ier to
overwork an idea than a man, and of the two, the wearied idea presents
an infinitely more pathetic appearance. Those of us who, for our sins,
have to review the novels of other people, are accustomed to the
saddening spectacle of a poor little idea, beautiful and fresh in its
youth, come wearily to its tombstone on page 300 (where or whereabouts
novels end), trailing after it an immense load of stiff and heavy
puppets, taken down from the common property-cupboards of the nation's
fiction, and not even dusted for the occasion. _Manalive_, as we have
seen, suffered from its devotion to one single idea, but the poor little
thing was kept going to the bitter end by the flow of humorous
encouragement given it by the author. The later works of Chesterton,
however, are symbolized by a performing flea, dragging behind it a
little cartload of passengers. But it sometimes happens that the humour
of _Manalive_ is not there, that one weary idea has to support an
intolerable deal of prose.

In _An Essay on Two Cities_[3] there is a long passage illustrating the
adventures of a man who tried to find people in London by the names of
the places. He might go into Buckingham Palace in search of the Duke of
Buckingham, into Marlborough House in quest of the Duke of Marlborough.
He might even look for the Duke of Wellington at Waterloo.

I wonder that no one has written a wild romance
about the adventures of such an alien, seeking the
great English aristocrats, and only guided by the
names; looking for the Duke of Bedford in the town
of that name, seeking for some trace of the Duke
of Norfolk in Norfolk. He might sail for
Wellington in New Zealand to find the ancient seat
of the Wellingtons. The last scene might show him
trying to learn Welsh in order to converse with
the Prince of Wales.

Here is an idea that is distinctly amusing when made to fill one short
paragraph, and might be deadly tedious if extended into a wild romance.
Perhaps the best way of summarizing the peculiar decadence into which
Chesterton seemed at one time to be falling is by the statement that up
to the present he has not found time to write the book, but has done
others like it. And yet the decadence has never showed signs of that
_fin de siecle_ rustiness that marked the decadent movement (if it was
really a movement and not just an obsession) of the gener