You know the old and sacred saying, “At sunset, when the sky is red, you know that the weather will be fine,” and also, “When the fig tree putteth forth her leaves, ye know that summer is nigh.” And Rome and Greece fell because they would not take the trouble to see that the sky was red, or that the fig tree was putting forth her leaves. And we are travelling on exactly the same road. Not many people care to read about the “Buried Cities of Crete.” The story carries a tremendous lesson. The ancient Cretans, whose women wore high-heeled shoes, and hobble skirts, and other abominations of civilisation, were so strong in their sea power that they neglected the means of defence on land. Ruins, buried deep beneath the soil, tell us the sad story to-day. A foreign power, despised perhaps, but now grown strong, sprang at their throats so suddenly that it took the Islanders completely by surprise. The blackened walls, the charred rafters, thirty feet below ground, preach their sermon to those who care to read. Neither does one ever forget what took place at the great conference at Vienna between the Powers when Napoleon had at length been chained and was languishing in his little island kingdom and prison of Elba. There had been much discussion, bitter wrangling, but matters were at length approaching a more or less satisfactory conclusion. Then, unheralded, there burst into that august assembly a messenger, “bloody with spurring, fiery with hot haste.” “Napoleon has escaped and has landed in France.” A moment’s silence, and the ambassadors with one accord fell a-laughing. After all their grave debates, with the waste of so many millions of words, the whole edifice of their deliberations was thrown to the ground by one sweep of the hand. So may it be to-morrow. A League of Nations may meet and deliberate. The representatives, perhaps, will disagree. Ere they can turn round, one Power, which is, may be, the best prepared, declares war. Necessity, when nations are in dire distress, choking for air and starving for their daily bread, knows no law. Will we never learn our lesson not to put our trust in Princes, no, nor in the children of men? Therefore, let us foster our horses by every means in our power, and place our dependence rather upon them. And let us remember that the race course, the hunting-field, and the polo grounds are the nurseries and gymnasiums of the breeds both of horse and man. The thoroughbred is the keystone of the arch, the cornerstone of the building.
And yet one knows so well that prophecy is all in vain, that our rulers only smile and imagine a vain thing, and that no seer has any honour in his own country, until the words are proven to be true, and then it is all too late. Bitter was the fate of Cassandra, that ancient prophetess of Troy, whom no man could believe, and bitter still the lot of anyone who tries once more to read the writing on the wall, and give it voice.
“Then like a raven on the wind of night
The wild Cassandra flitted far and near,
Still crying, ‘Gather, gather for the fight,
And brace the helmet on and grasp the spear,
For lo, the legions of the night are here!’
So shriek’d the dreadful prophetess divine;
But all men mock’d and were of merry cheer;
Safe as the Gods they deem’d them, o’er their wine.”