R.L.S. and G.K.C.

Abstract

Mr. Chesterton derives a divine joy from the use of words. ‘ Thunder-throated hounds,’ ‘ starspotted, violet leopards,’ ‘ torchlight crimson on the copper kettle-drums,’ ‘ red rust like crawling gore,’ ‘ dim drums throbbing,’ ‘ strong gongs groaning as the guns boom far’ are phrases that, like the rare wine of Montefiascone, he loves to roll on his tongue with a beatific relish. He wrote with praiseworthy humility, yet needless regret in the verse which runs :

Words, for alas my trade is words, a barren burst Rubbed by a hundred rhymes,

Rubbed by a hundred rhymsters, battered a thousand times,

Take them, you, that smile on strings, those nobler sounds than mine,

The words that never lie, or brag, or flatter, or malign.