  Most people have read G. K. Chesterton's prose, many people have read the drinking songs in The Flying Inn, some people have read his collected Poems, and a few, only too few, have read the work by which he will probably be remembered when all the rest of his work is dead. The Ballad of the White Horse was first published in 1911 and is, as might be expected, a vindication of Christianity. "I say, as do all Christian men, that it is a divine purpose that rules, and not Fate," he quotes as his motto. He dedicates the poem to his wife because of "the sign that hangs about your neck": "Therefore I bring these rhymes to you, Who brought the cross to me." Before we have read five pages we realise that here is at last a ballad which is not a spurious imitation. It rings clear, clean and true. We see Alfred beaten to his knees by "a sea-folk blinder than the sea," almost broken-hearted, beseeching the Virgin Mary for a sign. "'Mother of God,' the wanderer said, 'I am but a common king, Nor will I ask what saints may ask, To see a secret thing.... But for this earth most pitiful, This little land I know, If that which is for ever is, Or if our hearts shall break with bliss, Seeing the stranger go? When our last bow is broken, Queen, Under some sad, green evening sky, Holding a ruined cross on high, Under warm westland grass to lie, Shall we come home at last?'" And she answers: "'I tell you naught for your comfort, Yea, naught for your desire, Save that the sky grows darker yet And the sea rises higher. Night shall be thrice night over you, And heaven an iron cope. Do you have joy without a cause, Yea, faith without a hope?'" Stirred by this message, Alfred sets out yet again to stir zeal in his chiefs for the causeless cause. "Up across windy wastes and up Went Alfred over the shaws, Shaken of the joy of giants, The joy without a cause.... The King went gathering Christian men, As wheat out of the husk; Eldred, the Franklin by the sea, And Mark, the man from Italy, And Colan of the Sacred Tree, From the old tribe on Usk." We are first given a picture of Eldred's farm fallen awry, "Like an old cripple's bones," with its purple thistles bursting up between the kitchen stones. But Eldred, the red-faced, bulky tun is sick of fighting. "'Come not to me, King Alfred, Save always for the ale.... Your scalds still thunder and prophesy That crown that never comes; Friend, I will watch the certain things, Swine, and slow moons like silver rings, And the ripening of the plums.'" Alfred merely repeats the message of the Virgin Mary, tells him where to meet him and goes away certain of his help. He next goes to Mark's farm, the low, white house in the southland, inhabited by the bronzed man with a bird's beak and a bird's bright eye. "His fruit trees stood like soldiers Drilled in a straight line, His strange, stiff olives did not fail, And all the kings of the earth drank ale, But he drank wine." Alfred gives his message and the Roman answers: "'Guthrum sits strong on either bank And you must press his lines Inwards, and eastward drive him down; I doubt if you shall take the crown Till you have taken London town. For me, I have the vines.'" But Alfred is certain of his help too and goes on to the lost land of boulders and broken men, where dwells Colan of Caerleon: "Last of a race in ruin— He spoke the speech of the Gaels; His kin were in holy Ireland, Or up in the crags of Wales.... He made the sign of the cross of God, He knew the Roman prayer, But he had unreason in his heart Because of the gods that were.... Gods of unbearable beauty That broke the hearts of men." He ridicules Alfred until he hears the warning: " ... that the sky grows darker yet And the sea rises higher." Then he tosses his black mane on high and cries: "'And if the sea and sky be foes, We will tame the sea and sky.'" And so Alfred is sure too of his help. Alfred is then taken by the Danes as he is playing on his harp to the camp of Guthrum and there is made to sing and play again: "And leaving all later hates unsaid, He sang of some old British raid On the wild west march of yore. He sang of war in the warm wet shires, Where rain nor fruitage fails, Where England of the motley states Deepens like a garden to the gates In the purple walls of Wales." He sang until Harold, Guthrum's nephew, snatched the harp from him and began in his turn to sing of ships and the sea and material delights: "'Great wine like blood from Burgundy, Cloaks like the clouds from Tyre, And marble like solid moonlight, And gold like frozen fire.'" Elf the minstrel then took the instrument: "And as he stirred the strings of the harp To notes but four or five, The heart of each man moved in him Like a babe buried alive." He sang of Balder beautiful, whom the heavens could not save ... and finishes with these two peerlessly beautiful verses: "'There is always a thing forgotten When all the world goes well; A thing forgotten, as