Over the fireplace in the outer room is set in the panel a fine portrait by Romney of an officer, Captain Peletan, in uniform. The windows are double framed so that the war of the elements and the roar of traffic in the neighbouring Piccadilly can be effectually kept out. On the wall of the inner room, set so as to face one, is a lifelike portrait of the Rt. Hon. Lord Randolph Churchill.

            When I came to London to be Henry Irving’s manager, my acquaintance with Lord Randolph, made in Ireland, continued. Our relations were always most friendly. He often came to the Lyceum Theatre; he was a great admirer of Irving, and occasionally stayed for supper in the old Beefsteak Room.

            One evening at the theatre—I think it was during the long run of Faust—when between the acts I was walking in the passage, I heard his voice behind me: “Oh, Bram Stoker, I want to introduce my boy to you.” I turned, and the introduction was made. Young Winston was then about thirteen, a strongly built boy with red hair and very red cheeks. A bright-looking boy, somewhat on the sturdy side, and eminently healthy. As we shook hands the father laid his hand affectionately on the boy’s shoulder and, patting it in a loving way, said: “He’s not much yet, you know. But he’s a good ‘un. He’s a good ‘un!” And a “good ‘un” he turned out to be.

            The son has more than fulfilled the predictions of the father. He is at this moment in the very foremost rank of living British statesmen, his dashing, pugnacious methods allied to his great gifts as a speaker, his lucid power in handling public questions, and his remarkable breadth of view, distinguishing him above all his rivals.

 

                                                                                                ****************

             “Why,” I asked him, purposely, did you leave the Army? You seem to have liked soldiering and to have got on very well with it.”

             “I was very happy in the Army. I did like soldiering. But the fact is that in peacetime there is little if any scope in the Army for a man who wants to be active. Of course, I mean very active, and in different ways, for there is always plenty of routine work in military service. Anyhow, a man must choose his own way of life, and if it is only fighting that a man wants there is plenty of that in politics. It is only by following out one’s own bent that there can be the really harmonious life.”

 “Won’t you define,” I asked, “what you mean exactly by that?” He smiled. I do not think that he cares much for definitions; he makes up his mind in his own way, a way to satisfy himself.

             “Harmonious life. A life when a man’s work is also his pleasure and vice versa. That conjunction joined with a buoyant temperament, makes the best of worldly gifts.”

             “Why buoyant temperament? I merely ask for information.”

             “Simply because it implies a lot of other things: good health and strength, for instance. The great majority of human beings have to work the greater part of the day, and then amuse themselves afterwards— if they are not too tired. But the lucky few derive their keenest interest and enjoyment not from any contrast between business and idle hours—but from the work itself. Certainly physical health has a good deal to do with it. Henry James speaks of a religion of healthy usefulness.”

 “I note, Mr. Churchill,” I said, “that you use the words politics and politician where I mean statesmanship and statesman. May I take it that I am in accord with your ideas?” There was a smile on his face as he answered:

             “Don’t you think it would be at least unbecoming of a man to speak of himself as a statesman? Politics and politician seem to me to be very good and adequate words, quite equal to the purpose required of them. Politics are quite big enough, I assure you.”

             “What, in your opinion is the modern tendency of politics?”

             “All politics in this country, and I think all over the world, are becoming divided along social and economic lines of cleavage. The movements of the past have never so operated. The Reformation secured, directly and indirectly, freedom of conscience. The English revolt and rebellion of the 17th century established Parliamentary government. The French Revolution achieved a very considerable measure of political equality— the idea of a national nation—citizens not separated by class prejudice; but there yet remains the greatest of all the anomalies, the social and economic injustice. All politics are focusing on this.

            “Perhaps it is for America to show the way. There is the naked issue between capital and labour. America’s contribution to the movement for human progress will be some solution, necessarily complicated, of the economic problems which confront scientific civilization.”