A Miscellany of Men

By

G. K. CHESTERTON

NEW YORK

DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY

1912

Copyright, 1912, by

dodd, mead and company

Published November, 1912

Preface

On the essays that follow, two comments may correctly be made: first, that they are written controversially; and second, that they are written badly. Two explanatory replies may be permitted. The first is that they were written at different times of a most crucial English epoch, from the South African War to the first impudences of Eugenics; a time in which the liberal tradition, as I hold it, was not only dying but committing suicide. The second is that I have never felt certain of my writing, but only quite certain of my opinions.

It is a curious question whether a man ought to write when he cannot write well. My own view of it is that in writing, as in singing or dancing or deer-stalking, he can do it—if he can do it. On this matter the modern world makes one enormous mistake. It remembers the mountain and the chasm; it forgets the vastness of the plain. It is true that the Irish Giant was very tall and that General Tom Thumb was very short: but it is quite untrue to suppose that men could be ranked in a smooth ascending slope, like the long side of some low pyramid from Tom Thumb up to the Giant. If all men could be induced to stand in a row for such a scientific comparison (which they could not, I am encouraged to believe) you would find a tall clump of rather tired Giants at one end, and a sudden drop into very vivacious dwarfs at the other: but between the two miles and miles, even hundreds of miles of a sort of rolling and slightly varying level, like Salisbury Plain. That all men are equal is a matter of abstract theory; that most men are equal is a matter of common fact. And as it is with altitude of stature, so it is with altitude in any one of the arts. At the one end there are a few who can do it perfectly; at the other end there are (I am told) a few who can only do it horribly or who cannot do it at all. Between the two stretch the interminable lines of that everlasting legion who can do it. There is such a thing as being able to read and write, being able to sow and reap, being able to play golf or read the Greek alphabet. And the difference between those who can do it and those who can’t do it is much more absolute and abysmal (to a true philosopher) than any difference in the degree of value or vileness with which it is done. I know, as every man knows, the things I can, in this literal sense, do. I can swim: I cannot ride. I can play chess: I cannot play bridge. I can scull: I cannot punt. I can read Greek lettering: I cannot read Arabic lettering. In this strong, sound, fundamental sense, I can write literature; whereas I could not write music. Or, if you like to put it so, I can’t play the piano, but I can play the fool. But the distinction is decisive. I can do it; and therefore I am a trader and not a thief. And I would sooner call myself a journalist than an author; because ...