Gilbert Keith Chesterton Part 8

In the wake of national champions there have ever appeared popular tales demonstrating the human qualities of these giants; if Napoleon could conquer empires, tradition has never forgotten that he once pardoned a sentry he found asleep at his post. If Wellington won the battle of Waterloo by military genius, so popular hearsay has urged that he commanded the Guards to charge 'La Grande Armee' in c.o.c.kney terms.

Around the almost sacred name of Alfred many and various are the old wives' tales, among which the story of his harp is not the least picturesque; it is one on which Chesterton expends a good deal of poetic energy.

From the gist of the poem it is evident that Alfred, in the course of his wanderings, came near to the White Horse, but as though for very sorrow--

'The great White Horse was grey.'

Down the hill the Danes came in headlong flight and carried Alfred off to their camp; his fame as a harpist had pierced the ears of the invaders:

'And hearing of his harp and skill, They dragged him to their play.'

The Danes might well laugh at the song of the king, but it was a laugh that was soon to be turned to weeping when the king had finished his song:

'And the king with harp on shoulder Stood up and ceased his song; And the owls moaned from the mighty trees, And the Danes laughed loud and long.'

There is in this poem a pleasant rhythm and a clearness of meaning that is absent from much good poetry. Chesterton has caught the wild romantic background of the time when the King of England could play a harp in the camp of his enemies; when he could, by a note, bring back the disheartened warriors to renew the fight; when he could be left to look after the cakes and be scolded when, like the English villages, they were burnt. One of the most popular of the legends is the one connected with Alfred and the woman of the forest. It has made Chesterton write some of his most charming verse.

And Alfred came to the door of a woman's cottage and there rested, with the promise that in return he would watch the cakes that they did not burn.

But--

'The good food fell upon the ash, And blackened instantly.'

The woman was naturally annoyed that this unknown tramp should let her cooking spoil:

'Screaming, the woman caught a cake Yet burning from the bar, And struck him suddenly on the face, Leaving a scarlet scar.'

The scar was on the king's brow, a scar that tens of thousands should follow to victory:

'A terrible harvest, ten by ten, As the wrath of the last red autumn--then When Christ reaps down the kings.'

In a preface to this poem, with regard to that part which deals with the battle of Enthandune, Chesterton says: 'I fancy that in fact Alfred's Wess.e.x was of very mixed bloods; I have given a fict.i.tious Roman, Celt, and Saxon a part in the glory of Enthandune.'

The battle of Enthandune is divided into three parts. The poetry is specially noticeable for the great harmony of the words with the subject of the lines; it is one of the great characteristics of Chesterton's poetry that he uses language that intimately expresses what he wants to describe. He can, in a few lines, describe the discipline of an army:

'And when they came to the open land They wheeled, deployed, and stood.'

It is perfect poetry concerning the machine-like movements of highly-trained troops.

The death of an earl that occurs in a moment of battle: we can almost see the blow, the quick change on the face from life to death; we can almost hear the death gurgle:

'Earl Harold, as in pain, Strove for a smile, put hand to head, Stumbled and suddenly fell dead, And the small white daisies all waxed red With blood out of his brain.'

Of the tremendous power of a charge, Chesterton can give us the meaning in two lines that might otherwise take a page of prose:

'Spears at the charge!' yelled Mark amain, 'Death to the G.o.ds of Death.'

Whether it be to victory or defeat, the last charge grips the imagination, just as the latest words of a great man are remembered long after he has turned to dust. The final charge of the Old Guard, the remnant of Napoleon's ill-fated army at Waterloo, the dying words of Nelson, these are the things that produce great poetry.

Some of the verses describing the last charge at Enthandune are the finest lines Chesterton has so far written. It will not be out of place to quote one or two of the best--the challenge of Alfred to his followers to make an effort against the dreaded Danes, at whose very name strong men would pale:

'Brothers-at-arms,' said Alfred, 'On this side lies the foe; Are slavery and starvation flowers, That you should pluck them so?'

