oubtful where to swoop and strike, and, indeed,
there were birds of prey enough over Ethandune, wherever it was. But now
Ethandune itself has grown as dark and drifting as the black drifts of
the birds.

And yet without this word that you cannot fit with a meaning and hardly
with a memory, you would be sitting in a very different chair at this
moment and looking at a very different tablecloth. As a practical modern
phrase I do not commend it; if my private critics and correspondents
in whom I delight should happen to address me "G. K. Chesterton, Poste
Restante, Ethandune," I fear their letters would not come to hand. If
two hurried commercial travellers should agree to discuss a business
matter at Ethandune from 5 to 5.15, I am afraid they would grow old in
the district as white-haired wanderers. To put it plainly, Ethandune is
anywhere and nowhere in the western hills; it is an English mirage. And
yet but for this doubtful thing you would have probably no Daily News on
Saturday and certainly no church on Sunday. I do not say that either of
these two things is a benefit; but I do say that they are customs, and
that you would not possess them except through this mystery. You would
not have Christmas puddings, nor (probably) any puddings; you would
not have Easter eggs, probably not poached eggs, I strongly suspect not
scrambled eggs, and the best historians are decidedly doubtful about
curried eggs. To cut a long story short (the longest of all
stories), you would not have any civilization, far less any Christian
civilization. And if in some moment of gentle curiosity you wish to know
why you are the polished sparkling, rounded, and wholly satisfactory
citizen which you obviously are, then I can give you no more definite
answer geographical or historical; but only toll in your ears the tone
of the uncaptured name--Ethandune.

I will try to state quite sensibly why it is as important as it is. And
yet even that is not easy. If I were to state the mere fact from the
history books, numbers of people would think it equally trivial and
remote, like some war of the Picts and Scots. The points perhaps might
be put in this way. There is a certain spirit in the world which breaks
everything off short. There may be magnificence in the smashing; but the
thing is smashed. There may be a certain splendour; but the splendour is
sterile: it abolishes all future splendours. I mean (to take a working
example), York Minster covered with