Works By G K Chesterton

"I have the honour to be somewhat in the confidence of the chief of whom I have spoken. You should really come and see him. Or rather, I should not say see him, nobody ever sees him; but you can talk to him if you like."

"We say that the most dangerous criminal now is the entirely lawless modern philosopher. Compared to him, burglars and bigamists are essentially moral men; my heart goes out to them. They accept the essential ideal of man; they merely seek it wrongly. Thieves respect property. They merely wish the property to become their property that they may more perfectly respect it. But philosophers dislike property as property; they wish to destroy the very idea of personal possession."

"Gabriel Syme was not merely a detective who pretended to be a poet; he was really a poet who had become a detective. Nor was his hatred of anarchy hypocritical. He was one of those who are driven early in life into too conservative an attitude by the bewildering folly of most revolutionists. He had not attained it by any tame tradition. His respectability was spontaneous and sudden, a rebellion against rebellion."

"Perhaps we are both doing what we think right. But what we think right is so damned different that there can be nothing between us in the way of concession. There is nothing possible between us but honour and death."

"Our belief has been slandered, it has been disfigured, it has been utterly confused and concealed, but it has never been altered. Those who talk about anarchism and its dangers go everywhere and anywhere to get their information, except to us, except to the fountain head. They learn about anarchists from sixpenny novels; they learn about anarchists from tradesmen's newspapers; they learn about anarchists from Ally Sloper's Half-Holiday and the Sporting Times. They never learn about anarchists from anarchists. We have no chance of denying the mountainous slanders which are heaped upon our heads from one end of Europe to another. The man who has always heard that we are walking plagues has never heard our reply. I know that he will not hear it tonight, though my passion were to rend the roof. For it is deep, deep under the earth that the persecuted are permitted to assemble, as the Christians assembled in the Catacombs."

"We all lament the sad decease of the heroic worker who occupied the post until last week. As you know, his services to the cause were considerable. He organised the great dynamite coup of Brighton which, under happier circumstances, ought to have killed everybody on the pier. As you also know, his death was as self-denying as his life, for he died through his faith in a hygienic mixture of chalk and water as a substitute for milk, which substance he regarded as barbaric, and as involving cruelty to the cow."

"First of all, what is it really all about? What is it you object to? You want to abolish Government?" "To abolish God!" said Gregory, opening the eyes of a fanatic. "We do not only want to upset a few despotisms and police regulations; that sort of anarchism does exist, but it is a mere branch of the Nonconformists. We dig deeper and we blow you higher. We wish to deny all those arbitrary distinctions of vice and virtue, honour and treachery, upon which mere rebels base themselves. The silly sentimentalists of the French Revolution talked of the Rights of Man! We hate Rights as we hate Wrongs. We have abolished Right and Wrong." "And Right and Left," said Syme with a simple eagerness, "I hope you will abolish them too. They are much more troublesome to me."

"It is always the humble man who talks too much; the proud man watches himself too closely."

"The rare, strange thing is to hit the mark; the gross, obvious thing is to miss it. We feel it is epical when man with one wild arrow strikes a distant bird. Is it not also epical when man with one wild engine strikes a distant station? Chaos is dull; because in chaos the train might indeed go anywhere, to Baker Street, or to Bagdad. But man is a magician, and his whole magic is in this, that he does say Victoria, and lo! it is Victoria."

"An artist is identical with an anarchist," he cried. "You might transpose the words anywhere. An anarchist is an artist. The man who throws a bomb is an artist, because he prefers a great moment to everything. He sees how much more valuable is one burst of blazing light, one peal of perfect thunder, than the mere common bodies of a few shapeless policemen. An artist disregards all governments, abolishes all conventions. The poet delights in disorder only. If it were not so, the most poetical thing in the world would be the Underground Railway."

"This is a tale of those old fears, even of those emptied hells, And none but you shall understand the true thing that it tells — Of what colossal gods of shame could cow men and yet crash, Of what huge devils hid the stars, yet fell at a pistol flash. The doubts that were so plain to chase, so dreadful to withstand— Oh, who shall understand but you; yea, who shall understand? The doubts that drove us through the night as we two talked amain, And day had broken on the streets e'er it broke upon the brain. Between us, by the peace of God, such truth can now be told; Yea, there is strength in striking root and good in growing old. We have found common things at last and marriage and a creed, And I may safely write it now, and you may safely read."

