was too ascetic, and at another time it caused bloody
revolt because it was worldly and luxurious. I need not pursue this
question, for the "orthodoxy" which Mr. Chesterton defends is not the
teaching of the Christian Churches. At first sight it seems to be
anarchy modified by mysticism and friendship for persons. But it is
more than that. Negatively it is a protest against false culture and
cant, and we cannot fail to see that it is at the same time a protest
against that virtue which is the predecessor of false culture--the
incessant, arduous effort to seek truth with the help of the intellect
and the reason. Positively, it champions the spiritual perceptions on
the one hand, and the physical sensations on the other--the
excellences of the manifold activities of the human body and soul.
Both in his view provide the proper avenues of truth. Every spiritual
emotion and every animal passion are in themselves good and excellent.
For him the struggle of life resolves itself into a romantic game,
with immortality as its conclusion. The one discipline which he
upholds, the only precept he has really taken from Christianity, is
that arising from love for your neighbour. That unnamable quality in
life which in every deeper feeling and every keen perception lights
the spirit and charges it with intuitive knowledge is in his
philosophy the love of God and the source of the love for persons.

V

SOME MODERN POETS

A few years ago it was the fashion to lament the dearth of promising
authors, especially poets. But since then we have assured ourselves
that we are still, after all, a poetical people. The reproach against
the age was taken as a challenge by dozens of young adventurers, who
resolved to prove in their own persons that the twentieth century was
not without poets. Tiny volumes of verse fluttered forth from the
press. Poetry Societies were started, and Poetry Reviews, and men and
women met in the darkened hall of Clifford's Inn to hear Mr. Sturge
Moore declaim sonorous verses. Publishers began to advertise new
genius, and reviewers began to attend to poetry as if it were really a
serious business. The opening pages of _The English Review_ were
devoted to poems which seemed to be appreciated in proportion to their
ever-increasing length. Mr. John Masefield had a success such as had
been attained by no poet since Stephen Phillips in his prime. It is
true that Mr. W.H. Davies might have starved if he had not receiv