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"Bud an' Lefty, 'n' say, I guess they can handle you all right, eh? 'N' say, come on, let's cop a sneak before any one butts in d' fire escape for ours, eh?" "Sure!" said Spike, climbing through the window. "Oh, there ain't nobody goin' t' call Hermy Chesterton's brother a quitter." "You bet there ain't!" grinned Larry, "come on, Kid!" "Why, Mr. Geoffrey, what you settin' here in the dark for?"
"No, but my mother was born in England." "You don't say!" exclaimed Mrs. Trapes. "So was I born in the Old Kent Road, Mr. Geoffrey. I came over to N' York thirty long years ago as cook general to Hermy Chesterton's ma. When she went and married again, I left her an' got married myself to Trapes a foreman, Mr. Geoffrey, with a noble 'eart as 'ad wooed me long!" Here Mrs.
Chesterton's sight is erratic, and that what he took to be the sacred thorn was really a Upas-tree. But in a sense that does not matter. He is entitled to his own fable, if he tells it honestly and beautifully; and it is as a tragic fable or romance of the downfall of liberty in England that one reads his History.
Trapes opened the candy box again and, after long and careful deliberation, selected a chocolate with gentle, toil-worn fingers, and putting it in her mouth, sighed her approbation. "They sure are good!" she murmured. "But talkin' o' Hermy Chesterton's ma," she went on after a blissful interval, "I been wondering where you came to meet that b'y Arthur?" "Ah, Mrs.
But in a large way the matured Western outlook upon life has been conditioned by the scientific interpretation of the universe. Chesterton's Two Saints The East has taken an entirely different line; its laboratories have been the laboratories of the soul. The East has had little concern about outside things; it has had an immense concern for its own inner life.
We Socialists are only secondarily politicians. Our primary business is not to impose upon, but to ram right into the substance of that object of Chesterton's solicitude, the circle of ideas of the common man, the idea of the State as his own, as a thing he serves and is served by. We want to add to his sense of property rather than offend it.
We say in our argument that a return to the days of the stage-coach is impossible or that "you cannot turn back the hands of the clock." Now man might return to the stage-coach if that seemed to him the supreme goal of all his effort, just as anyone can follow Chesterton's advice to turn back the hands of the clock if he pleases.
Thus it is that that great struggle for sea-power to which Spain, Portugal, Holland, England, and France all contributed maritime genius and boundless courage, becomes transformed under the half-accidental success of one nation into an almost religious epic of a destined wave-ruler. There could not be a finer British spirit than Mr. Chesterton's fallen friend, the poet Vernède, yet even he writes:
Chesterton's indifference to, if not dislike of, Parliaments. Parliaments are monuments of compromise, and are guilty of the sin of unpicturesqueness. One would imagine that a historian of England who did not care for Parliaments would be as hopelessly out of his element as a historian of Greece who did not care for the arts. And it is because Mr.
Gilbert Chesterton's stories has for its hero a judge who, whilst trying a criminal case, is so overwhelmed by the absurdity of his position and the wickedness of the things it forces him to do, that he throws off the ermine there and then, and goes out into the world to live the life of an honest man instead of that of a cruel idol.
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