"Oh, for a man of the old, old Viking blood to lead and direct the battle in place of those poor craven lawyer politicians in the Cabinet of the never-to-be-forgotten twenty-three!"
Indeed, this was the darkest hour before the dawn.
The autumn of 1916 saw the advent of the magic of the Wizard from Wales. To him all honour is due.
For some years prior to the war he had been perhaps the most hated man England had ever known. He had helped to minimise the Army, the Navy, and the House of Lords; he had led people to believe it was almost a crime to own land; he had descended to the lowest levels of vulgar abuse regarding our most sacred traditions; he had helped rob the Church in his native land; he had become despised by the noblest and best of his fellow-countrymen. His sole ambition, apparently, had been to gain the popularity of the masses—a transient glory which might fade in an hour. He had attained the position almost of a deity with the extreme Radical and Socialistic Mob.
But, in this hour of Great Britain's direst peril, he valiantly came forth. He buckled on his armour of undaunted courage and vast ability. He put his whole heart and soul into the fight, absolutely ignoring what effect his actions might have upon his recent followers, forgetting all his schemes of lifelong planning, and concentrating all his vast abilities and ceaseless, untiring energies upon one single concrete thought, one hope, one ideal—Victory.
Like that greatest of all the heroes of ancient Rome—Venit, vidit, vicit. Veritably he proved himself a man.
* * * * * *
What a pity it is that since those days he has not adjusted himself to this changed world and seized the opportunities for real statesmanship that lie in this era of reconstruction!