is going on; and has his eye on subjects as wide apart as the parish councils and Newfoundland, army reform and the occupation of Uganda.  It is curious to see, too, how he is regaining that ascendancy over the House of Commons which he exercised formerly.  It is an ascendancy not due in the least to oratorical power.  Sir Charles Dilke never made a fine sentence or a sonorous peroration in his whole life.  It is that power of acquiring all the facts of the case—­of being thoroughly up in all its merits—­in short, of knowing his business—­which impresses the House of Commons, which, after all, though it may cheer the gibes of a smart and pert debater like Mr. Chamberlain, is most happy when it hears a man talking of something which he understands thoroughly.

[Sidenote:  Joe as a Jingo.]

Mr. Chamberlain spoke, as I have said, in the debate.  It was a very characteristic speech.  I know people think I am prejudiced about this gentleman.  Not in the least.  I recognize that he has many splendid qualities for political life.  They are not qualities which I think highest either in the oratorical or the intellectual sense.  He also has staying power, and has gone through seven terrible years.  There is the trace of all the bitterness of that struggle in his face—­which has lost in these years the almost boyish freshness of expression and outline, which bears in every deep line a mark of the ferocity of the passions by which his breast has been torn.  He is one of the many men in the House of Commons that give one the impression of being hunted by the worst and most pitiless of all furies—­violent personal passion—­especially for power, for triumph, for revenge.  But still, there he is—­ready as ever to take part in the struggle—­still holding the position he held seven years ago—­with no sign of weakening or repentance, though there be plenty of the hunger of baulked revenge.

[Sidenote:  The tragedy of politics.]

What a pity it is we can’t see some of those great political figures in the nudity of their souls.  They must have many a bitter moment—­many an hour of dark and hopeless depression—­probably far more than other men; for them emphatically life is a conflict and a struggle.  And the conflict and the struggle often kill them long before their time.  Was there ever anything much more tragic than the cry of M. Ferry for “le grand Repos,” as he lay stifling from the weakening heart which the bullet of a political enemy and the slings and arrows of years of calumny and persecution had at last broken?  To any man with ordinary sensitiveness of nerves, a political career is a crucifixion—­many times repeated.  But Mr. Chamberlain, probably, has not the ordinary sensitiveness of nerves.  Combative, masterful, with narrow and concentrated purpose, he pursues the game of politics—­not without affliction, but with persistent tenacity and a courage that have rarely shown any signs of faltering or failing.