"I find again the book we found, I feel the hour that flings Far out of fish-shaped Paumanok some cry of cleaner things; And the Green Carnation withered, as in forest fires that pass, Roared in the wind of all the world ten million leaves of grass; Or sane and sweet and sudden as a bird sings in the rain — Truth out of Tusitala spoke and pleasure out of pain."

"Life was a fly that faded, and death a drone that stung; The world was very old indeed when you and I were young. They twisted even decent sin to shapes not to be named: Men were ashamed of honour; but we were not ashamed."

"A cloud was on the mind of men, and wailing went the weather, Yea, a sick cloud upon the soul when we were boys together. Science announced nonentity and art admired decay; The world was old and ended: but you and I were gay; Round us in antic order their crippled vices came — Lust that had lost its laughter, fear that had lost its shame."

"In cloud of clay so cast to heaven What shape shall man discern? These lords may light the mystery Of mastery or victory, And these ride high in history, But these shall not return."

"Several books I purchased on my trip, among them G. K. Chesterton's The Ballad of the White Horse. Ever read it? It's great."

"In its fundamental conception, as well as in many of the significant details of its working out, Lord of the Rings is heavily indebted to G. K. Chesterton's now little read poem of 1911, The Ballad of the White Horse. The major theme of both works is the war and eventual victory, despite all odds, of an alliance of good folk against vastly more powerful forces of evil, and the return of a king to his rightful state. Like Lord of the Rings, Chesterton's poem is set in a heroic society after the decay of a highly civilized imperial power — in England, that is to say, in the aftermath of the Roman Empire. (Tolkien's Minas Tirith, built on seven levels, greatly resembles a medieval idealization of Rome.) King Alfred, its hero, is fighting a losing war to save his kingdom from complete conquest by the Danes. As one would expect with Chesterton, it is a war of white against black, of Christianity against a diabolical paganism that has defeated Rome and is now trying to make all good men its slaves. … The enemy is not simply Danes, or barbarians in general, but a wholly malignant and almost irresistible force that stands behind all the enemies of Christianity: This power blights everything it touches — there are repeated references to its distorting effects even on the natural world — and the men who serve it become like Tolkien's Orcs. … To fight against this menace, Alfred, hiding in exile, summons three kindreds of free, Christian peoples as allies. Alfred himself, like Tolkien's Aragorn, is an idealized heroic figure who roams around in humble disguise and is sometimes mistreated by the ignorant. Instead of Dwarves, Elves, and Men of Numenorean descent, he leads an alliance of Saxons, Celts, and Romans."

"Loud was the war on London wall, And loud in London gates, And loud the sea-kings in the cloud Broke through their dreaming gods, and loud Cried on their dreadful Fates. And all the while on White Horse Hill The horse lay long and wan, The turf crawled and the fungus crept, And the little sorrel, while all men slept, Unwrought the work of man. With velvet finger, velvet foot, The fierce soft mosses then Crept on the large white commonweal All folk had striven to strip and peel, And the grass, like a great green witch's wheel, Unwound the toils of men. And clover and silent thistle throve, And buds burst silently, With little care for the Thames Valley Or what things there might be— That away on the widening river, In the eastern plains for crown Stood up in the pale purple sky One turret of smoke like ivory; And the smoke changed and the wind went by, And the King took London Town."

"In mighty and doubtful fragments, Like faint or fabled wars, Climbed the old hills of his renown, Where the bald brow of White Horse Down Is close to the cold stars."

"By God and man dishonoured, By death and life made vain, Know ye the old barbarian, The barbarian come again— "When is great talk of trend and tide, And wisdom and destiny, Hail that undying heathen That is sadder than the sea. "In what wise men shall smite him, Or the Cross stand up again, Or charity or chivalry, My vision saith not; and I see No more; but now ride doubtfully To the battle of the plain."

