mouth.

The peculiar half-official half-private direction of Broadcasting
House is based on a theory of strict impartiality towards all
opinions and an attempt simply to give the public the programmes that
the public wants. Whether it is possible to maintain such a position
is another question: that this is the theory there is no doubt--and
one result is an abiding uncertainty of mind in most of the officials.

Broadcasting House hangs suspended in the air of public opinion and
that fickle breath leaves them in no security as to any of their
artists. The resulting sensitiveness became soothed as the months
passed on and they got as near to trusting Chesterton as they ever
come with any one. True, letters came attacking him, but far more
enthusiastically approving of him. And the attacks he answered often
by private letters that turned the critic into a friend.

Some of his suggestions were not acceptable. He was warned off a
proposed humorous talk about Dean Inge and Bishop Barnes in a series
called "Speeches that never happened"--("Subject too serious," "avoid
religion"). But he was later asked to talk in a series on Freedom as
a Catholic and also to debate with Bertrand Russell on "Who should
bring up our children." In this debate he was especially brilliant,
says Maurice Baring; and another friend wrote "I have just been
listening not without joy to your putting it across Mr. Bertrand
Russell. . . .

"_Afterthought:_ What a Mincer! It struck me very much, having read
much of his writing with interest. It just shows that the spoken word
still has something that the written one can't convey. Is there a
Mincing Mind, of which a mincing voice is the outward and visible
warning?"

It was interesting that the last few years of Gilbert's life should
have furnished this unique opportunity of contact through the spoken
word between him and the English people. His voice on the radio had
none of the defects that marred it in a hall: his material was far
better arranged, his delivery perfect. He seemed to be there beside
the listener, talking in amity and exchanging confidences. The
morning after his death Edward Macdonald passed a barber's shop off
Chancery Lane. The man was lathering a customer's face but
recognising Mr. Macdonald, left the customer and ran out brush in
hand.

"I just want to say I was sorry to hear the news," he said. "He was a
grand man."

Mr. Macdonald asked him if he knew Chesterton well.

"Ne