THE HIGHER UNITY

The Rev. Isaiah Bunter has disappeared into the interior of the Solomon Islands, and it is feared that he may have been devoured by the natives, as there has been a considerable revival of religious customs among the Polynesians.A real paragraph from a real Paper; only the names altered.

It was Isaiah Bunter Who sailed to the world's end, And spread religion in a way That he did not intend.

He gave, if not the gospel-feast, At least a ritual meal; And in a highly painful sense He was devoured with zeal.

And who are we (as Henson says) That we should close the door? And should not Evangelicals All jump at shedding Gore?

And many a man will melt in man, Becoming one, not two, When smacks across the startled earth The Kiss of Kikuyu.

When Man is the Turk, and the Atheist, Essene, Erastian[,] Whig, And the Thug and the Druse and the Catholic And the crew of the Captain's gig. (G. K. Chesterton - 1914)

[The reference to "the crew of the Captain's gig" is from the poem "The Yarn of the Nancy Bell" by Gilbert.]

The Aristocrat

(Collected 1915)

G. K. Chesterton

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 hack 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.

The Great Minimum

It is something to have wept as we have wept, It is something to have done as we have done, It is something to have watched when all men slept, And seen the stars which never see the sun.

It is something to have smelt the mystic rose, Although it break and leave the thorny rods, It is something to have hungered once as those Must hunger who have ate the bread of gods.

To have seen you and your unforgotten face, Brave as a blast of trumpets for the fray, Pure as white lilies in a watery space, It were something, though you went from me today.

To have known the things that from the weak are furled, Perilous ancient passions, strange and high; It is something to be wiser than the world, It is something to be older than the sky.

In a time of sceptic moths and cynic rusts, And fattened lives that of their sweetness tire In a world of flying loves and fading lusts, It is something to be sure of a desire.

Lo, blessed are our ears for they have heard; Yea, blessed are our eyes for they have seen: Let the thunder break on man and beast and bird And the lightning. It is something to have been.

G.K.Chesterton

The Song Against Grocers

(From "The Flying Inn", 1914)

God made the wicked Grocer For a mystery and a sign, That men might shun the awful shops And go to inns to dine; Where the bacon's on the rafter And the wine is in the wood, And God that made good laughter Has seen that they are good.

The evil-hearted Grocer Would call his mother "Ma'am," And bow at her and bob at her, Her aged soul to damn, And rub his horrid hands and ask What article was next Though MORTIS IN ARTICULO Should be her proper text.

His props are not his children, But pert lads underpaid, Who call out "Cash!" and bang about To work his wicked trade; He keeps a lady in a cage Most cruelly all day, And makes her count and calls her "Miss" Until she fades away.

The righteous minds of innkeepers Induce them now and then To crack a bottle with a friend Or treat unmoneyed men, But who hath seen the Grocer Treat housemaids to his teas Or crack a bottle of fish sauce Or stand a man a cheese?

He sells us sands of Araby As sugar for cash down; He sweeps his shop and sells the dust The purest salt in town, He crams with cans of poisoned meat Poor subjects of the King, And when they die by thousands Why, he laughs like anything.

The wicked Grocer groces In spirits and in wine, Not frankly and in fellowship As men in inns do dine; But packed with soap and sardines And carried off by grooms, For to be snatched by Duchesses And drunk in dressing-rooms.

The hell-instructed Grocer Has a temple made of tin, And the ruin of good innkeepers Is loudly urged therein; But now the sands are running out From sugar of a sort, The Grocer trembles; for his time, Just like his weight, is short.