BUGBEARS.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 4671, 19 June 1893, Page 1

BUGBEARS.

[BY B. B. BA6TUN.] " ' Pray, why do you wear that heavy ■armour?' said Alice to the knight. " ' Why, don't you see,' said he, 'there ■may be robbers iv this wood* and I must be prepared for an attack/ " * But there are no robbers/ eaid Alice, opening wide her eyes. " • There might be, you know,' returned the knight, as he fell off his florae for the sixteenth time." This fear of some hidden danger is one that seems to oppress a great many people. With some it is fear of disease, with others it is dread of a bank failure; others again know not what it is that they dread. It is rare indeed to find five people in aroomful who are not oppressed by a sense of some vague danger menacing them. You have but to look at their eyes. If notaltogether restleß>, they are lacking indeed in the calm peace fiat you will find nowhere so perfect aB in the trustful gaze of a little child, or in the serenely blue spaces of the summer •sky. Look at the mouth of another, th?ra is a. tell-tale tremor of the lips, or else incipient wrinkles are beginning to lne themselves on the ekin — and all this means in many cases some dread— a fear of what the luture may , bring out of its bidden depths. And whence this fear ? Is it caused by an uneasy conscience ? Is it from tho habit of muking the worst of things; or is it from a premonition of real danger ? Scarcely this last, for people are generally in high spirits, what the Scotch call "fey," before hidden .danger. If the cause be an uneasy conscience I have no panacea — all I can say is that Buffering in this case at least is good— for it will bring some pure gold, out of the dross one day. But aB for the habit of making the worst of things— it is a source of real enjoyment to thousands of people. One would not think that self-delusion could go so far. Alas! there are no limits set to it. There are unfortunate mortals who believe that they are the chosen martyrs of the human race— that all things are against them— that their neighbour gets all the good things of life,, and they themselves get only the husks. Our brother has a prettier picture book than oureelves. Alaa ! we are but children after allPut oat the lights. We will not look At pictures any more. We weep, " My brother has a prettier book," And after tears, we go to sleep. But what if this life be the only charfce we Bhall have ? Is it so mean a gift? Oddly enough these pallid misanthropes do not hate life so much 63 to 6eek a speedy exit from it. No j they live to a ripe old age to trail tho serpent slime of their hated pessimism over all within their touch and ken. This depondency is a species of cowardice that atrophies a man's nature. He becomes hopeless— a dead weight in the march of progress. There is no bright outlook for him on this side the tomb. For him all men swe false, life'ia empty, and— the grave is deep. Looked at calmly in the light of reason these people show a real degradation, for surely all anxiety is degrading to the soul. Only let a man believe in himself, in his powers of Bhaping his own destiny. Let him face the future with a grandly dauntless front and a smile on his lips. Surely to him at last will come the far faint gleam shining on the mountain topB — a fore-glimpse of the reward that comes at length to every brave seeker ; but for the other — nothing. We must use forethought, we must cultivate reason, we must toil endlessly with hand and with brain (for cessation of work means stagnation— moral death); but in Heaven's name let us cease to be anxious. Let us work with all our might and leave the rest. "We cannot shape the ends of providence, but we can trust. If I stoop ■ Into n dark, tremendous sea of clond, It is but for a time ; I press God's lamp Close to my breast ; its splendour soon or late "Win pieroe the gloom. I shall emerge one day.