G K Chesterton

All Things Considered G K Chesterton

A writer in the Yorkshire Evening Post is very angry indeed with my performances in this column. His precise terms of reproach are, "Mr. G. K. Chesterton is not a humourist: not even a Cockneyhumourist." I do not mind his saying that I am not a humourist-in which (to tell the truth) I thinkhe is quite right. But I do resent his saying that I am not a Cockney. That envenomed arrow, I admit, went home. If a French writer said of me, "He is no metaphysician: not even an Englishmetaphysician," I could swallow the insult to my metaphysics, but I should feel angry about theinsult to my country. So I do not urge that I am a humourist; but I do insist that I am a Cockney. If Iwere a humourist, I should certainly be a Cockney humourist; if I were a saint, I should certainly bea Cockney saint. I need not recite the splendid catalogue of Cockney saints who have written theirnames on our noble old City churches. I need not trouble you with the long list of the Cockneyhumourists who have discharged their bills (or failed to discharge them) in our noble old Citytaverns. We can weep together over the pathos of the poor Yorkshireman, whose county has neverproduced some humour not intelligible to the rest of the world. And we can smile together when hesays that somebody or other is "not even" a Cockney humourist like Samuel Johnson or CharlesLamb. It is surely sufficiently obvious that all the best humour that exists in our language is Cockneyhumour. Chaucer was a Cockney; he had his house close to the Abbey. Dickens was a Cockney; hesaid he could not think without the London streets. The London taverns heard always the quaintestconversation, whether it was Ben Johnson's at the Mermaid or Sam Johnson's at the Cock. Even inour own time it may be noted that the most vital and genuine humour is still written about London. Of this type is the mild and humane irony which marks Mr. Pett Ridge's studies of the small greystreets. Of this type is the simple but smashing laughter of the best tales of Mr. W. W. Jacobs, tellingof the smoke and sparkle of the Thames. No; I concede that I am not a Cockney humourist. No; Iam not worthy to be. Some time, after sad and strenuous after-lives; some time, after fierce andapocalyptic incarnations; in some strange world beyond the stars, I may become at last a Cockneyhumourist. In that potential paradise I may walk among the Cockney humourists, if not an equal, atleast a companion. I may feel for a moment on my shoulder the hearty hand of Dryden and threadthe labyrinths of the sweet insanity of Lamb. But that could only be if I were not only muchcleverer, but much better than I am. Before I reach that sphere I shall have left behind, perhaps, thesphere that is inhabited by angels, and even passed that which is appropriated exclusively to the useof Yorkshiremen