But not for any fancy of mine must you picture ruin any more as something graced with splendour, or as it were an argosy reaching the shores of our day laden with grandeur and dignity out of antiquity.  Ruin to-day is not covered with ivy, and has no curious architecture or strange secrets of history, and is not beautiful or romantic at all.  It has no tale to tell of old civilizations, not otherwise known, told of by few grey stones.  Ruin to-day is destruction and sorrow and debt and loss, come down untidily upon modern homes and cutting off ordinary generations, smashing the implements of familiar trades and making common avocations obsolete.  It is no longer the guardian and the chronicle of ages that we should otherwise forget:  ruin to-day is an age heaped up in rubble around us before it has ceased to be still green in our memory.  Quite ordinary wardrobes in unseemly attitudes gape out from bedrooms whose front walls are gone, in houses whose most inner design shows unconcealed to the cold gaze of the street.  The rooms have neither mystery nor adornment.  Burst mattresses loll down from bedraggled beds.  No one has come to tidy them up for years.  And roofs have slanted down as low as the first floor.

I saw a green door ajar in an upper room:  the whole of the front wall of the house was gone:  the door partly opened oddly on to a little staircase, whose steps one could just see, that one wondered whither it went.  The door seemed to beckon and beckon to some lost room, but if one could ever have got there, up through that shattered house, and if the steps of that little staircase would bear, so that one came to, the room that is hidden away at the top, yet there could only be silence and spiders there, and broken plaster and the dust of calamity; it is only to memories that the green door beckons; nothing remains.

And some day they may come to Arras to see the romance of war, to see where the shells struck and to pick up pieces of iron.  It is not this that is romantic, not Mars, but poor, limping Peace.  It is what is left that appeals to you, with pathos and infinite charm; little desolate gardens that no one has tended for years, wall-paper left in forlorn rooms when all else is Scattered, old toys buried in rubbish, old steps untrodden on inaccessible landings:  it is what is left that appeals to you, what remains of old peaceful things.  The great guns throb on, all round is the panoply of war, if panoply be the right word for this vast disaster that is known to Arras as innumerable separate sorrows; but it is not to this great event that-the sympathy turns in Arras, nor to its thunder and show, nor the trappings of it, guns lorries, and fragments of shells:  it is to the voiceless, deserted inanimate things, so greatly wronged, that all the heart goes out:  floors fallen in festoons, windows that seem to be wailing, roofs as though crazed with grief and then petrified in their craziness; railings, lamp-posts, sticks, all hit, nothing spared by that frenzied iron:  the very earth clawed and-torn:  it is what is left that appeals to you.