ays) bread is a symbol for the Presence of the Life Giver, and
wine a symbol for the Presence of the Life Force.

'I am sure,' cried Turnbull, 'there is no God.'

'But there is,' said Madeleine quietly; 'why, I touched His body this
morning.'

'You touched a bit of bread,' said Turnbull.

'You think it is only a bit of bread,' said the girl.

'I know it is only a bit of bread,' said Turnbull, with violence.

'Then why did you refuse to eat it?' she said.

* * * * *

If 'Orthodoxy' is the finest of Chesterton's essays, 'Browning' the best
of his critical studies, 'The Ballad of the White Horse' the best of his
poems, there is, I think, little doubt that this strange theological
exposition, 'The Ball and the Cross,' is the best of his novels. It
should be read by all rationalists, by all self-satisfied Christians, by
all heretics, by those who are orthodox, and, above all, it should be
read by those millions who pass St. Paul's Cathedral and seldom if ever
give a thought to the 'Ball and the Cross' that has made the title of
Chesterton's best novel.

'THE FLYING INN'

Chesterton is once more a laughing prophet in this book, and he has as
sad a state of things to prophesy as had Jeremiah to the Israelites,
those people who, if it were not that they find a place in the sacred
writings, would be the most silly and futile race of ancient history.

The scene of the story is England, and the last inn is there. We are to
imagine that the non-drinking wine dogma of Islam has permeated England.
It is a sorry state of things when--

'The wicked old women who feel well-bred,
Have turned to a teashop the Saracen's Head.'

The great charm of the book is the poetry that the Irish captain recites
to Pump, the innkeeper, the gallant innkeeper who, against all
opposition, keeps the flag flying and the flagon full. If the book is a
little overdrawn it is, no doubt, because the subject is slightly
farcical; the arguments of the Oriental are well put, and, if the
discussion of the merits of vegetarianism are a little wearisome, the
poetry of a vegetarian is splendid:

'For I stuff away for life
Shoving peas in with a knife,
Because I am at heart a vegetarian.'

Thus, if we observe queer manners at Eustace Miles we shall know the
reason.

No doubt the adventures of the last innkeeper in England would be
wonderful; there would be half-day trips to see him; bishops