"By all men bond to Nothing, Being slaves without a lord, By one blind idiot world obeyed, Too blind to be abhorred"

"What though they come with scroll and pen, And grave as a shaven clerk, By this sign you shall know them, That they ruin and make dark"

""Yea, this shall be the sign of them, The sign of the dying fire; And Man made like a half-wit, That knows not of his sire."

""But though they bridge St. Mary's sea, Or steal St. Michael's wing— Though they rear marvels over us, Greater than great Vergilius Wrought for the Roman king; By this sign you shall know them, The breaking of the sword, And man no more a free knight, That loves or hates his lord."

""The dear sun dwarfed of dreadful suns, Like fiercer flowers on stalk, Earth lost and little like a pea In high heaven's towering forestry, —These be the small weeds ye shall see Crawl, covering the chalk."

""They shall come mild as monkish clerks, With many a scroll and pen; And backward shall ye turn and gaze, Desiring one of Alfred's days, When pagans still were men."

"I have a vision, and I know The heathen shall return. "They shall not come with warships, They shall not waste with brands, But books be all their eating, And ink be on their hands. "Not with the humour of hunters Or savage skill in war, But ordering all things with dead words, Strings shall they make of beasts and birds, And wheels of wind and star."

""And though skies alter and empires melt, This word shall still be true: If we would have the horse of old, Scour ye the horse anew."

""Will ye part with the weeds for ever? Or show daisies to the door? Or will you bid the bold grass Go, and return no more?"

"Then Alfred smiled. And the smile of him Was like the sun for power. But he only pointed: bade them heed Those peasants of the Berkshire breed, Who plucked the old Horse of the weed As they pluck it to this hour."

"Alfred in the orchard, Among apples green and red, With the little book in his bosom, Looked at green leaves and said: "When all philosophies shall fail, This word alone shall fit; That a sage feels too small for life, And a fool too large for it." "Asia and all imperial plains Are too little for a fool; But for one man whose eyes can see The little island of Athelney Is too large a land to rule."

"He gat good laws of the ancient kings, Like treasure out of the tombs; And many a thief in thorny nook, Or noble in sea-stained turret shook, For the opening of his iron book, And the gathering of the dooms. Then men would come from the ends of the earth, Whom the King sat welcoming, And men would go to the ends of the earth Because of the word of the King."

"Wonder smote the pirate king, And brought him to his christening And the end of all his raids. (For not till the night's blue slate is wiped Of its last star utterly, And fierce new signs writ there to read, Shall eyes with such amazement heed, As when a great man knows indeed A greater thing than he.)"

"Far out to the winding river The blood ran down for days, When we put the cross on Guthrum In the parting of the ways."

"Not till the floor of the skies is split, And hell-fire shines through the sea, Or the stars look up through the rent earth's knees, Cometh such rending of certainties, As when one wise man truly sees What is more wise than he."

"And highest sang the slaughter, And fastest fell the slain, When from the wood-road's blackening throat A crowning and crashing wonder smote The rear-guard of the Dane. For the dregs of Colan's company— Lost down the other road— Had gathered and grown and heard the din, And with wild yells came pouring in, Naked as their old British kin, And bright with blood for woad. And bare and bloody and aloft They bore before their band The body of the mighty lord, Colan of Caerleon and its horde, That bore King Alfred's battle-sword Broken in his left hand. And a strange music went with him, Loud and yet strangely far; The wild pipes of the western land, Too keen for the ear to understand, Sang high and deathly on each hand When the dead man went to war.Blocked between ghost and buccaneer, Brave men have dropped and died; And the wild sea-lords well might quail As the ghastly war-pipes of the Gael Called to the horns of White Horse Vale, And all the horns replied."

"For back indeed disorderly The Danes went clamouring, Too worn to take anew the tale, Or dazed with insolence and ale, Or stunned of heaven, or stricken pale Before the face of the King. For dire was Alfred in his hour The pale scribe witnesseth, More mighty in defeat was he Than all men else in victory, And behind, his men came murderously, Dry-throated, drinking death."

