FOUR HORSEMEN PASS BY

Waikato Times, Volume 127, Issue 21157, 5 July 1940, Page 5

FOUR HORSEMEN PASS BY

(By WILL TEMPLAR)

A DREAM OF VANISHED GLORIES

With a Glimpse of What Might be The Shape of Things to Come

OADLY I WANDERED back along ° the pathway of the years. A feeling of depression weighed heavily on my heart and my feet stumbled haphazardly on the rough stones of hopelessness and despair as I struggled desperately to regain the starting point whence I set out—it seemed a million years away. What I had seen seemed inconceivable, and was more like a horrible dream than the cold, hard facts which proved the strength of Robbie Bums’ reference to “man’s inhumanity to man.” Like the poet Tennyson, I had

“dipped into the future, far as human eye could see;” but unlike him I saw nothing to encourage the heart to higher endeavour. All along the route I travelled were signs of an unbelievable barbarism which surely could not be laid at the door of simple men like myself. Tennyson was fortunate when he saw his vision of the world, and all the wonders that would be. Across his inward eye there flashed a panorama of progress and construction with the world blossoming from one stage of development to the next. Never could he, with his sensitive mind, envisage the

trail of destruction and desolation which carried on from where his vision terminated. Misery and Remorse He dreamed of “the heavens filled with commerce; argosies with magic sails, pilots in the purple twilight dropping down with costly bales-,” but could he have ever thought that those same magic sails would in time become the carriers of death and destruction in what appeared to be a mad race to annihilate man and all his works? Did he even in his wild-

est imaginings ever think that his pilots would drop down with other than the costly bales of commerce, for the express purpose of wiping out the trees, the flowers, the birds and the buildings which Tennyson himself loved throughout his life? Had he travelled my journey his pen could have warned the world of the shattering of a million ideals and the wanton destruction of the material expression of those ideals; and perhaps he could have saved a people of the future more than a little misery and remorse. Misery of famine and pestilence which followed in the wake of wholesale manmade destruction, and remorse at the loss of all that man, with his skill and ingenuity, had wrought with infinite care down the ages. Rich palaces, cathedrals and mansions which had been a joy to mankind for thousands of years, smiling pastures which had yielded a goodly heritage as they were carefully cultivated by toiling hands, and the towns and cities which men had called home had vanished beneath the hand of “the conquerors” when £ passed along that pathway of the years with my face turned to the future. Far and wide I journeyed through many lands I had known in happier times, but everywhere it was the same—the scenes of desolation became worse and worse, until at last I had to turn back in an effort to escape the overwhelming feeling of utter despair. Blackened Countryside Where were the fields of poppies, hyacinths and tulips as I passed through Holland? Places which in the spring time had been a source of joy to many hearts were now nothing more than bleak, pitted patches of blackened and scarred countryside. Haarlem, that attractive town of the Netherlands, could hardly be recognised from the shambles that met my eyes as I continued my journey, while Utrecht, the old and interesting town dating back to Roman times, where I had spent many happy hours, had suffered similarly. Its beautiful cathedral, built in the 13th century on the site

of a church founded by its first bishop in the year 720, had failed to escape the hand of the marauder and was now nothing but a pile of useless bricks and mortar.

Shuddering at what I saw, I hurried elsewhere in search of brighter scenes. Venice, the city of waterways, where I had passed many of the days of my boyhood—surely that would be untouched. But, no, that stretch of stagnant water littered with debris told its own tale of destruction and was difficult to distinguish as the Grand Canal which had formerly lapped the steps of S. Maria della Salute, that stately old church with magnificent domes and graceful architecture. Gone, too, were the marble decorations and mosaics of the Church of St. Mark, whose lofty Campanile once lifted its stately lines high above the surrounding buildings. Sunny Land of Spain How the merchants of Venice would have shuddered had they seen the Rialto Bridge as I saw it, and the Bridge of Sighs, the grace-fully-arched covered passage across the canal to the Palace of the Doges, was also a wreck. The palace itself, from whose richly ornamented courtyard, as a lad, I could see the Domes of St. Mark’s towering against the sky, had also paid tribute to the grim God of War. The rich, sunny land of Spain, which had been full of colour, romance and great possibilities seemed to have reverted completely to the neolithic age, so fierce had been the fury of its own children when their customary good, humour turned to an all-consuming hate. In wanton destruction they had destroyed the handsome residences and patios, once gay with flowers and fountains, and had carried their work on through the vineyards, the mosques and the palaces which, in early days, were scenes of life and gaiety. The Moorish palace of the Alcazar, at Seville, used to have wall-carving so fine that it was called a veil of lace in stone. Gold, scarlet and azure were used with wonderful effect in the Captives’ Tower in the Alhambra, while the Giralda, the belfry beside

