AGES ALL OF GOLD.

Waikato Times, Volume 100, Issue 16815, 5 June 1926, Page 13 (Supplement)

AGES ALL OF GOLD.

NOT VERJUICE BUT WINE. (By Darius.) All life is the expression of moods. Yes, indeed, but we do not necessarily give expression lo all our moods. No, indeed. We are the creatures of actions and reactions, otherwise wc would he as the beasts of the .field lhat perish. Then Lhe question arises—how far are wc permitted to go in the expression of our moods?. Whom shall \ve appoint as censors? Better leave it to our friends, the readers. They can at least shy the metaphorical brick, and in the dim sub-conscious mind, the dint of the thud will remain till reason be restored. This is concerning letters —really a letter about letters —to you, to any who care to road. At least, I shall not offer you a draught of verjuice, which the dictionary defines as a liquor expressed from crab apples, but a little wine for the stomach’s sake. Sacramental Script. It is a small matter to reply to a mere acquaintance,—a momentary concern —a casual courtesy; but to a friend—ah! that is different! It is not a mere circumstance. It is an event for which we have to prepare a fitting leisure. The writing is a sort of sacramental script of which both should partake. Who shall say there is not a presiding deity invisible at the ceremony, inspiring, and dictating that which shall bo as bread of life to the other participant. Messages of No Import. It is so pitiable that a generation is growing up and is even now round and about us, that has never known lioW' good a thing it is to visualise an absent friend, and to sit down and lay bare to that friend the secrets of the heart, and the longing and aspirations that ascend like incense therefrom. They must he always gaclding about in or before a cloud of petrol fumes, bearing their fleshly presences for talk and gaiety in little companies, in which lhe mind is not emancipated as in writing and in which the shy spirit* has little part. Or they will make use of an instrument to vibrate tile air, conveying with a hell-ring and a ‘‘Hullo!’’ cold and mechanical messages of no spiritual import. There are few letter-writers in the world. The age of writing is passing. People find it a task and no longer a pleasure. They will search their minds and puzzle their brains for news. News when it is brightly and wittily imparled is good news. If it Be Hie mere recording of uninteresting lacls, then it is as tasteless as apples of Sodom. Deep Calling Unto Deep.

Sometimes I wish, instead of setting up literary clubs and debating clubs and mutual improvement societies (how I bate the name), people would form letter clubs. For me I should like to hear from John Masefield of visions burgeoning In. the brain, and epics yet unchantcd —should like to hear that thunder of billows in smother of spray, whining of shrouds and rattle of hail in which Dante was born, and to know what lurid part of Hell rolled back the smoke from its upheaving lava, to reveal lo him, underneath all, the "Everlasting Mercy.” A few lines from him and a new door would open upon infinity. These great men can write even more gently than they speak, or they can put a trumpet to Hie car of distance and make the world thrill again, as once it thrilled when C.od said, "Let there be light.” Yet one knows how they are driven before the things of life, and how greatly the masters are slaves to their high offices and dignities. Green and Gold. And what answers would one return should these dumb speak in eloquence from the word-lined pages. To John Masefield in my first letter I should say. "I have a friend who sent me for a Christmas gift, The Puvate Papers of Henry Roycroft,” bound in beautiful green suede with the title lettered in gold. Yet my chiefest pleasure is not in the book and its binding but in a little poem inscribed on the fly-leaf entitled— Wayfarers. Our days are set before us, • Numbered as are n.e sands, Jehovah watches o'er us. The times arc in Ills hands. Ever as the moments fly on With fleet, ur. <carted wing, Cur rootsteps fact towards Zion, The city or our Mug. We find the ancient traces, Where wandering' tribesmen trod; And water in dry places, As though by Moses’ rod. Each path Is plainly hcaten Where scourge and slaughter fell, ’tvhere, stayed with manna eaten, Camped crowded Israel. When storm around us rages, When smites the desert sun, There stands a Hock of Ages l or every wearied one. Hound so that none may sever, Eetterlockcd still, yet free, Forever and forever, Wayfarers l'ond are wc. Our Songs Re-echoing. There indeed is wine from a crystal goblet, tilled to Hie praise of life as it is. Glad with companionship, sheer sufficiency, and delight. Drinking it I feel that all the ages must be of gold. Wc need not wait l'or the golden age, you and i. There was no lack of life in yesterday. There shall lie no lack of life in to-morrow. I feci like young Arion, riding sea-billows on a dolphino’s hack—a young god all glorious in the sea-haze, skimming ttie wide waters of Grecian hays, with headed bubbles bursting in my track. Well, 1 lien for you and rne, dear friend, eacii day shall lie a return of vestorday, and all songs shall, with a new ccslacy re-echo the echoes of the old songs wc loved —the melodies of earth and air and sea—the paeans of the Infinite.