ONLY THE OLD, OLD STORY.

Otago Witness, Issue 2604, 10 February 1904, Page 61

ONLY THE OLD, OLD STORY.

The nearer the heart the deeper the silence ; so it is the mainsprings of life which speech so seldom dares to touch. How many years ago since we took counsel together on love? Many a year! Never since 1897 have I written that little word which holds all life and defies even Death at the top of our page. And yet, silent as we have been, each and every one of us has been loving just as surely as we have been living ever since. In our everyday routine experience of life few of us will deny the truth, the sad truth, of these lines by Ella Wheeler Wilcox. They are worth quoting, because it is on the broad highway of these everyday happenings tha,t we all meet and experience the same difficulties :

THOSE WE LOVE TEE BEST.

They say the world is round find yet

I often think it square, So many little hurts we get

From corners here and there. But one sad truth in life I've found While journeying to the West, xhe only folks who leally wound Are those we love the best. Tlie choicest garb and sweetest gince Are oft to sliangeis sho%\n. The careless mem, the fio»ning face, Aie fin en to our own.

We flatte- those we scarcely k.iow, We please the fleciog gu^stj And deal fiul mtuiy a thoughtkss blow To those we lo%c- the best. Love docs not giow on every tice, Nor Uue hearts yeiulj bloom. Alas ' for thoss who only see This triuh across the to:nb But soon or late the f?ct graws plain To a 1 ! through Sorrow's test; The only ones who gi\e U3 p&m Are those we love the best. "Vet there is much to be paid on the other side, and many of thc.e who might f lankly confess to keeping their "choicest garb and sweetest grace" for strangers v* ould urge as their excuse the absolute lack of appreciation shown by the family circle ; tiie indifference or silence which, mokes such efforts fall flat, or, more try-Tig still, the absolute refusal of other members of the family to "dress up" or "make conversation " merely for home and its habitues. I thoroughly sympathise with those who, lavishing their store of love on family ties, sliive to fill the aching void of a personal passion by creating the impersonal atmosphere of dutiful love. It is only duty ; it is only right. If girls remain at home, it is the least they can do to make home happy. These are the true things that fathers and brothers and! relatives say. But do they ever think that duty is not always delight, or right always pleasant? Thanks, love, appreciation — the spoken, not the silent, kind', you understand — that is what should come freely aad ungiudgingly from the other side. We are only human. "Virtue is its own reward" is a hard truth that we should all try to make the exception instead of the rule. We all know, of course, how true are those lines of Archbishop Trench. Dig channels for the streams of love "Where they may broadly run ; And love has overflowing streams To fill them every one. But if at any time thou cease Such channels to provide, The very founts of love for thee Will soon be parched and dried. For we must share, if we would keep That good thing fiom above; Ceasing to give, we cease to have, Such is the law of love. Yet so sore sometimes is the wounded heart, so dulled the eager spirit, by silence, ingratitude, indifference, and sordid greed that to continue in that thankless, thorny road seems utterly impossible. Oh. a hundred times a hundred have we suivly *ad, "I will not go on expending thought, and! time, and labour on those who never do anything for me, who accept as their right the sacrifice of self, the penance of patience. It is no pleasure to share with those to whom Me are indifferent — why should I

do it?"

Because it is no pleasure, dear ; because it is a sacrifice ; because it is a remmcia.tion ; because here, in the service of others, without thank?, without rewaid, v. itliout recognition, we are permitted — afar off. oh, so far off that it is as the feeble flickering of a rushlight to the splendid radiance of the star — to follow the Master. And shall we complain? threaten to abandon our small attempts, leave the path because it is a little rough? Look right and left; see the travellers whose eyes are dim with tears of loss and agony, of sorrow and of suffering. Their fellowship with their Master is complete — they suffer. We, called only to do a little, endure a little, may well turn air<iy ashamed. Humbled by this new idea of our rights and widei conception of our duties, let us *et about realising Lowell's fine conception of Love : True love is but a humble, low-born th:iig, And hath its food served up in carth I " nware. It is a thing to walk with, hand in hard. Through the &very-dayness of this work-daj world Baring its tender feet to eveiy roughness, Yet letting not one heart beat go astray. Of that more intimate personal passion ot love which is, as the Arab proverb hath it,

