All Things Considered
that arises from our English form of the worship of athletics. It
concentrates too much upon the success of individuals. It began, quite
naturally and rightly, with wanting England to win. The second stage
was that it wanted some Englishmen to win. The third stage was (in the
ecstasy and agony of some special competition) that it wanted one
particular Englishman to win. And the fourth stage was that when he had
won, it discovered that he was not even an Englishman.
This is one of the points, I think, on which something might really be
said for Lord Roberts and his rather vague ideas which vary between
rifle clubs and conscription. Whatever may be the advantages or
disadvantages otherwise of the idea, it is at least an idea of
procuring equality and a sort of average in the athletic capacity of
the people; it might conceivably act as a corrective to our mere
tendency to see ourselves in certain exceptional athletes. As it is,
there are millions of Englishmen who really think that they are a
muscular race because C.B. Fry is an Englishman. And there are many of
them who think vaguely that athletics must belong to England because
Ranjitsinhji is an Indian.
But the real historic strength of England, physical and moral, has
never had anything to do with this athletic specialism; it has been
rather hindered by it. Somebody said that the Battle of Waterloo was
won on Eton playing-fields. It was a particularly unfortunate remark,
for the English contribution to the victory of Waterloo depended very
much more than is common in victories upon the steadiness of the rank
and file in an almost desperate situation. The Battle of Waterloo was
won by the stubbornness of the common soldier—that is to say, it was
won by the man who had never been to Eton. It was absurd to say that
Waterloo was won on Eton cricket-fields. But it might have been fairly
said that Waterloo was won on the village green, where clumsy boys
played a very clumsy cricket. In a word, it was the average of the
nation that was strong, and athletic glories do not indicate much about
the average of a nation. Waterloo was not won by good cricket-players.
But Waterloo was won by bad cricket-players, by a mass of men who had
some minimum of athletic instincts and habits.
It is a good sign in a nation when such things are done badly. It shows
that all the people are doing them. And it is a bad sign in a nation
when such things are done very well, for it shows that only a few
experts and eccentrics are doing them, and that the nation is merely
looking on. Suppose that whenever we heard of walking in England it
always meant walking forty-five miles a day without fatigue. We should
be perfectly certain that only a few men were walking at all, and that
all the other British subjects were being wheeled about in Bath-chairs.
But if when we hear of walking it means slow walking, painful walking,
and frequent fatigue, then we know that the mass of the nation still is
walking. We know that England is still literally on its feet.
The difficulty is therefore that the actual raising of the standard of
athletics has probably been bad for national athleticism. Instead of
the tournament being a healthy _mêlée_ into which any ordinary man
would rush and take his chance, it has become a fenced and guarded
tilting-yard for the collision of particular champions against whom no
ordinary man would pit himself or even be permitted to pit himself. If
Waterloo was won on Eton cricket-fields it was because Eton cricket was
probably much more careless then than it is now. As long as the game
was a game, everybody wanted to join in it. When it becomes an art,
every one wants to look at it. When it was frivolous it may have won
Waterloo: when it was serious and efficient it lost Magersfontein.
In the Waterloo period there was a general rough-and-tumble athleticism
among average Englishmen. It cannot be re-created by cricket, or by
conscription, or by any artificial means. It was a thing of the soul.
It came out of laughter, religion, and the spirit of the place. But it
was like the modern French duel in this—that it might happen to
anybody. If I were a French journalist it might really happen that
Monsieur Clemenceau might challenge me to meet him with pistols. But I
do not think that it is at all likely that Mr. C. B. Fry will ever
challenge me to meet him with cricket-bats.
AN ESSAY ON TWO CITIES
A little while ago I fell out of England into the town of Paris. If a
man fell out of the moon into the town of Paris he would know that it
was the capital of a great nation. If, however, he fell (perhaps off
some other side of the moon) so as to hit the city of London, he would
not know so well that it was the capital of a great nation; at any
rate, he would not know that the nation was so great as it is. This
would be so even on the assumption that the man from the moon could not
read our alphabet, as presumably he could not, unless elementary
education in that planet has gone to rather unsuspected lengths. But it
is true that a great part of the distinctive quality which separates
Paris from London may be even seen in the names. Real democrats always
insist that England is an aristocratic country. Real aristocrats always
insist (for some mysterious reason) that it is a democratic country.
