He accuses Kipling
of a want of patriotism, which is about as absurd as accusing Chesterton
of a love of politics. But when he says that Kipling only knows England
as a place, he is on safe ground, because England is something that is
not bound by the confines of space.

Not being exactly a champion of Kipling, Chesterton turns to a different
kind of man, George Moore, and has nothing to say for him beyond that he
writes endless personal confessions, which most people do if there are
those who will read them. But not only this, poor George Moore 'doesn't
understand the Roman Catholic Church, he doesn't understand Thackeray,
he misunderstands Stevenson, he has no understanding of Christianity.'
It is, in fact, a hopeless case, but it is also possible that Chesterton
has not troubled to understand George Moore.

Mr. Bernard Shaw is, so Chesterton contends, a really horrible eugenist,
because he wants to get a super-man who, having more than two legs, will
be a vastly superior person to a man. Chesterton loves men. He tells us
why St. Peter was used to found the Church upon. It was because he 'was
a shuffler, a coward, and a snob--in a word, a man.' Even the
Thirty-Nine Articles and the Councils of Trent have failed to find a
better reason for the founding of the Church. It is a defence of the
fallibility of the Church, the practical nature of that Body, an
organization founded by a Man who had Divine powers in a unique way and
was God.

Presumably, then, the mistake of Shaw is that instead of trying to
improve man he wishes to invent a kind of demi-god.

Chesterton has a great deal to say for Christmas; in fact, he has no
sympathy for those superior beings who find Christmas out of date. Even
Swinburne and Shelley have attacked Christianity in the grounds of its
melancholy, showing a lamentable forgetfulness that this religion was
born at a time that had always been a season of joy. Chesterton is
annoyed with them, and is sure that Swinburne did not hang up his socks
on Christmas Eve, nor did Shelley. I wonder whether Chesterton hangs up
his socks on the eve of Christmas?

'Heretics' is a book that deals with a great number of subjects
universal in their scope. The writing is at times too paradoxical,
leading to obscurity of thought. There are splendid passages in this
book, which is, when all is said, brilliantly original, even if at times
a little puzzling.

* * * * *

'Ort