he soon became famous for his anti-democratic zeal and his incisive speech.  He joined Lord Derby’s Cabinet in 1866, left it on-account of his hostility to the Reform Bill of 1867, and assailed Disraeli both with pen and tongue in a fashion which seemed to make it impossible that the two men could ever again speak to one another—­let alone work together.  But political grudges are short-lived; or perhaps it would be nearer the mark to say that, however strong those grudges may be, the allurements of office are stronger still.  Men conscious of great powers for serving the State will often put up with a good deal which they dislike sooner than decline an opportunity of public usefulness.

Whatever the explanation, the fact remains that Lord Salisbury (who had succeeded to the title in 1868) joined Disraeli’s Cabinet in 1874, and soon became a leading figure in it.  His oratorical duels with the Duke of Argyll during the Eastern Question of 1876-1879 were remarkably, vigorous performances; and, when he likened a near kinsman to Titus Oates, there were some who regretted that the days of physical duelling were over.  In 1878 he accompanied Lord Beaconsfield to the Congress of Berlin, being second Plenipotentiary; and when on their return he drove through the acclaiming streets of London in the back seat of the Triumphal Car, it was generally surmised that he had established his claim to the ultimate reversion of the Premiership.  That reversion, as I said just now, he attained in June, 1885, and enjoyed till February, 1886—­a short tenure of office, put the earnest of better and longer things to come.

At this period of His career Lord Salisbury was forced to yield to the democratic spirit so far as to “go on the stump” and address popular audiences in great towns.  It was an uncongenial employment.  His myopia rendered the audience invisible, and no one can talk effectively to hearers whom he does not see.  The Tory working men bellowed “For he’s a jolly good fellow”; but he looked singularly unlike that festive character.  His voice was clear and penetrating, but there was no popular fibre in his speech.  He talked of the things which interested him; but whether or not they interested his hearers he seemed not to care a jot.  When he rolled off the platform and into the carriage which was to carry him away, there was a general sense of mutual relief.

But in the House of Lords he was perfectly and strikingly at home.  The massive bulk, which had replaced the slimness of his youth, and his splendidly developed forehead made him there, as everywhere, a majestic figure.  He neither saw, nor apparently regarded, his audience.  He spoke straight up to the Reporters’ Gallery, and, through it, to the public.  To his immediate surroundings he seemed as profoundly indifferent as to his provincial audiences.  He spoke without notes and apparently without effort.  There was no rhetoric, no declamation, no display.  As one listened, one seemed to hear the genuine thoughts of a singularly clever and reflective man, who had strong prejudices of his own in favour of religion, authority, and property, but was quite unswayed by the prejudices of other people.  The general tone of his thought was sombre.  Lord Lytton described, with curious exactness, the “massive temple,” the “large slouching shoulder,” and the “prone head,” which “habitually stoops”—­