Mr. Cyril Clemens’ book about Gilbert Chesterton is of an unusual and, to my taste, a deeply interesting sort. Some one has remarked that the most satisfactory biographies were those in which the letters and journals of the subject bulked largest, since these, telling their own tale, showed the man better than any biographer could do it. Mr. Clemens has assembled a vast number of other people’s memories and appreciations of G. K. C.; and it may be said that they show the attitude of his contemporaries towards him better than any individual critic could describe it.

There is a remarkable note of unanimity in these personal recollections and judgments. There are differences of view about the value of G. K. C.’s work; about the relative importance of this or that of its many aspects; about his matter or style in lecturing; about the quality of his wit, and many points more. But as to the nature of the man as he was there is hardly any difference at all. He won the hearts of those who met him because of his manifest goodness of heart and happiness of temper; these things were as apparent to all who came near him as was his physical being.

I do not imagine that Mr. Clemens asked me to write this introduction with the idea of my setting forth any opinions about the place of G. K. C. in our literature. I could offer none of any critical value, because for me the man and his work have always been one, and I have been for most of my life intensely prejudiced in favour of the man. Mr. Clemens knew of me, I suppose, as a boyhood friend of G. K. C.—as I appear in his Autobiography—and perhaps as having dedicated a book of mine to him in terms which told some fraction of what my feeling towards him was. I may, then, say now that I first met him at that time of life when personal influence counts for most, and one’s nature is in the making for good or evil. His friendship was the best thing that ever happened to me, and I have always thanked God for it.

Essential goodness, perfect sincerity, chivalrous generosity, boundless good-temper, a total absence of self-esteem—these are lovable traits; and with them, even in boyhood, were united brilliant intellectual powers and an enormous gift of humor. The effect of it all on an impressionable youth of fifteen or so can perhaps be guessed. For years we were as near to each other as it is possible for friends to be, I think; but there was no one who knew him even slightly that did not feel something of the spiritual attraction that he exercised—always in utter unconsciousness of it.

G. K. C. was too conspicuously unlike the ordinary boy to be popular, in the sense of being on the best of terms with all and sundry. He was without any desire to excel or take the lead in any direction. He was unconscious of the very existence of games. He was steeped in literature and art; and he could, at need, be perfectly happy with his own thoughts and the fruits of his imagination. He was, on the other hand, not unpopular; it was impossible for even an ill-natured boy, I should think, to dislike him; but his circle of friends was small in those early days. I have written something about this time of our lives to Mr. Clemens who has quoted it at the outset of this book. What I have been saying in this place is an attempt to express what Gilbert Chesterton meant to me.

That circle of friends which was so small was to become as wide as any man’s of our time, as the recognition of his genius increased, and the magic of his personality gained greater scope. No death can ever have been mourned with a deeper sincerity of personal affection by so many, in his own country and in others.