UNAUTHENTIC IMPRESSIONS.
II.—Mr. Winston Churchill.
If it be urged that a few trifling inaccuracies have crept into the sketch which is here given of a great statesman's personality I can only say, "Humanum est errare," and "Homo sum: humani nihil alienum a me puto." These two Latin sentences, I find, invariably soothe all angry passions; you have only to try their effect the next time you stamp on the foot of a stout man when alighting from an Underground train.
Of all the present-day politicians, and indeed there are not a few, upon whose mantelpieces the bust of Napoleon Bonaparte is displayed, Mr. Winston Churchill is probably the most assiduous worshipper at the great Corsican's shrine. How often has he not entered his sanctum at the War Office, peering forward with that purposeful dominating look on his face, and discovered a few specks of dust upon his favourite effigy. With a quick characteristic motion of the thumb resembling a stab he rings the bell. A flunkey instantly appears. "Bust that dust," says the War Minister. And then, correcting himself instantly, with a genial smile, "I should say, Dust that bust."
But Napoleon's is not the only head that adorns Mr. Winston Churchill's room. On a bookshelf opposite is a model of his own head, such as one may sometimes see in the shop windows of hatters, and close beside is a small private hat-making plant, together with an adequate supply of the hair of the rabbit, the beaver, the vicuna and similar rodents, and a quantity of shellac. Few days pass in which the War Minister does not spend an hour or two at his charming hobby, for, contrary to the general opinion, he is far from satisfied with the headgear by which he is so well known, or even with the Sandringham hat of The Daily Mail, and lives always in hopes of modelling the ideal hat which is destined to immortalise him and be worn by others for centuries to come. The work of a great statesman lives frequently in the mindful brain of posterity, less frequently upon it.
Other mementos which adorn this remarkable room at the War Office are a porcelain pot containing a preserve of Blenheim oranges, a framed photograph of the Free Trade Hall at Manchester, a map of Mesopotamia with the outpost lines and sentry groups of the original Garden of Eden, marked by paper flags, and a number of lion-skin rugs of which the original occupants were stalked and killed by their owner on his famous African tour. In his more playful moments the War Minister has been known to clothe himself completely in one of these skins and growl ferociously from behind a palm at an unwelcome intruder.
Of the man himself perhaps the most distinguishing characteristic is dynamic energy. Whether other people's energy is ever dynamic I do not know, but undoubtedly Mr. Winston Churchill's is; he dominates, he quells. He is like one of those people in the papers with zig-zags sticking out all over them because they have been careful to wear an electric belt. He exudes force. Sometimes one can almost hear him crackle.
As a politician it is true he has not yet tried every office; he has not, for instance, been Chancellor of the Exchequer, though his unbounded success in the Duchy of Lancaster amply shows what his capabilities as a Chancellor are. But as a soldier, a pig-sticker and a polo-player he is rapidly gaining pre-eminence, and as an author and journalist his voice is already like a swan's amongst screech-owls. (I admit that that last bit ought to have been in Latin, but I cannot remember what the Latin for a screech-owl is. I have an idea that it increases in the genitive, but quite possibly I may be thinking of dormice.)
Anyhow, to return to Mr. Churchill's room: whilst the floor is littered with volumes that have been sent to him for review, his desk is equally littered with proofs of essays, sermons, leaders and leaderettes for the secular and Sunday Press. As a novelist he has scarcely fulfilled his early promise, but it is on record that he was once introduced to a stranger from the backwoods, who asked ignorantly, "Am I speaking to the statesman or the author?"
"Not or, but and," replied the Secretary of State for War, with a simple dignity like that of St. Augustine.
To poetry he is not greatly attached, preferring to leave this field of letters to his staff. When asked for his favourite passage of English verse he has indeed been known to cite a single line from Mr. Hilaire Belloc's Modern Traveller—
"That marsh, that admirable marsh!"
which is far from being Mr. Belloc's most mellifluous effort.
We feel bound to ask what is most likely to be the next outlet for Mr. Churchill's ebullient activity. Remembering that bust upon his mantelpiece it is hard to say. There are some who consider that, prevented by the sluggishness of our times from the chance of commanding an army in the field, he may turn his strategic mind at last to the position of Postmaster-General. If he does there can be no man better fitted than he to make our telephones hum.
K.
"A.—Comme vous voudrai.—P."
Agony Column in Daily Paper.
Taking advantage of "P.'s" kindness we may say that we prefer "voudrez."
"A True Fishing Story. Lady —— is surprising everyone with her skill as an angler and a shot. Last Friday, I am told, she caught two trout weighing 2¾ lb. and 3¼ lb. And on the same afternoon she got a right and a left hit at a roebuck with a small four-bore gun!"
—Daily Paper.
Not caring to believe that she mistook a roebuck for an elephant, we are glad to note that the epithet "true" is only applied to the "fishing" part of the story.
THE ABYSMALISTS.
British Extremist. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING DOWN THERE?"
Voice of Russian Bolshevist from below. "DIGGING A GRAVE FOR THE BOURGEOISIE."
British Extremist. "THAT'S WHAT I WANT TO DO; BUT HOW DO YOU GET OUT?"
Voice from below. "YOU DON'T."
French Visitor (inspecting artificial silk stockings). "Soie?"
Shopman (formerly of the B.E.F., resourcefully). "Well, scarcely, Madam; shall we say 'soi-disant'?"