long ago When the gods forgot the mistletoe, And soundless as an arrow of snow The arrow of anguish fell. The thing on the blind side of the heart, On the wrong side of the door, The green plant groweth, menacing Almighty lovers in the spring; There is always a forgotten thing, And love is not secure.'" Earl Ogier of the Stone and Sling next took the harp and sang in praise of "Fury, that does not fail": "'There lives one moment for a man When the door at his shoulder shakes, When the taut rope parts under the pull, And the barest branch is beautiful One moment, while it breaks.... And you that sit by the fire are young, And true loves wait for you; But the King and I grow old, grow old, And hate alone is true.'" Guthrum in his turn takes the great harp wearily and sings of death: "'For this is a heavy matter, And the truth is cold to tell; Do we not know, have we not heard, The soul is like a lost bird, The body a broken shell.... Strong are the Roman roses, Or the free flowers of the heath, But every flower, like a flower of the sea, Smelleth with the salt of death. And the heart of the locked battle Is the happiest place for men.... Death blazes bright above the cup, But in that dream of battle We seem to tread it down. Wherefore I am a great king, And waste the world in vain, Because man hath not other power, Save that in dealing death for dower, He may forget it for an hour To remember it again.'" And then Alfred seizes it again and triumphantly, scornfully, sings his pÆan in praise of his own creed: "'But though I lie on the floor of the world, With the seven sins for rods, I would rather fall with Adam Than rise with all your gods. What have the strong gods given? Where have the glad gods led? When Guthrum sits on a hero's throne And asks if he is dead?... ... Though you hunt the Christian man Like a hare on the hill-side, The hare has still more heart to run Than you have heart to ride.... Our monks go robed in rain and snow, But the heart of flame therein, But you go clothed in feasts and flames, When all is ice within; ... Ere the sad gods that made your gods Saw their sad sunrise pass, The White Horse of the White Horse Vale, That you have left to darken and fail, Was cut out of the grass. Therefore your end is on you, Is on you and your kings, Not for a fire in Ely fen, Not that your gods are nine or ten, But because it is only Christian men Guard even heathen things.'" Alfred then goes away and is struck by the woman in the forest for letting her cakes blacken. "'He that hath failed in a little thing Hath a sign upon the brow; And the Earls of the Great Army Have no such seal to show.... ... I am the first king known of heaven That has been struck like a slave.'" He takes the blow as a good omen: "'For he that is struck for an ill servant Should be a kind lord.'" He collects his followers and they go roaring over the Roman wall and fall upon the Danes at Ethandune. In the first phase we see Alfred's men waking to the realisation of the high folly of the fight and despair clawing at their hearts. "For the Saxon Franklin sorrowed For the things that had been fair, For the dear dead women, crimson clad, And the great feasts and the friends he had; But the Celtic prince's soul was sad For the things that never were." Alfred asks for his people's prayers and the Roman Mark proudly says: "'Lift not my head from bloody ground, Bear not my body home, For all the earth is Roman earth And I shall die in Rome.'" Harold then comes forward in gay colours smoking with oil and musk, and taunts the ragged Colan with the rusty sword: he takes his bow and shoots an arrow at Colan, who sprang aside and whirled his sword round his head and let it sweep out of his hand on to Harold's head. The Dane fell dead and Alfred gave his own sword to Colan and himself seized a rude axe from a hind hard by and turned to the fray. In Book VI., "The Slaying of the Chiefs," we are first "But while he moved like a massacre He murmured as in sleep, And his words were all of low hedges And little fields and sheep. Even as he strode like a pestilence, That strides from Rhine to Rome, He thought how tall his beans might be If ever he went home." But in the end the sword broke in his hand and he falls to the seventh "faerie blade" of Elf the minstrel. "Six spears thrust upon Eldred Were splintered while he laughed; One spear thrust into Eldred, Three feet of blade and shaft." But he was soon avenged by Mark: "Right on the Roman shield and sword Did spear of the Rhine maids run; But the shield shifted never, The sword rang down to sever, The great Rhine sang for ever, And the songs of Elf were done." Ogier in his turn avenges Elf: The Danes in their triumph sing: "'No more shall the brown men of the south Move like the ants in lines, To quiet men with olives Or madden men with vines.' There was that in the wild men back of him [Ogier], There was that in his own wild song, A