THE POETRY OF CHESTERTON The Ballad Of The White Horse

It is no overstatement to say that in the " Ballad of the, White Horse" the ballad returned to modem English literature with all its ancient heritage re-born in vitality and complexion, and which is as attractive as it is unmistakable.
Here that delightful old friend of our picture-book days returns, and the deadly text-book history fades as we realise that, after all, the former was not too good to be true; but that, on the contrary, we have not been true enough to the first fresh picture to hold it fast -and let it live.
Of the many old friends of those days, even Alfred and the cakes are not forgotten—for on a question of " history " it is safe to Say that homely, family incidents, and tales of the semi-folklore kind, are usually based on actual fact—which is why they persist in spite of the "history-experts" who must have documentary evidence before they accept , a thing as "established." Yet, in the main these same people will cheerfully write a thesis about pre-historic times!
Pure Gold Chesterton brings in the story of Alfred and the cakes with its natural setting, but all the heavy moralising is minted to the pure gold of the heart-lifting echoes of that humour which all healthy children feel when they first hear it, and of which they are so often robbed' as they stodge through the fiat-footed "morality " of the "duty" of even kings when they undertake a job: all of which was usually and unnecessarily, attached to the self-explaining reCord of the story itself.
The following is the mid* treatment which Chesterton works quite naturally into his big canvas.
And as he wept for the woman He let her business be, And like his royal oath and rash The good food fell upon the ash And blackened instantly. Screaming, the woman caught a cake Yet burning from the bar, And struck him suddenly on the face, Leaving a scarlet scar.
King Alfred stood up, wordless, A man dead with surprise, And torture stood and evil things That are in the childish hearts of kings An instant in his eyes.
Then, just at that juncture, all his men from various quarters commence to come in under their leaders at this meeting-place. This is described with that vivid photography of words that ripples through the whole ballad; and• then it returns to Alfred and his cakes like this :—
A rid the earth shook and the King stood still • . Under the greenwood bough, And the smoking cake lay at his feet And the blow was on his brow.
Then Alfred laughed out suddenly Like thunder in the spring, Till shook aloud the lintel-beams, And the squirrels stirred in dusty dreams, And the startled birds went up in streamS, For the laughter of the King., And the beast of the earth and-the birds looked down, In wild solemnity, On a stranger sight than a sylph• or elf, One man laughing at himself Under the greenwood tree.
The giant laughter of Christian men Thal roars through a thousand tales, Where greed is an ape and pride is an ass, And Jack's away with his master's lass, And the miser is banged with all his brass, The farmer with all his flails.
Tales that tumble and tales that trick,
Yet end not all in scorning—
Of kings and clowns in a merry plight, And the clock gone wrong and the world gone right,
That the mummers sing uponChristmas night
And Christmas Day in the morning.
To try to make comment upon that would be an impertinence. Since the death of Francis Thompson, is there one author who has more truly and recurringly struck the note of authentic mysticism in English poetry than Chesterton?
Are not those phases of his work kindred to those of Herbert and Vaughan?
I do not know why this aspect of his work is so much unnoticed by those who might give expression and acknowledgement of it. I have found often, on broaching this, that a tentative agreement is made by saying something similar to "Hm—yes —er, yes—oh, The Donkey, of course!" That poem, however, is more dramatic than mystical, while not, forgetting that a really mystical poem can yet be both. Rather should the consideration of this deep quality be sought in that section of his works entitled "The Wild Knight," and, individually, "The Ballad of St. Barbare" and some pieces similar to "On Righteous Indignation" and "A Child of the Snows."
The G. K. Chesterton who sang and wrote (constructive jest) of wine and water, beer and "skittles," might be a robust—almost a "rumbustious"—figure and character; but he was also a mystic. This may not accord with the old notion of that term being synonymous with the ethereal; but as Chesterton would have said himself — the mystic who is a live mystic, is the most practical person in this world while having a conception of other worlds.
The constructive commentary that should go with all good jokes, weaves the permanent and serious intent of any true artist through whatever form. of jest, with which he colours his philosophy. Herein, then, is the value of Chesterton's seriousness, which will remain to serve when the ephemeral dressings of the "cap, bells and bladder" have perished and have passed.
H.G.S.