To see the sort of Knights you dub.
Will someone take me to a pub?
Is that the last of them? O Lord!
Will someone take me to a pub?’
“In 1925 Mrs. Chesterton followed him into the Church on the Feast of All Saints. They almost at once began to sponsor the erection of a permanent church near the railway station. And now it is being enlarged as a memorial to him.
“Gilbert Chesterton and I were wont to call down Mark Twain’s name in benediction and to wish there were more like him, whether in his own States or any others. I recall many of our delighted exchanges on Mark the deathless. I was once thrilled to give him a patiche out of something he had not read,
‘Buck Fanshaw’s Funeral.’
“That he had not read it was to me a miracle. He had read everything I ever heard of that Mark Twain had written.”
Patrick Braybrooke saw his cousin Chesterton for the last time at Beaconsfield. “It was a hot afternoon in summer and in the sweet garden at his home he recited poetry, made up verses, discussed American hotels, and came to the conclusion that Stevenson was the bravest man who ever wrote.”
One morning not long afterwards as he was sitting in the refreshment room of a London underground, Braybrooke picked up casually enough a newspaper. “I saw some words and my world seemed to fall into pieces. For I read SUDDEN DEATH OF G. K. CHESTERTON. It seemed like the end of an era of literary greatness in every way. But I was glad he did not have a long illness—a long drawn-out anti-climax was not for him. When his time came he went home quickly, almost as though like one of the Stevenson characters—hit by an arrow. He went home and the Catholic Church which he loved so well took care of his soul and in the little Church at Beaconsfield to the subdued mutters of the Mass we said our last farewell.”