dizzy throbbing, a drunkard smoke, That dazed to death all Wessex folk, And swept their spears along. Vainly the sword of Colan And the axe of Alfred plied— The Danes poured in like brainless plague, And knew not when they died. Prince Colan slew a score of them, And was stricken to his knee; King Alfred slew a score and seven And was borne back on a tree." The King was beaten, blind, at bay, and we are taken on to Book VII., "The Last Change," where Alfred is compared to a small child building one tower in vain, piling up small stones to make a town, and evermore the stones fall down and he piles them up again. "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. For Eldred fought like a frank hunter That killeth and goeth home; And Mark had fought because all arms Rang like the name of Rome. And Colan fought with a double mind, Moody and madly gay; But Alfred fought as gravely He saw wheels break and work run back And all things as they were; And his heart was orbed like victory And simple like despair. Therefore is 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." And so Alfred began his life once more and took his ivory horn unslung and smiled, but not in scorn: "'Endeth the Battle of Ethandune With the blowing of a horn.'" He collects his remnants and incites them to a last desperate effort: "'To grow old cowed in a conquered land, With the sun itself discrowned, To see trees crouch and cattle slink— Death is a better ale to drink, And by high Death on the fell brink, That flagon shall go round.' ... And the King held up the horn and said: 'See ye my father's horn, That Egbert blew in his empery, Once, when he rode out commonly, Twice when he rode for venery, And thrice on the battle-morn.'" So " ... the last charge went blindly, The Danes closed round, a roaring ring, And twenty clubs rose o'er the King, Four Danes hewed at him, halloing, And Ogier of the Stone and Sling Drove at him with a spear." But the Danes were careless, and Alfred split Ogier to the spine: the tide miraculously turned and the Danes gave way and retreated clamouring, disorderly: "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." So at last the sign of the cross was put on Guthrum and "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." And in the last book, "The Scouring of the White Horse," we see Alfred at peace again. "In the days of the rest of Alfred, When all these things were done, And Wessex lay in a patch of peace, Like a dog in a patch of sun— The King sat in his orchard, Among apples green and red, With the little book in his bosom And the sunshine on his head." And he gathered the songs of simple men, and gave alms, and "gat good laws of the ancient kings like treasure out of the tombs"; and men came from the ends of the earth and went out to the ends of the earth because of the word of the King. "And men, seeing such embassies, 'The steel that sang so sweet a tune On Ashdown and on Ethandune, Why hangs it scabbarded so soon, All heavily like lead?'" They asked: "Why dwell the Danes in North England and up to the river ride?" "And 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. ... But I am a common king, And I will make my fences tough From Wantage Town to Plymouth Bluff, Because I am not wise enough To rule so small a thing.'" He only commands his men to keep the White Horse white. Rumour of the Danes to the eastward, Danes wasting the world about the Thames reaches him, but Alfred only points to the White Horse. "'Will ye part with the weeds for ever? Or show daisies to the door? Or will you b id the bold grass Go, and return no more?... And though skies alter and empires melt, This word shall still be true: If we would have the horse of old, But now I wot if ye scour not well Red rust shall grow on God's great bell And grass in the streets of God.'" He has a vision that the heathen will 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.... 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.... When is great talk of trend and tide, And wisdom and destiny, Hail that undying heathen That is sadder than the sea.'" He sees no more, but rides out doubtfully to his last war on a tall grey horse at dawn. "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.... And clover and silent thistle throve, And buds burst silently, With little care for the Thames Valley Or what things there might be." And the King took London Town. I have given enough illustrations to show the masculine strength and virility of this amazing poem. We read G. K. Chesterton for his wit, for his brilliance, for his delightful paradoxes, for his sanity and wholesomeness, but we read him most of all for his brave creed, for his defence of Christianity and his love for the eternal values of honour, uprightness, courage, loyalty and devotion, for his steadfast adherence to whatsoever things are of good report. |
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