large/10244/unhappy_far-off_things_1701_librivox_64kb_mp3/unhappyfaroffthings_11_dunsany_64kb_20
large/10244/unhappy_far-off_things_1701_librivox_64kb_mp3/unhappyfaroffthings_11_dunsany_64kb
English
10244
It is only by the little things in Bethune, lying where they were left, that one can trace at all what kind of house each was, or guess at the people who dwelt in it. IT IS ONLY BY THE LITTLE THINGS IN BETHUNE LYING WHERE THEY WERE LEFT THAT ONE CAN TRACE AT ALL WHAT KIND OF HOUSE EACH WAS OR GUESS AT THE PEOPLE WHO DWELT IN IT
hune the wistful appeal that is in all things lost far off and utterly passed away cries out with an insistence that is never felt in the older fallen cities. No doubt to future times the age that lies under plaster in Bethune, with thin, bare laths standing over it, will appear an age of glory; and yet to thousands that went one day from its streets, leaving all manner of small things behind, it may well have been an age full of far other promises, no less golden to them, no less magical even, though too little to stir the pen of History, busy with batteries and imperial dooms. So that to these, whatever others may write, the twentieth-century will not be the age of strategy, but will only seem to have been those fourteen lost quiet summers whose fruits lie under the plaster. That layer of plaster and brick-dust lies on the age that has gone, as final, as fatal, as the layer of flints that covers the top of the chalk and marks the end of an epoch and some unknown geologic catastrophe. IN THE STREETS OF BETHUNE THE WISTFUL APPEAL THAT IS IN ALL THINGS LOST FAR OFF AND UTTERLY PASSED AWAY CRIES OUT WITH AN INSISTENCE THAT IS NEVER FELT IN THE OLDER FALLEN CITIES NO DOUBT TO FUTURE TIMES THE AGE THAT LIES UNDER PLASTER IN BETHUNE WITH THIN BARE LATHS STANDING OVER IT WILL APPEAR AN AGE OF GLORY AND YET TO THOUSANDS THAT WENT ONE DAY FROM ITS STREETS LEAVING ALL MANNER OF SMALL THINGS BEHIND IT MAY WELL HAVE BEEN AN AGE FULL OF FAR OTHER PROMISES NO LESS GOLDEN TO THEM NO LESS MAGICAL EVEN THOUGH TOO LITTLE TO STIR THE PEN OF HISTORY BUSY WITH BATTERIES AND IMPERIAL DOOMS SO THAT TO THESE WHATEVER OTHERS MAY WRITE THE TWENTIETH CENTURY WILL NOT BE THE AGE OF STRATEGY BUT WILL ONLY SEEM TO HAVE BEEN THOSE FOURTEEN LOST QUIET SUMMERS WHOSE FRUITS LIE UNDER THE PLASTER THAT LAYER OF PLASTER AND BRICK DUST LIES ON THE AGE THAT IS GONE AS FINAL AS FATAL AS THE LAYER OF FLINTS THAT COVERS THE TOP OF THE CHALK AND MARKS THE END OF AN EPOCH AND SOME UNKNOWN GEOLOGIC CATASTROPHE
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