Or the death of the Danish leader, who would have pierced Alfred through and through:

'Short time had s.h.a.ggy Ogier To pull his lance in line-- He knew King Alfred's axe on high, He heard it rushing through the sky; He cowered beneath it with a cry-- It split him to the spine; And Alfred sprang over him dead, And blew the battle sign.'

The last part of the poem is that which gives an account of the scouring of the White Horse, in the years of peace:

'When the good king sat at home.'

But through everything the White Horse remained--

'Untouched except by the hand of Nature: The turf crawled and the fungus crept, And the little sorrel, while all men slept, Unwrought the work of man.'

'The Ballad of the White Horse' is in its way one of the best things Chesterton has done: it is a fine poem about a very picturesque piece of English legend, which may or may not be based on history. Poetry can, and very often does, fulfil a great patriotic mission in arousing interest in those distant times when Englishmen, with their backs to the wall, responded to the cry of Alfred, as they did when, centuries later, the hordes of Germans attempted to cut the knot of Haig's army.

For hundreds of years Alfred has been turned to dust, but the White Horse remains, a perpetual monument to the great days when England was invaded by the Danes. 'The Ballad of the White Horse' is a ballad worthy of the immortal horse that will remain centuries after the author of the poem has pa.s.sed out of mortal sight.

In an early volume of light verse Chesterton wrote of the kind of games that old men with beards would delight in. 'Greybeards at Play' is a delightful set of satirical verses in which the ardent philosopher confers a favour on Nature by being on intimate and patronising terms with her.

This dear old philosopher, with grey beard and presumably long nose and large spectacles, is full of admiration for the heavenly beings:

'I love to see the little stars All dancing to one tune; I think quite highly of the Sun, And kindly of the Moon.'

Coming to earth, this same philosopher is full of friendly relations with America, for--

'The great Niagara waterfall Is never shy with me.'

In the same volume Chesterton writes of the spread of aestheticism, and that the cult of the Soul had a terrible effect on trade:

'The Shopmen, when their souls were still, Declined to open shops-- And Cooks recorded frames of mind In sad and subtle chops.'

In a small volume of poems called 'Wine, Water, and Song,' we have some of the poems that appear in Chesterton's novels. They have a delightful air of brilliancy and satire, about dogs and grocers and that peculiar king of the Jews, Nebuchadnezzar, who, when he is spoken of by scholars, alters his name to Nebuchadrezzar. We have but room for one quotation, and the place of honour must be given to the epic of the grocer who, like many of other trades, makes a fortune by giving short weights:

'The h.e.l.l-Instructed Grocer Has a Temple made of Tin, And the Ruin of good innkeepers Is loudly urged therein; But now the sands are running out From sugar of a sort, The Grocer trembles, for his time, Just like his weight, is short.'

The hymn that Mr. Chesterton has written, called 'O G.o.d of Earth and Altar,' is unfortunately so good and so entirely sensible that the clergy on the whole have not used it much; rather they prefer to sing of heaven with a golden floor and a gate of pearl, ignoring a really fine hymn that pictures G.o.d as a sensible Being and not a Lord Chief Justice either of sickly sentimentality or of the type of a Judge Jeffreys.

It must be said that to many people who know Chesterton he is first and foremost an essayist and lastly a poet. The reason is that he has written comparatively little serious poetry; this is, I think, rather a pity--not that quant.i.ty is always consistent with quality, but that in some way it may not be too much to say that Chesterton is the best poet of the day; and I do not forget that he has as contemporaries Alfred Noyes and Walter de la Mare.

The strong characteristic of his poetry, as I have said, is the wealth of language; to this must be added the exceedingly pleasant rhythm that runs as easily as a well-oiled bicycle. If Mr. Chesterton is not known to posterity as one of the leading poets of the twentieth century it will be because his prose is so well known that his poetry is rather crowded out.