But if any one has any real doubt about the matter let him consider
simply the names of the streets. Nearly all the streets out of the
Strand, for instance, are named after the first name, second name,
third name, fourth, fifth, and sixth names of some particular noble
family; after their relations, connections, or places of
residence—Arundel Street, Norfolk Street, Villiers Street, Bedford
Street, Southampton Street, and any number of others. The names are
varied, so as to introduce the same family under all sorts of different
surnames. Thus we have Arundel Street and also Norfolk Street; thus we
have Buckingham Street and also Villiers Street. To say that this is
not aristocracy is simply intellectual impudence. I am an ordinary
citizen, and my name is Gilbert Keith Chesterton; and I confess that if
I found three streets in a row in the Strand, the first called Gilbert
Street, the second Keith Street, and the third Chesterton Street, I
should consider that I had become a somewhat more important person in
the commonwealth than was altogether good for its health. If Frenchmen
ran London (which God forbid!), they would think it quite as ludicrous
that those streets should be named after the Duke of Buckingham as that
they should be named after me. They are streets out of one of the main
thoroughfares of London. If French methods were adopted, one of them
would be called Shakspere Street, another Cromwell Street, another
Wordsworth Street; there would be statues of each of these persons at
the end of each of these streets, and any streets left over would be
named after the date on which the Reform Bill was passed or the Penny
Postage established.
Suppose a man tried to find people in London by the names of the
places. It would make a fine farce, illustrating our illogicality. Our
hero having once realised that Buckingham Street was named after the
Buckingham family, would naturally walk into Buckingham Palace in
search of the Duke of Buckingham. To his astonishment he would meet
somebody quite different. His simple lunar logic would lead him to
suppose that if he wanted the Duke of Marlborough (which seems
unlikely) he would find him at Marlborough House. He would find the
Prince of Wales. When at last he understood that the Marlboroughs live
at Blenheim, named after the great Marlborough’s victory, he would, no
doubt, go there. But he would again find himself in error if, acting
upon this principle, he tried to find the Duke of Wellington, and told
the cabman to drive to Waterloo. I wonder that no one has written a
wild romance about the adventures of such an alien, seeking the great
English aristocrats, and only guided by the names; looking for the Duke
of Bedford in the town of that name, seeking for some trace of the Duke
of Norfolk in Norfolk. He might sail for Wellington in New Zealand to
find the ancient seat of the Wellingtons. The last scene might show him
trying to learn Welsh in order to converse with the Prince of Wales.
But even if the imaginary traveller knew no alphabet of this earth at
all, I think it would still be possible to suppose him seeing a
difference between London and Paris, and, upon the whole, the real
difference. He would not be able to read the words “Quai Voltaire;” but
he would see the sneering statue and the hard, straight roads; without
having heard of Voltaire he would understand that the city was
Voltairean. He would not know that Fleet Street was named after the
Fleet Prison. But the same national spirit which kept the Fleet Prison
closed and narrow still keeps Fleet Street closed and narrow. Or, if
you will, you may call Fleet Street cosy, and the Fleet Prison cosy. I
think I could be more comfortable in the Fleet Prison, in an English
way of comfort, than just under the statue of Voltaire. I think that
the man from the moon would know France without knowing French; I think
that he would know England without having heard the word. For in the
last resort all men talk by signs. To talk by statues is to talk by
signs; to talk by cities is to talk by signs. Pillars, palaces,
cathedrals, temples, pyramids, are an enormous dumb alphabet: as if
some giant held up his fingers of stone. The most important things at
the last are always said by signs, even if, like the Cross on St.
Paul’s, they are signs in heaven. If men do not understand signs, they
will never understand words.
For my part, I should be inclined to suggest that the chief object of
education should be to restore simplicity. If you like to put it so,
the chief object of education is not to learn things; nay, the chief
object of education is to unlearn things. The chief object of education
is to unlearn all the weariness and wickedness of the world and to get
back into that state of exhilaration we all instinctively celebrate
when we write by preference of children and of boys. If I were an
examiner appointed to examine all examiners (which does not at present
appear probable), I would not only ask the teachers how much knowledge
they had imparted; I would ask them how much splendid and scornful
ignorance they had erected, like some royal tower in arms. But, in any
case, I would insist that people should have so much simplicity as
would enable them to see things suddenly and to see things as they are.
I do not care so much whether they can read the names over the shops. I
do care very much whether they can read the shops. I do not feel deeply
troubled as to whether they can tell where London is on the map so long
as they can tell where Brixton is on the way home. I do not even mind
whether they can put two and two together in the mathematical sense; I
am content if they can put two and two together in the metaphorical
sense. But all this longer statement of an obvious view comes back to
the metaphor I have employed. I do not care a dump whether they know
the alphabet, so long as they know the dumb alphabet.
Unfortunately, I have noticed in many aspects of our popular education
that this is not done at all. One teaches our London children to see
London with abrupt and simple eyes. And London is far more difficult to
see properly than any other place. London is a riddle. Paris is an
explanation. The education of the Parisian child is something
corresponding to the clear avenues and the exact squares of Paris. When
the Parisian boy has done learning about the French reason and the
Roman order he can go out and see the thing repeated in the shapes of