They are very like that grey and gaping head of stone that I
found overgrown with the grass. Yet I will venture to make
even of these trivial fragments the high boast that I am
a medievalist and not a modern. That is, I really have a notion
of why I have collected all the nonsensical things there are.
I have not the patience nor perhaps the constructive intelligence
to state the connecting link between all these chaotic papers.
But it could be stated. This row of shapeless and ungainly monsters
which I now set before the reader does not consist of separate
idols cut out capriciously in lonely valleys or various islands.
These monsters are meant for the gargoyles of a definite cathedral.
I have to carve the gargoyles, because I can carve nothing else;
I leave to others the angels and the arches and the spires.
But I am very sure of the style of the architecture, and of the
consecration of the church.
The Surrender of a Cockney
Evert man, though he were born in the very belfry of Bow and spent
his infancy climbing among chimneys, has waiting for him somewhere
a country house which he has never seen; but which was built for him
in the very shape of his soul. It stands patiently waiting to be found,
knee-deep in orchards of Kent or mirrored in pools of Lincoln;
and when the man sees it he remembers it, though he has never seen
it before. Even I have been forced to confess this at last, who am
a Cockney, if ever there was one, a Cockney not only on principle,
but with savage pride.
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