Wishing one and all a very happy and blessed New
Year.
I was recently talking to Brother Dominic Mary
F.SS.R, from our good neighbours at Golgotha Monastery, Papa Stronsay, on the
subject of G.K.Chesterton, when out of
the blue and quite spontaneously, he recounted to me the warning tale of the Aristocrat,
who was not all that he might seem:-
The Aristocrat
The
Devil is a gentleman, and asks you down to stay
At his little place at ‘What’sitsname’
(it isn’t far away).
They say the sport is
splendid; there is always something new,
And
fairy scenes, and fearful feats that none but he can do;
He
can shoot the feathered cherubs if they fly on the estate,
Or
fish for Father Neptune with the mermaids for a bait;
He
scaled amid the staggering stars, that precipice the sky,
And
blew his trumpet above heaven, and got by mastery
The
starry crown of God Himself, and shoved it on the shelf;
But
the Devil is a gentleman, and doesn’t brag himself.
O
blind your eyes and break your heart and back your hand away,
And
lose your love and shave your head; but do not go to stay
At
the little place in ‘What’sitsname’ where folks are rich and clever;
The
golden and the goodly house, where things grow worse for ever;
There
are things you need not know of, though you live and die in vain,
There
are souls more sick of pleasure than you are sick of pain;
There
is a game of April Fool that’s played behind its door,
Where
the fool remains for ever and the April comes no more,
Where
the splendour of the daylight grows drearier than the dark,
And
life droops like a vulture that once was such a lark:
And
that is the Blue Devil that once was the Blue Bird;
For
the Devil is a gentleman, and doesn’t keep his word.
G K Chesterton
NB.
I was so impressed by Brother Dominic’s virtuosity, that I decided to post this
work as a reminder to myself, and indeed everyone, that aristocrats, no more nor less than others,
are not always what they seem! Thank you
Brother, for the warning!
This
poem has left me wanting more, so I
dedicate this first post of the New Year to a little more of GKC’s poetry, of similar
ilk.
The
Song of the Children
The
world is ours till sunset,
Holly
and fire and snow;
And
the name of our dead brother
Who
loved us long ago.
The
grown folk, mighty and cunning,
They
write his name in gold;
But
we can tell a little
Of
the million tales he told.
He
taught them laws and watchwords,
To
preach and struggle and pray;
But
he taught us deep in the hayfield
The
games that the angels play.
Had
he stayed here for ever,
Their
world would be wise as ours –
And
the king be cutting capers,
And
the priest be picking flowers.
But
the dark day came: they gathered:
On
their faces we could see
They
had taken and slain our brother,
And
hanged him on a tree.
G K Chesterton
The
Holy of Holies
‘Elder
father, though thine eyes
Shine
with hoary mysteries,
Canst
thou tell me what in the heart
Of
a cowslip blossom lies?
‘Smaller
than all lives that be,
Secret
as the deepest sea,
Stands
a little house of seeds,
Like
an elfin’s granary.
‘Speller
of the stones and weeds,
Skilled
in Nature’s crafts and creeds,
Tell
me what is in the heart
Of
the smallest of the seeds.’
‘God
Almighty, and with Him
Cherubim
and Seraphim,
Filling
all eternity-
Adonai
Elohim.’
G K Chesterton
Commercial
Candour
(on
the outside of a sensational novel is printed the statement:
“ the back of the cover will tell you the
plot”)
Our
fathers to creed and tradition were tied,
They
opened a book to see what was inside,
And
of various methods they deemed not the worst
Was
to find the first chapter and look at it first.
And
so from the first to the second they passed,
Till
in servile routine they arrived at the last.
But
a literate age, unbenighted by creed,
Can
find on two boards all it wishes to read;
For
the front of the cover shows somebody shot
And
the back of the cover will tell you the plot.
Between,
that the book may be handily padded,
Some
pages of mere printed matter are added,
Expanding
the theme, which in case of great need
The
curious reader might very well read
With
the zest that is lent to a game worth the winning,
By
knowing the end when you start the beginning:
While
our barbarous sires, who would read every word
With
a morbid desire to find out what occurred
Went
drearily drudging through Dickens and Scott.
But
the back of the cover will tell you the plot.
The
wild village folk in earth’s earliest prime
Could
often sit still for an hour at a time
And
hear a blind beggar, nor did the tale pall
Because
Hector must fight before Hector could fall;
Nor
was Scheherazade required, at the worst,
To
tell her tales backwards and finish them first;
And
the minstrels who sang about battle and banners
Found
the rude camp-fire crowd had some notion of manners.
Till
Forster (who pelted the people like crooks,
The
Irish with buckshot, the English with books),
Established
the great educational scheme
Of
compulsory schooling, that glorious theme.
Some
learnt how to read, and the others forgot,
And
the back of the cover will tell you the plot.
O
Genius of Business! O marvellous brain,
Come
in place of the priests and the warriors to reign!
O
Will to Get On that makes everything go –
O
Hustle! O Pep! O Publicity!
O!
Shall
I spend three and sixpence to purchase the book,
Which
we all can pick up on the bookstall and look?
Well,
it may appear strange, but I think I shall not,
For
the back of the cover will tell you the plot.
G.K.Chesterton
