G.K.C. AS POET.

Press, Volume LXIII, Issue 19138, 22 October 1927, Page 13

G.K.C. AS POET.

VIRTUE MADE AMUSING. A FEAST OP VARIETY. (SPECIALLY WSttTEH 708 "tHB PBBSS.") [By "Ctkaxo."] Her face was like an open word When brave men speak and choose, The very colours of her coat Were better than good news. A hook of verses underneath the bough, Provided that the verses do not scan, A loaf of Bread, a jug of wine, and Thou, Short-haired, all angles, looking like a man. Cleanse us from ire of creed or class, The anger of the idle kings; Sow in our souls, like living grass, The laughter of all lowly things. * # * G. K. Chesterton, the poet, is much less well known than G. K. Chesterton the proso writer. Of those who know him as a poet, many know only a few things in the anthologies. The splendid "Le'panto," and the wonderful short poem about the donkey, "the tattered outlaw of the earth" that had "one far fierce hour and sweet," when "there were shouts about my ears, and palms before my feet." They may also have read the riot of humour, so curiously streaked with beauty, in the verses of "The Plying Inn" —"the wicked grocer" who had never been seen to "crack a bottle of fish sauce or stand a man a cheese"; Noalij who doesn't care where the water goes "if it doesn't get into the wine"; and that intoxicating song of the rolling English road—"the night we went to Birmingham by way of Beachy Head." Some of these may also have read that noble epic ballad, "The Ballad of the White Horse," one of the outstanding poetic achievements of the time. The volume and variety of his output, however, are not generally realised. Here are his collected poems under one v.over (published by Cecil Palmer), and one may Bit down to a unique feast of fun and satire, beauty and boisterousness, occasional verse of no great merit, and pure poetry. _ Mr Chesterton is one of those writers who are careless of their reputa-

tions. Shakespeare is the greatest of them, as he is the greatest of poets of every kind. One may imagine Ben Jonson reproaching him with having done inferior work (and there is a good deal of it), and Shakespeare replying: ''My dear Ben, a man must iive. They waited a play in a devil of a hurry and I wrote one." Mr Chesterton does not cultivate an austere muse. He is too' busy and too full of the Izest and jolly seriousness of life. If there is a head to be hit he hits it with the nearest thing handy. If his sword isn't by him he doesn't go to .look for it; he uses the poker. This is in keeping with his philosophy of life. He abhors any conscious wearing of superiority; the proclaimed high-brow is to him' a bad joke. Has he not said that the trouble about high-orows is that they are hollow? The proceedings of certain types of well-meaning people move him to write this:—

Thev spbke of Progress spirinfc, Tound, Of Light and Mrs Humphrey WordIt is not true to say I frbwn&a. Or tan about the room and roared; I might have simply Sat and snored — • I rose politely in the club And said: "I feel a little bored; Will someone take me to a pub! He then proceeds to say that he did not find proiound the views of "the .New World s wisest, 0 and he did not like "the grub," but he knows "where Med can still be found," "anger and clamorous accord," song arid iiope and- godda pub. , i . i No one but Mr Chesterton would put a poem about a "pUb" into his colledr ed verse He belongs, says Mr J. *■>• Squire, to bhe body of poets ">vho bW journalists by profession or propaganda ists by calling, who canhdt keep out of the market place, arid forfeit respect because of the Very fullness of their humanity and the very comprehensiveness of their ze\st lor lite;" It is perhaps Mr Chesterton's greatest strength that he loves and really sympathises with the common man* in which he differs profoundly irOm . Mr Bernard Shaw. His bonnet, it is true, buzzes with tees, especially medievalism and dislike of modern business. On these subjects he is apt/ for all Ins brilliance and charm, to become ratner a bore. This, however; is really a small matter compared with his warm, humorous love of humanity and freedom and his passion for simple and sometimes primitive things. It was said or him lohg ago that he makes virtue amusing, which itself is a great virtue. He does. There is something whole- j some and healing in his love of simplicity arid the rollicking fun ho makes ot "superiority'' and the follies that are masked by this word "progress. Nothing is more penetrating in all his work than the picture of the . fiery Socialist and the quiet humorous aristocrat in "The Return of Don Quixote." The Socialist holds his own in the-drawing room of the big country house and is quite at home, but when the aristocrat takes him round the "pubs" of the slums ho is hopelessly at sea. There, however, the.aristocrat moves easily. He understands the talk of betting and beer. The first verse I have put at the top. of this article is most typical of G.K.O. "The very colours of her coat were better tbafa good news." Colour, he would say, has something about it that is at dncfe mystical, terrible, joyous, simple, humorous, infinite, and so it has. I met Mr Chesterton once, and when I asked him to write me out a verse from his poems this was the one, from "The Ballad of the White Horse," that he chose as his favourite. It has been in my head ever since. *Mr Squire recalls that when Mr Chesterton visited Warsaw he was accompanied from the station to his quarters by a squadron of glittering cavalry. "But a thoroughly adequate escort for him would include not merely armed horsemen, but cohc#s of magicians, clowns princesses, priests, kings, vegetarians, Puritans, drunkards, landlords, politicians, millionaires, minstrels, and dragons; all of whom are among the materials out of which ho has made the fairy tale world of his poems." A fairy-tale world, yes ; but one fascinatingly human, full of simple faith and sympathy and jolly laughter. This collection of his is art extraordinary medley, of pure poetry, biting irony, mellow sentiment, arid knockabout foolery. How he does enjoy a fight! Consider, for example, his Verses on that pricelessly foolish remark of F. E. Smith, now Lord Birkenhead, that the Welsh Disestablishment Bill had "shocked the conscience of every Christian community in Europe."

Are they clinging to their crosses, F. E. Smith; ■Where the Breton hoat fleet tosses, Are they, Smith? Do they, fasting, trembling, bleeding, Wait the news from this, our city? Groaning, "That's the second reading!" Hissing, "There is still Committee!" If the voice ol Cecil falters, If McKenna's point has pith, > Do they tremble for their altars! Do they, Smith! And so on to the Russians and tho Turks. Men don't think it half so hard if Islam burns their men and kith, Since a Curate lives in Cardiff Saved by Smith. Then turn to the Chestertoniun humour of: If I had been a Heathen I'd have crowned Neaera's curls, And filled toy life with love affairs, • My house with dancing girls; But Higgins is a Heathen, And to leettirt rooms is forced, Where his auiita, who are not married, Demand to be divorced.

And after that consider a poem like "Ultimate": The vision of a haloed host That weep around an empty throne; And, aureoles dark and angels dead. j Man -with his own life stands alone. "I am," he says his bankrupt creed; 'I am," and is again a elod. The sparrow starts, the grasses stir. For he has said the name of God. "One of the most delightful and fortifying of poets." says Mr Squire Yes and, for nil his paradoxes and prejudices, one of the sanest ma world that 60 frequently threftteM to go ttiad.