Vox Meditantis

24th September 1885

I have taken refuge this day within the crumbling walls of what was once Tintern Abbey, though ‘refuge’ seems a mockery when one’s very soul finds no peace. The autumn rain has driven through the broken arches, and I sit amongst the fallen stones where monks once chanted their matins. Now only the crows hold service here, their harsh voices echoing where once rose hymns of praise.

My sketching materials lie abandoned beside me, for what use is there in capturing beauty when the world grows ever more savage? The dispatches from Burma weigh heavy upon my mind – our boys dying in that fever-ridden jungle whilst we speak of Empire’s glory. And yet, what choice have we when the French circle like wolves about our eastern dominions? The very stones of this abbey seem to mock such questions, having witnessed the rise and fall of so many earthly powers.

A family of field mice has made its home in what was once the altar. I watched them scurrying about their business, untroubled by matters of war and conquest. Would that I possessed such simple certainty of purpose! Yet even these creatures bear their own marks of identification – the darker stripe upon the mother’s back, the torn ear of the boldest kit. It sets me to pondering: what brands do we mortals carry to distinguish ourselves from the common herd?

I think upon the regimental colours that flutter above our forces in that distant war – the crossed keys of St. Peter, the lion and unicorn, the very marks by which we know friend from foe. In the market square of our village, each tradesman hangs his sign: the three golden balls of the pawnbroker, the striped pole of the barber-surgeon, the wheatsheaf of the baker. Even the beggars bear their own insignia – the wooden leg that speaks of Sebastopol, the blind eyes that tell of service in the Crimea.

But what marks do I bear, save the ink-stained fingers of my calling? I am neither soldier nor merchant, neither farmer nor priest. I make pictures and tell tales whilst better men shed blood for Queen and country. The very thought fills me with a rage that threatens to consume what little faith remains to me.

A barn owl has taken up residence in the bell tower, and its ghostly cry pierces the gathering dusk. The ancient monks would have seen in this some portent – perhaps a warning of judgement to come. For surely we stand upon the threshold of great upheavals. The newspapers speak of German ambitions, of Russian schemes, of the partition of Africa like some vast carcass amongst hungry wolves. How long before these rivalries burst into the consuming fire that wise men fear approaches?

The mice have emerged again, emboldened by the failing light. One ventures close to my boot, whiskers twitching, eyes bright as pin-heads. There is something almost accusatory in its gaze, as though it questions my right to shelter in its domain. Perhaps it is correct to do so. What sanctuary can a man claim who has never truly committed himself to either war or peace, but stands forever upon the margins, recording the actions of braver souls?

The darkness gathers now, and I must return to hearth and home. Yet the questions that brought me here remain unanswered, and I fear they shall torment me through many more nights before I find my rest.

In the late Victorian era, Britain was engaged in the Third Anglo-Burmese War, which began in November 1885 and led to the annexation of Upper Burma into the British Empire. This conflict, driven by imperial rivalry with France and concerns over control of trade routes, marked the final collapse of the Konbaung dynasty. The war contributed to growing unease at home about the costs of empire, even as Britain expanded its influence globally following the Berlin Conference of 1884–1885, which formalised European claims in Africa. Burma remained under British rule until independence in 1948, leaving a long colonial legacy.

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