﻿MODERN 
  SCENES 
  IN 
  THE 
  CRADLE 
  OF 
  

   CIVILIZATION 
  

  

  GASHING 
  the 
  cool 
  highlands 
  of 
  

   Armenia 
  and 
  Kurdistan, 
  the 
  Ti- 
  

   gris 
  and 
  Euphrates 
  flow 
  out 
  upon 
  

   the 
  ancient 
  plain 
  where 
  the 
  civilization 
  

   that 
  matters 
  most 
  to 
  the 
  Western 
  World 
  

   was 
  born. 
  Within 
  the 
  sweep 
  of 
  their 
  

   changing 
  river 
  beds 
  they 
  inclose 
  a 
  land 
  

   whose 
  capitals 
  at 
  Nineveh 
  and 
  Babylon 
  

   were 
  once 
  the 
  wonder 
  of 
  the 
  world. 
  

  

  Near 
  the 
  traditional 
  site 
  of 
  the 
  Garden 
  

   of 
  Eden 
  they 
  unite 
  to 
  worm 
  their 
  way 
  

   across 
  a 
  blistering 
  plain 
  on 
  their 
  way 
  to 
  

   the 
  hot 
  Persian 
  Gulf, 
  or 
  in 
  flood-time 
  

   spread 
  across 
  the 
  land 
  a 
  sea 
  in 
  which 
  

   their 
  channel 
  is 
  obscured. 
  

  

  Beneath 
  the 
  dust 
  of 
  ages 
  lie 
  the 
  former 
  

   city 
  sites, 
  a 
  primeval 
  plain 
  encrusted 
  with 
  

   history. 
  

  

  Here 
  patient 
  scholars, 
  using 
  countless 
  

   spades 
  in 
  operations 
  for 
  which 
  a 
  scalpel 
  

   might 
  well 
  prove 
  too 
  crude 
  a 
  tool, 
  have 
  

   won 
  back 
  the 
  treasures 
  of 
  the 
  past 
  and 
  

   made 
  them 
  speak 
  to 
  us. 
  And 
  young 
  

   Rawlinson, 
  on 
  his 
  way 
  to 
  train 
  the 
  troops 
  

   of 
  Persia's 
  Shah, 
  transcribed 
  the 
  inscrip- 
  

   tions 
  of 
  the 
  Behistun 
  rock, 
  facilitated 
  the 
  

   decipherment 
  of 
  cuneiform 
  writing, 
  and 
  

   so 
  shoved 
  back 
  the 
  horizon 
  of 
  world 
  his- 
  

   tory 
  by 
  many 
  hundred 
  years. 
  

  

  Here 
  Britain's 
  soldiers 
  and 
  administra- 
  

   tors 
  are 
  trying 
  to 
  prepare 
  this 
  ancient 
  

   highway 
  for 
  the 
  bustling 
  future 
  and 
  a 
  

   gifted 
  Prince 
  of 
  Mecca 
  is 
  trying 
  to 
  bring 
  

   prosperity 
  to 
  the 
  reborn 
  Kingdom 
  of 
  Irak. 
  

  

  Here 
  modern 
  boatmen 
  whirl 
  in 
  kufas 
  

   such 
  as 
  men 
  used 
  at 
  the 
  dawn 
  of 
  time 
  

   and 
  Kurdish 
  porters 
  introduce 
  into 
  the 
  

   racial 
  complex 
  of 
  Bagdad 
  such 
  faces 
  as 
  

   one 
  sees 
  portrayed 
  on 
  old 
  Assyrian 
  tablets 
  

   antedating 
  Abraham. 
  

  

  Tommy 
  Atkins 
  playing 
  Haroun-al- 
  

   Raschid 
  in 
  the 
  tortuous 
  lanes 
  of 
  old 
  Bag- 
  

   dad, 
  across 
  which 
  New 
  Street 
  cuts 
  its 
  

   unromantic 
  way, 
  and 
  wireless 
  men 
  using 
  

   the 
  traditional 
  Tower 
  of 
  Babel 
  as 
  an 
  

   aerial 
  listening 
  post 
  seem 
  novel 
  because 
  

   we 
  still 
  are 
  hypnotized 
  by 
  the 
  glamor 
  of 
  

   the 
  past. 
  

  

  The 
  veil 
  of 
  centuries 
  has 
  added 
  mys- 
  

   tery 
  to 
  a 
  dull 
  and 
  dreary 
  land, 
  just 
  as 
  the 
  

   Moslem 
  veil 
  has 
  made 
  each 
  shadowy 
  

   form, 
  whose 
  flowing 
  vestments 
  brush 
  us 
  

   as 
  we 
  pass, 
  a 
  figure 
  full 
  of 
  interest. 
  

