I Introduce Hilaire Belloc

Today is a Wednesday, an auspicious day on which one of the dearest people in the world, and the now-dead French-English ex-Parliamentarian curmudgeon, democrat and gentleman Hilaire Belloc were both born. He lived from July 27th, 1870, to some date or other in 1953. Every Wednesday I shall introduce a snippet of the man's life, writings, or poetry, for he deserves to be remembered by any one who loves religion and small things.

The following passage I copy from a passage in Robert Speaight's excellent biography published in 1957. Speaight is translating a preface by Belloc's Oxford undergraduate friend, F. Y. Eccles, to the French edition of Belloc's Essay on the Nature of Contemporary England.

In our little group we never tired of getting him to tell us about his experiences, and he needed no invitation to do so. He would talk about himself without the slightest trace of boasting; but he talked, and as he talked about everything else, with a frankness and a spontaneity, as admirable as they were rare. It was no doubt this marvelous facility of speech which made Hilaire Belloc's reputation at Oxford. Those who knew him superficially remarked that in whatever society he happened to be, he talked more than anybody else; they said this before realising that he talked better and more to the point, and before seeing that there was more substance in what he said. It was not, with him, a matter of mere verbal incontinence, a need to hold the floor and a desire to impose his point of view. Even when he was very young, he always respected the convictions of other people when they were sincerely held. His abundant speech not only conveyed the vividness of his impressions; it also sorted out his ideas. No one would have described him as erudite, but he knew a great many things, and there was more of reflexion than of reading in his mind. He might be talking about poetry or morality, history or gastronomy, navigation or politics, but he expressed himself with a fine decision. He thought his subject out to the end, and his judgments, which were sometimes rash or excessive, though never without foundation, hung together remarkably well. There was a sort of family air about them. The Oxford youth were not much given to general ideas, and it was this, very Latin, trait, which distinguished the conversation of my friend. However, one must not suppose that this vigorous young man of 22 was always serious. On the contrary, he was the gayest of companions...we laughed together a great deal; our conversation was extremely free; we ragged each other; and we sang at the tops of our voices. We feasted and smoked together, we went out for walk and excursions, and nothing could have been happier or more high-spirited. Belloc was never attracted by organised games, but he was indefatigable on foot, on horseback, or in the water. He was especially keen on sailing and canoeing up the river - waiting until he could have a little yacht of his own...Those were good times.

I would comment, but I've got to dash off to the first read-through of The Taming of the Shrew.