ered a great artist; I do not know
whether it is a pity that he does not do more drawing; I do not know
whether he can really be called an artist in the modern sense at
all--but I do know that at his home there are many indications that he
likes drawing, especially sketches of a fantastic nature.

Chesterton does nearly all his work in his little study, a sanctum
littered with innumerable manuscripts. He, like most authors of the day,
dictates to a secretary, who types what he says. It is, I think, in many
ways a pity that so many authors type their manuscripts; for not only
are they machine-made, they have not the interest that they should have
for posterity. What would the British Museum have lost if all the
manuscripts had been typewritten! Chesterton's written hand is extremely
elegant. At one time I believe he used to write his own manuscripts. The
typewriter is, after all, but one more indication that we live in times
when nothing is done except by some kind of machinery; all the same, I
could wish that even if typewriters are used famous authors would keep
one copy of their writings in their own hand.

It is remarkable the amount of work that Chesterton gets through. He has
masses of correspondence, he has articles to write, books to get ready
for press, and yet he finds time to help in local theatricals, to give
lectures in places as wide apart as Oxford and America (and what is
wider in every way than those two places?), that mean all that is best
in the ancient world and all that is best in the modern. He can also
find time to take a long tour to Palestine to find the New Jerusalem,
that city that Christ wept over, not because it was to be razed to the
ground, but because its inhabitants were fools.

What are the general impressions that a stranger visiting Chesterton
would get? He would, I think, be impressed by his genial kindliness; he
would be amazed by his extraordinary powers of memory and the depths of
his reading; he would be gratified by the interest that Chesterton
displays in him; he would be charmed by the quaintness of his home. That
Chesterton has humour is abundant by his conversation; that he has
pathos is not so apparent. I am not perfectly sure that he can
appreciate the things that make ordinary men sad. It has been said that
he is not concerned with the facts of everyday life; if he is not, it is
because he can see beyond them--he can see that this is a good world,
which makes him a good