We adopt this sanguine attitude, since it is a valuable
British habit to make the best even of personal disappointments. Our optimism on this occasion is sliced through by a knife-edge of poignant regret : we cannot rid our minds or hearts of the tragedy of Mr. Churchill's fall. Again and again do we try to persuade ourselves that this was not ingratitude but a serious public desire for internal renovation. Yet the stark fact remains that we clung to him when we were in danger and denied him when that danger was, by his genius, removed. We might find some solace in the thought that Mr. Churchill, as a second Cincinnatus, will now retire to Westerham and devote his later years to the charm of domestic life and the pursuit of his literary and artistic occupations. The worst of it is that Mr. Churchill is not the man of the ivory tower ; he is the man of the arena. So long as vigour remains to him he will persist in being pugnacious. He desires no Elysian retreat ; he is a House of Conunons man. And we who love him can comfort ourselves only with the thought that whatever storm-clouds may gather in the evening, the world will never foreet the high blaze of noon.
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