""The Mother of God goes over them, Walking on wind and flame, And the storm-cloud drifts from city and dale, And the White Horse stamps in the White Horse Vale, And we all shall yet drink Christian ale In the village of our name."

"Barriers go backwards, banners rend, Great shields groan like a gong— Horses like horns of nightmare Neigh horribly and long. Horses ramp high and rock and boil And break their golden reins, And slide on carnage clamorously, Down where the bitter blood doth lie, Where Ogier went on foot to die, In the old way of the Danes. "The high tide!" King Alfred cried. "The high tide and the turn! As a tide turns on the tall grey seas, See how they waver in the trees, How stray their spears, how knock their knees, How wild their watchfires burn!"

""And now I blow the hunting sign, Charge some by rule and rod; But when I blow the battle sign, Charge all and go to God." Wild stared the Danes at the double ways Where they loitered, all at large, As that dark line for the last time Doubled the knee to charge— And caught their weapons clumsily, And marvelled how and why— In such degree, by rule and rod, The people of the peace of God Went roaring down to die."

"When Alfred's word was ended Stood firm that feeble line, Each in his place with club or spear, And fury deeper than deep fear, And smiles as sour as brine."

""Though dead are all the paladins Whom glory had in ken, Though all your thunder-sworded thanes With proud hearts died among the Danes, While a man remains, great war remains: Now is a war of men. "The men that tear the furrows, The men that fell the trees, When all their lords be lost and dead The bondsmen of the earth shall tread The tyrants of the seas."

""Brothers at arms," said Alfred, "On this side lies the foe; Are slavery and starvation flowers, That you should pluck them so? "For whether is it better To be prodded with Danish poles, Having hewn a chamber in a ditch, And hounded like a howling witch, Or smoked to death in holes? "Or that before the red cock crow All we, a thousand strong, Go down the dark road to God's house, Singing a Wessex song?"

"Mark forgotten, That was wise with his tongue and brave; And the cairn over Colan crumbled, And the cross on Eldred's grave. Their great souls went on a wind away, And they have not tale or tomb; And Alfred born in Wantage Rules England till the doom.Because in the forest of all fears Like a strange fresh gust from sea, Struck him that ancient innocence That is more than mastery."

"The child whom Time can never tire, Sings over White Horse Down. And this was the might of Alfred, At the ending of the way; That of such smiters, wise or wild, He was least distant from the child, Piling the stones all day."

"Away in the waste of White Horse Down An idle child alone Played some small game through hours that pass, And patiently would pluck the grass, Patiently push the stone. On the lean, green edge for ever, Where the blank chalk touched the turf, The child played on, alone, divine, As a child plays on the last line That sunders sand and surf. For he dwelleth in high divisions Too simple to understand, Seeing on what morn of mystery The Uncreated rent the sea With roarings, from the land."

""No more shall the white towns of the south, Where Tiber and Nilus run, Sitting around a secret sea Worship a secret sun."

""Spears at the charge!" yelled Mark amain. "Death on the gods of death! Over the thrones of doom and blood Goeth God that is a craftsman good, And gold and iron, earth and wood, Loveth and laboureth. "The fruits leap up in all your farms, The lamps in each abode; God of all good things done on earth, All wheels or webs of any worth, The God that makes the roof, Gurth, The God that makes the road."

""Stand like an oak," cried Marcus, "Stand like a Roman wall! Eldred the Good is fallen— Are you too good to fall?"

"Thrice drowned was Elf the minstrel, And washed as dead on sand; And the third time men found him The spear was in his hand. Seven spears went about Eldred, Like stays about a mast; But there was sorrow by the sea For the driving of the last.Six spears thrust upon Eldred Were splintered while he laughed; One spear thrust into Eldred, Three feet of blade and shaft. And from the great heart grievously Came forth the shaft and blade, And he stood with the face of a dead man, Stood a little, and swayed— Then fell, as falls a battle-tower, On smashed and struggling spears. Cast down from some unconquered town That, rushing earthward, carries down Loads of live men of all renown— Archers and engineers. And a great clamour of Christian men Went up in agony, Crying, "Fallen is the tower of Wessex That stood beside the sea.""