ied 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?"