AN OREN LETTER TO THE EDITOR

Wanganui Chronicle, Volume LXXXI, Issue 18791, 29 May 1923, Page 4

AN OREN LETTER TO THE EDITOR

A VISITOR'S 1-Ui’ltEssioNS. THE GALLERY—AND THE GUNS. Sir, —To one who travels about constantly as is my good fortune to do, cities no longer appear in an in* animate Turin; but like living tilings I with all their characteristic virtues and vices. One develops a sort of a semi human-canine instinct. A bit of sniffing about the schools, the -art shops, in the homos of the ‘wealthy and humble, in the library, in the clubs, etc, and soon it befeasible to smell, or to use a more relined, but not so expressive term, to ■'sense” the atmosphere of culture that permeates the intellectual and spiritual life of the “city.” You will note that I made no mention to the art galleries. It was intentional, for 1 wish to devote tho rest of my letter to that Temple of Fine Arts. It was my visit to your new art galleries that brought me lace to face with the soul of your city. Words fail me. when I aim to express the wonderful glow that iigiits up within me each time I come to realise that men do not dream all dreams with material advantages to be derived from same. We live in an age when the major part of the human race bows before but one form of compensation—the material. In an age of that sort one is moved to greater measure of gratitude when he is in the presence of a dream done in stone. For such to me

seems the artistic building that looks over your fair city. Long ago a man dreamed it all out. He visualised the great gift, and in his soul were born divine thoughts that came with the dawning of the significance of a gift to the generation to come. And yet, so puny is the human mind, so pathetically limited even in its boldest flights of imagination, that he the giver of tbo gift could have never visualised the complete pic ture. He c aid have never formed a complete conception of the broad and endless sphere of influences that, this wonderful gift would perform in tho life of the individual, in the family. and within the community at large.

When we find ourselves wanting in so much that makes for perfeotion, does it not bring a.n unuttered prayer to the lips of every sensitive human being, when he fully grasps the glorious significance of the fact that it is possible for a citizen to perform an act in behalf of his own and coming generations which carries no taint of materialism, which can do no harm, only good, end can never crush the spirit of man, but uplift.

It was in such an exalted mood flint T made my way homeward. I would lack candour in a criminal measure were I to suppress the truth that this happy state of mind received a sudden shock when I glanced back at the dream done in white stone. Suddenly the * pure atmosphere and sunlit sky lost their bcautv and eloquent message. The smell of gunpowder and the stench of Mood-soaked battlefields rose to mar tho former atmosphere of peace and contentment. T caught sight of tho two cannon standing at guard at the very entrance of this Home of Beauty. Their muzzles and cold metal bodies verily shrieked their cynical Hymns of Dcstructiion against every mute, yet eloquent ideal whiclt rose heavenward from the dream done in white stone. Titov screamed mockingly against all human ideals, as if trying to drown out the very thought that once upon a time set the Giver of the Great Gift hoping and working toward the realisation of his wonderful vision.

All the way to my hotel I was haunted by the sight of those two relics, those two mementoes of man’s barbarism. Tn my imagination I saw the Muses and Mars facing one another throughout the ages. He ths brute has tried his best to court the Muses, but never once had he won their heart and soul. And as I wove this bit of phantasy in my mind, a glimmering hope began to light up within me. I dared to hope that some day. . . some day somewhere, men and women will begin to cast cannons into statues. Into statues, that tell of man's ideals, of his drcams —statues that will inspire citizens to perpetuate the best in mon Just as that Dream in White would do —minus the two ugly guards that stand there as tho very symbol of—■ Memento Mori—and such death! A STRANGER TN YOUR MIDST (LASZLO SCHWA RTZI