§ 3

Wisdom was symbolised by the owl, which crowned the helmet of the goddess Wisdom worshipped by the Greeks in the effigy of their protectress. The little Athenian owl still haunts the Acropolis. I have seen and heard it often there, and never without a thrill. Its plaintive cry proclaims the eternity of things and the never-changing voice of nature. As the owl hoots there so sings our nightingale in England’s woods. We too are reminded of the immortality of the soul of nature, perhaps also of the soul within us, and of its importance as the only part we can call immortal. Nearer to God are the songs of birds, the voices of the winds, even the wild utterances of beasts of the forest than the shrieks of machinery of which industrialism is so proud. Yes! All human makings are subject to destruction. The bronze Athena has gone. The golden and ivory statue of Athena is gone with the effigy of the owl. The shell has been broken, its parts are scattered, but the primitive faith within them lives although it has undergone change. Athens is not dead, saved from the brutal Turk she may become regenerate, she may again shine as a light to Europe, but if not that exactly, the light she shed may fix upon another city and shine there, so strange and mysterious are the comings and goings of nations! Recent discovery in Crete goes far to prove some fountain-head of truth in every ancient myth. Old Minos speaks! The myth of Theseus and the Minotaur is explained. The labyrinth he made is there now, and a Cretan civilization of 4,000 years ago has been revealed, and what a Civilisation! a very noble art going hand in hand with “modern” economies and created in a primitive age, as we call it. Knossos was well drained by drainpipes almost the same as would be turned out by a “company” to-day. Alas, the multitudes of inscriptions discovered in Crete have not yet been read. A key to the script has not yet been found. It may appear at any moment, and then who shall say what marvels it may tell us! Our much-praised civilisation may be found to be but a feeble echo of a past one. We are mighty clever, we moderns, not seldom in making unpleasant discoveries and using useful ones to the annoyance of many and destruction of better things. We have electric light, great scientists have given it us, but the keenest witted have not yet discovered how the tombs of the kings in Egypt were lit. We know that neither oil or tallow provided light in those dark miles of caves and chamber walls covered with pictures in delicate relief and exquisitely coloured.

Fresh as the day they were finished, these monuments to the skill, industry and genius of Egyptian craftsmen 4,000 years ago stand as an example to us moderns, who at present show no signs of handing their genius down even to a dozen generations. Had they electric light? It is quite possible. It is evident whatever artificial light they used was smokeless, because the ceiling and walls are not discoloured. What was the meaning of all this superb beauty of labour and craftsmanship? It was not to gain applause, because after years of labour each tomb was hermetically sealed and a stone was placed at the entrance. Their labour was an expression of their noble religion. Their respect for the great dead who must find silence in their tombs while their souls reached higher and higher levels in their spiritual kingdom till such time as, purified, they were to be one in the soul of Osiris. These people worked for a great Ideal, for the Utopia they ever held in view, without advertisement, probably with little reward. To them the soul grew always in dignity and beauty, visiting the body from time to time in silence.

Silence is the note struck by the Great Pyramids of Geza. A national religion, profoundly spiritual, which in the service it demanded from Art and Craftsmanship must BE PERFECT. Their art and craftsmanship tell us this. They were content to give the best only. They worshipped the Great Spirit by matter. They made their arts to sing of the noble elevation of the soul from sphere to sphere till it became perfected. Therein is the soul of the ancient Egyptians, which they imparted to the Greeks, and which Moses learned and tried to hand on to the Hebrews. We modern workmen will do well to ponder on these things awhile, and to take many a lesson from “the poor pagans.” Poor pagans? Rather were they a most enlightened people, with whom, by comparison, we moderns are barbarians. They may have had all, or at least the greater part of what science has given to us. It is an ignorant cry that calls them Poor Pagans. There was more soul in ancient Egypt than in Europe to-day! We worship matter, very often very nasty matter, so long as it provides wealth which we are not yet civilised enough to know how to use. What England needs is a little more soul, not less! A great deal more faith, a great deal more belief in the dignity of labour, a great deal more will to choose the best and discard the worst, a higher Ideal of honour, and a deeper sense of responsibility to after-coming generations. Much more widespread and intensified determination to leave behind us things so noble that they may bear some comparison with the labour of the poor Pagan! The spirit of which I write was here once. We need not cross the Channel to find it. Wiltshire contains it. The soul of our ancestors is in the very stones of the great monoliths of Stonehenge, the primitive British temple to the sun, which, alas, we do not worship but wipe out in material progress of crude industrialism.