If we believed that not once, but often, we had lived on earth we might also account for those dreadful days when "nothing" is the matter with us by believing that the spirits of all our ancient friends and neighbours were with us, reminding us of lots of little things we had done against their happiness in bygone times, and for which they had still a bone to pick with us; but being inclined to the belief that we make quite enough mischief by one journey through the world we can only put it down to the liver. All our combativeness rises against a fight with the intangible, but we cannot use our arms because we are in the dark, and cannot see oar enemy, and know not where to aim. An open enemy in the form of a trouble, or loss, or pain, whether of body, estate, or spirit, like a lie, can "be met and fought with outright." If any one else but the Laureate tad written the lines referred to one might have been tempted to transpose them, and say that A grief that is all a grief Can be met and fought with outright, But a grief that is not a grief Is a harder matter to fight.

In one case you have the delightful sensation of conqueror when you have laid the enemy low; the other is worse than the game of trying to bite an apple on the swing— you keep getting unexpected knocks and ' never get a bite. Look at the satisfaction of pulling our neighbours to pieces. How busy the world is kept with the crimes of others. The quick wires flash over the news from country to country, and when a supposed good man is found out, how virtnous we feel in comparison. We even get as far as thinking that a supreme- judge must compare us very favourably with some others. In our own little circle the opportunities for righteous indignation against those who err deceive us into the . belief that in their circumstances we could have done much better, and there is a kind of satisfaction in this accusation and abhorrence; but to be confronted with a " nothing " names ble or blamable, a cold, chilling, unalterable, unappeasable something" we don't like, and don't know what, is a dreadful cross to bear. By proving you bad I have got a reason for my dislike ; by proving no? bad you are justified in your opinion. But "if I found you perfect and don't like you, and you found me faultless and hate the sight of me, there must evidently be something radically wrong with both of us. I paid a visit to the Ceylon Kiosk the other afternoon, and»-found a, charmingly fitted-up,room, large and airy, artistically painted and arranged, with small tables daintily covered with' pretty afternoon tea cloths and quaint afternoon tea sets. The tea was served in'a small teapot, and was delicious, as were also the cakes. It is just the room for afternoon teas, and I hear that it is becoming a favourite resort.

I have scarcely any society gossip this week. Miss Cumine gave a very enjoyable afternoon tea on Wednesday, among those present being the Misses Sise (2), Dymock, Spence (2), Lubecki, Scott (2), Hanna, Macassey, Cargill, Shand, Roberts, Mackeras, and Neill.

Mrs J. M. Ritchie gave a large afternoon tea on Tuesday. Among those present were Mrs and Miss Sievwright, Mrs and the Misses Spence, Mrs Rose, Mrs and Miss Dymock, Mrs and the Misses Williams, Mrs and Miss Grierson, Mrs E. 0. Reynold?, Miss Hanna, Miss Gillies, Mrs Ritchie, Mrs and Miss Haggitt.