the cathedral, was a Moorish tower nearly as high as St. Paul’s Cathedral in London. It was surmounted by a gigantic bronze statue of Faith, but there was little of faith in me as I gazed on the ruins to which its own people had reduced it in their frenzied race for power. They had spared none of these beautiful buildings which the Moors had so intricately inlaid with coloured marble, mother-of-pearl and rare woods. Often called the “Manchester of Spain,” Barcelona was now nothing more than a city of ghosts—ghosts of the famous literature, music and paintings which had won it a place in the world of culture. In the years to come, I thought, perhaps another race of men would arise and try to salvage at least a little of that which had suffered at the hands of the invading armies. “The Dream In Marble” But, supposing they did set about this work of restoration, how could they recapture the sentiment which we used to associate with the beautiful Taj Mahal, that “Dream in Marble” which my wanderings revealed as still another desolate witness to the futility of war? When his favourite wife died the Emperor Shah Jehan, in his deep grief, resolved to build for her the loveliest tomb man’s eyes ever beheld. On the banks of the River Jumna, two miles below Agra, he planned and his engineers and artificers created, what all succeeding ages confessed to be one of the wonders of the world—the glorious Taj Mahal. Companies of elephants brought the marble blocks from afar,‘the most skilful craftsmen and masons expended on the building the finest work of which they were capable; and slowly, year by year, those marble walls arose until the

Taj stood out in all its loveliness. And now a pile of rubble was all that remained to show where it had been.

across it. And, nearby, the British House of Parliament, with Big Ben standing out a little to the north, always gave one a feeling of security. Beyond was that great Church of St. Peter, Westminster Abbey, in which the Kings of England were crowned for centuries and in which many famous people found their last resting place. The Ways of Peace Thank God, I thought, that something would be left to remind men that there was something worthwhile in u;e ways of peace. The fountains in Trafalgar Square, the lovely vistas of Hyde Park, the grim walls of The Tower and the noble lines of old St. Paul’s—these were the things that meant home to the Englishman. In Somerset he found joy in the high hedges and cottage gardens with their yearly mantles of snowdrops, primroses, violets and little wild daffodils. The winding lanes of Herefordshire, the orchards of rural Worcestershire, the ragged coast of Cornwall, the rolling downs of Sussex and the picturesque hamlets of Kent and Suffolk—these were the things we loved, for they were the expression of peace and liberty for which men had fought and died. In all, they were “this England,” and as I travelled homeward I prayed that God grant that those men had not died in vain. May the tall hedgerows of doubt and despair give way to a brighter outlook, I thought; a time in which men could live side by side in contentment with their lot, caring not that their neighbour might have more than they. Surely it .was not too much to ask that they dwell in peace and harmony, building, nos destroying, and preserving for others some of the scenes which had meant joy and inspiration to them.

Tndia. that wonderland of the East, had much to offer the traveller in days gone by, but there was little left to cheer me on this journey. The gorgeous palace of the Maharajah of Mysore, surmounted by its golden cupola, and the pearl palace of Gwalior* a residence worthy of the ruler of any wealthy State, were now mere memories. Again I fled, horrified and in search of a pleasant refuge from all this waste and destruction. Cairo, Constantinople, Rome —they had charmed me once, but now they had all suffered for their beauty. In places it seemed that the vandal had gone out of his way to destroy that which was moit beautiful and had left a wide international rubbish heap in his wake. The care and patience of thousands of craftsmen counted for nought when the dogs of war were unleashed. Vanished Overnight They told me that the Great. Mosque at Constantinople was dispatched within a few minutes, proving the effectiveness of modern munitions and the success of the invader. What is success counted in these terms? The cypress groves of Scutari, they said, had vanished overnight as the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse passed their way. In times of trial man’s thoughts always turn to home; and thus it was that I looked to England to provide a quiet haven in which to rest the tired brain and gain some measure of solace. The Embankment, I thought as I journeyed homeward, was always beautiful in the springtime, especially in the evening light when Nature drew her brush fondly