§ 31

I went to the theatre, the play was not invigorating; it provided rotten food—money jugglery, a low love affair, and success of a villain, were the parts. What was not immoral was vulgar. What was neither, was dull. I venture to imagine whoever was there came away a little more debased than he went. I found my way to the Cathedral, a fine 15th century edifice. The stone (local and hard) was fast being pulverised by acid fumes. Black deposit filled every crevice of what once had been exquisite carving. The loving work of ancient craftsmen was being rapidly destroyed by the “necessities” (?) of Industrialism. An attempt was in progress to reface a portion of the exterior—far better have left the noble old work decay than replace it by commercial carving at so much a foot. It had been a noble building. Standing high, it dominated, by a survival of dignity, the hideous black factories. It was like a still small voice, speaking out of a great past to a people who, if they heard it, could not understand. Its chimes (eight bells) once echoing the hours to the hills, were silent—better so, perhaps. I did not stay long in the interior. It made me sad to think of the enlightened people who had worshipped there, for it was a Benedictine Abbey Church of the monastery hard by where was preserved all the learning of the times, and where men led “creative and industrious lives.”

A pure unsullied sun had glowed through glorious glass, of which fragments remained, but mostly had been replaced by commercial attempts at so much a foot—commercial, indeed, it was. On the very rock where stood the monastery—the place of scholarship, of art, a home for exquisite craftsmanship—is now a huge manufactory, belching out wreaths of black smoke, like serpents encircling shaft and building, writhing in poison even along the cobbled ways deep in black slush. Civilisation, so called? Here, are forged cannon to kill human creatures. A very apotheosis of hideous war, and one of the many homes of its implements. When will men be wise and see that war is not only a hideous crime, a recognised murderer of millions, an authorised waste of money and energy, but a folly as well? What waste, cannon to destroy, and to be destroyed after a few hours of vicious mischief! Oh, the foolishness of such a parody on Ambition, on Statesmen, on the whole world’s Progress!