eet together but never do
anything. For Chesterton has not yet asked us to do anything, he only
requests Parliament to refrain. He supports no political programme. He
is opposed to Party Government, which is government by the Government.
He is in favour of Home Rule, it may be inferred; and of making things
nasty for the Jews, it may be supposed. But he does not poach on the
leader-writers' preserves, and his political programme is left hazy.
His opposition to Liberal proposals brings him near the Tories. If the
Liberals continue in power for a few years longer, and Home Rule drops
out of the things opposed by Tories, the latter may well find Chesterton
among their doubtful assets. He will probably continue to call himself a
Liberal and a "child of the French Revolution," but that will be only
his fun. For the interesting abortions to which the French Revolution
gave birth--well, they are quite another story.

Chesterton is a warm supporter of the queerly mixed proposals that are
known as the "rights of small nationalities," and the smaller the
nationality, the more warmly he supports (so he would have us believe)
its demand for self-government. Big fleas have little fleas, alas, and
that is the difficulty he does not confront. For Home Rule carried to
its final sub-division is simply home rule; the independence of homes.
Political Home Rule is only assented to on general principles;
apparently on the ground that on the day when an Englishman's home
really does become his castle he will not, so to speak, mind much
whether he is an Englishman or an Irishman.

And here we may bid farewell to the politician who is Chesterton. His
politics are like his perverse definitions of the meaning of such words
as progress and reform. He is like a child who plays about with the
hands of a clock, and makes the surprising discovery that some clocks
may be made to tell a time that does not exist--with the small hand at
twelve and the large at six, for example. Also that if a clock goes
fast, it comes to register an hour behind the true time, and the other
way round. And so Chesterton goes on playing with the times, until at
last a horrid suspicion grips us. What if he cannot tell the time
himself?

VIII

A DECADENT OF SORTS

AN idea, if treated gently, may be brought up to perform many useful
tasks. It is, however, apt to pine in solitude, and should be allowed to
enjoy the company of others of its own kind. It is much eas