htful
air of brilliancy and satire, about dogs and grocers and that peculiar
king of the Jews, Nebuchadnezzar, who, when he is spoken of by scholars,
alters his name to Nebuchadrezzar. We have but room for one quotation,
and the place of honour must be given to the epic of the grocer who,
like many of other trades, makes a fortune by giving short weights:

'The Hell-Instructed Grocer
Has a Temple made of Tin,
And the Ruin of good innkeepers
Is loudly urged therein;
But now the sands are running out
From sugar of a sort,
The Grocer trembles, for his time,
Just like his weight, is short.'

* * * * *

The hymn that Mr. Chesterton has written, called 'O God of Earth and
Altar,' is unfortunately so good and so entirely sensible that the
clergy on the whole have not used it much; rather they prefer to sing of
heaven with a golden floor and a gate of pearl, ignoring a really fine
hymn that pictures God as a sensible Being and not a Lord Chief Justice
either of sickly sentimentality or of the type of a Judge Jeffreys.

It must be said that to many people who know Chesterton he is first and
foremost an essayist and lastly a poet. The reason is that he has
written comparatively little serious poetry; this is, I think, rather a
pity--not that quantity is always consistent with quality, but that in
some way it may not be too much to say that Chesterton is the best poet
of the day; and I do not forget that he has as contemporaries Alfred
Noyes and Walter de la Mare.

The strong characteristic of his poetry, as I have said, is the wealth
of language; to this must be added the exceedingly pleasant rhythm that
runs as easily as a well-oiled bicycle. If Mr. Chesterton is not known
to posterity as one of the leading poets of the twentieth century it
will be because his prose is so well known that his poetry is rather
crowded out.

_Chapter Seven_

THE PLAYWRIGHT

Nearly eight years ago all literary and dramatic London focused its eyes
on a theatre that was known as the Little Theatre. On the night of
November 7th the critics might have been seen making their way along
John Street with just the faintest suspicion of mirth in their eyes.

The reason was that the most eccentric genius of the day had written a
play, and it was to be produced that night, and had the name of MAGIC, a
title that might indicate something that turned princes into w