The misery of one, The felicity of two, The strife and «nvy of three, we each have a tale to tell, I suppose, since last we spoke of love. What was then but a dream has become a reality, for I remember sundry little boxes tied with white ribbons and bearing

Silver lettering which have reached Die. What was then a duet has changed to a trio, and that, again, to a chorus, for have not sundry newspapers, (marked in that interesting space of "Births, Deaths, and Marriages," been sent to me? •And to those who have made Love prisoner, and hope to keep him a willing captive, I commend these lines, knowing that rainy days must ooine as "well as sunny ones, that even sweetest roses must have thorns.

THE EOAD OF LOVE.

Xes, I have loved you long and loved you well, Tet there are deaps untouched and. heavens sealed. More yet lies hidden than has been revealed, And there are songs to sing, and tales to tell. Love's incompleteness is its richest foil, ' Xiove's imperfection its most perfect trait. 'Tis easy running to the bounds of hate, But Love's road is long, long road of toil. — Louise Morgan Sill. Or, again, these lines, though they seem to me to belong to a part of Love's road that lies past many a milestone and many a rest-house. That part, perhaps, when I/ove's music has long since glided from duet, trio, and quartet to a full, joncert?d composition, in which one hears sometimes the -clear ringing of a solo, sometimes the grave recitative of older voices, and again the full sonorous chorus of the whole family. For it is at this stage surely that the voice of life (which is marvellously like the voice of man) might doubtingly question Love, whose answer is the answer that ■would come, I know, from the heart of every true woman, however sad. For we know, my sisters, that love crowns all : — " Poor Love !" said Life, " that hast nor gold, Nor lands, nor other store I we4n ; fEh.y very shelter from the cold Is oft but lowly built and mean." 11 Nay ! though of rushes be my bed, Yet I am rich/ Love said. " Yet Love," said Life, '" what can atona Foi all the travail Oi thy years — The yearnings vain, the \ngiis lone, The pain, the sacrifice, the tears? Soft as the breath breathed from a lose Jllte answer came — <( Love knows. ' Here is a sad little verse, yet true : 'Oh Life, give me your \ichest gift!" she cried ; Then grew afraid, for Love stood by her s.de, But hand in hand with Sorrow. Yet r.o word Had she of plaint — she knew her prayer was heard. And here, again, a witty aphorism of La Rochefoucauld : Of two lovers there is always one who loves, jmd one who permits himself to be loved. And yet again a pitiful little sigh, which jomplain-s "the one that loves is always in the wrong.'' This "felicity of two" would seem to be as fragile a kind of happiness as the brilliant hue of a butterfly's wing — as elusive as morning dew, as ethereal as the glory of the rainbow. Shall we then take it lightly, a mere incident of youth and the joy of living — something that we must pass through like measles or mumps — and sing?— Love is a day, "With nc thought of a to-mcriow; Love is a joy, With no thought of sorrow; Love is to give, With no thought of receiving; Love is to tiust, "Without quite believing! Does that suit you, heart of mine? Or did we, you and I, perchance, soma•whe're in these years that have fled since last Tve spoke of love, make luckfess venture, so sad that eyes are like to dim with tears as we read . . and remember? Love as a wandering minstrel came — Came on a sweet September d?y ; Sang to my heart in words of liame, Carolling Care away. Love as a wandering minstrel went — Went on a dark December day , 4nd c'en God's sunshine secmeth spent In Life's eternal gray I

Nay, turn down the page ; even so, heart of mine, " 'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all." "What ar2 all the songs we have sung, the tears, the smiles, and the sighs? All only a sand grain on the vast shore, a drop in the eternal ocean of Love : so little, so fleeting — a midget dancing in. the sunshine ; — to us, everything — all life, all death.

For us here is "A Song," written by the facile hand that gave us those lovely lines on the secret of the rose : At thy voice my heart wakes as a bird, Wakes in the night, with sudden rapture stirred. At thy look my soul soars as a flame, Soars from the dark towards Heaven, whence

:t came. At thy love my life lifts from, the clod. As a lily iift3 from its dark sleep towards God. And our thought of love goes back to Him who gave it.