  

  The 
  accompanying 
  illustrations 
  (Plates 
  

   I 
  to 
  XVI), 
  from 
  photographs 
  by 
  Eric 
  

   Keast 
  Burke, 
  who 
  served 
  with 
  the 
  Aus- 
  

  

  tralian 
  Expeditionary 
  forces 
  in 
  the 
  Near 
  

   East 
  during 
  the 
  World 
  War, 
  show 
  that 
  

   there 
  is 
  still 
  color 
  in 
  this 
  ancient 
  land, 
  

   bright, 
  vivid 
  flashes 
  of 
  it, 
  dotting 
  a 
  vast, 
  

   sun-baked 
  palette. 
  

  

  MESOPOTAMIA 
  IS 
  A 
  TWILIGHT 
  TAND 
  

  

  Mesopotamia 
  is 
  a 
  twilight 
  land, 
  never 
  

   entirely 
  awake 
  and 
  never 
  wholly 
  still. 
  

   The 
  summer 
  roofs, 
  deserted 
  to 
  the 
  sun 
  

   by 
  day, 
  become 
  alive 
  beneath 
  the 
  velvet 
  

   dome 
  of 
  night, 
  and 
  the 
  drama 
  of 
  the 
  East 
  

   gains 
  mystery 
  from 
  the 
  dim 
  obscurity 
  of 
  

   its 
  setting. 
  Skies 
  so 
  clear 
  that 
  they 
  made 
  

   astronomers 
  of 
  the 
  Chaldeans 
  look 
  down 
  

   upon 
  these 
  roofless 
  upper 
  rooms, 
  whose 
  

   ceiling 
  is 
  the 
  changing 
  stars 
  and 
  the 
  

   luminous 
  Milky 
  Way. 
  

  

  Persia 
  has 
  lent 
  her 
  lustrous 
  tiles 
  and 
  

   soft 
  carpets 
  from 
  Shiraz 
  and 
  Hamadan. 
  

   Turkey's 
  tarbouche 
  adds 
  its 
  carmine 
  glow 
  

   to 
  the 
  open-air 
  cafes. 
  The 
  stately 
  Arab, 
  

   in 
  head 
  shawl 
  and 
  camel-hair 
  crown, 
  

   sweeps 
  through 
  the 
  streets 
  with 
  dignity 
  

   which 
  few 
  can 
  match. 
  

  

  Copper 
  and 
  brass 
  glint 
  from 
  door- 
  

   knocker 
  and 
  fruit-tray 
  piled 
  high 
  with 
  

   lusciousness. 
  The 
  tinkling 
  armlets 
  of 
  the 
  

   women 
  faintly 
  echo 
  to 
  the 
  clink 
  of 
  ice 
  in 
  

   the 
  huge 
  carafes 
  of 
  the 
  sherbet 
  venders. 
  

  

  The 
  hammering 
  of 
  huge 
  caldrons 
  from 
  

   soft 
  copper 
  adds 
  its 
  own 
  noisy 
  note 
  to 
  the 
  

   chorus. 
  The 
  sharp 
  rap 
  of 
  markers 
  on 
  the 
  

   backgammon 
  boards 
  hints 
  idleness 
  on 
  the 
  

   part 
  of 
  some 
  desert 
  son 
  ensnared 
  by 
  city 
  

   charms. 
  From 
  overhanging 
  balconies 
  the 
  

   lattices 
  drip 
  sound 
  muffled 
  by 
  silks 
  and 
  

   deep-piled 
  rugs. 
  

  

  In 
  the 
  Occident 
  such 
  colors, 
  sounds, 
  

   and 
  smells 
  would 
  reach 
  high 
  heaven 
  by 
  

   the 
  virtue 
  of 
  barbaric 
  strength; 
  here 
  they 
  

   seem 
  a 
  natural 
  attribute 
  of 
  the 
  land 
  of 
  

   the 
  Caliphs. 
  

  

  To 
  see 
  Mesopotamia 
  clearly 
  is 
  to 
  tear 
  

   aside 
  the 
  curtain 
  of 
  romance 
  which 
  exag- 
  

   gerates 
  her 
  charms. 
  Viewed 
  in 
  a 
  dispas- 
  

   sionate 
  light 
  and 
  by 
  Western 
  standards, 
  

   she 
  cannot 
  be 
  thought 
  beautiful 
  ; 
  but 
  when 
  

   one 
  lets 
  the 
  ancient 
  spirit 
  of 
  the 
  land 
  

   unfold 
  its 
  spell, 
  the 
  past 
  is 
  eloquent 
  and 
  

   in 
  the 
  moonlight 
  of 
  imagination 
  rude 
  mud 
  

   huts 
  become 
  towering, 
  dimly 
  lighted 
  pal- 
  

   aces 
  of 
  the 
  shadowy 
  past. 
  

  

  Mesopotamia 
  can 
  be 
  cold. 
  The 
  salu- 
  

   brious 
  winters 
  of 
  the 
  Nile 
  never 
  become 
  

   so 
  chill. 
  But 
  summer 
  beats 
  down 
  with 
  

  

  390 
  

  

  