Now consistency is certainly important; proportional representation is no doubt important too. But the consistency of Leonard Courtney rather recalls the virtue as developed in Dr. Sangrado, who believed in bleeding and hot water as a cure for everything, and in that belief “made more widows and orphans than the siege of Troy.” It will be remembered that Gil Blas once roused a certain doubt in his master by advising him to try chemical preparations, if only for curiosity. “But,” said the doctor, “I have published a book, in which I have extolled the use of frequent bleeding and aquæous draughts; and wouldst thou have me go and decry my own work?” “You are certainly in the right,” rejoined the accommodating Gil Blas, “you must not give your enemies such a triumph over you; they would say you are at last disabused, and therefore ruin your reputation; perish rather the nobility, clergy, and people, and let us continue in our old path.” There was always something of this self-indulgent recklessness of consequence in the conscientiousness of Leonard Courtney and the school of which he was almost the latest important representative. “Let my name be blighted, provided France be free,” cried Danton. “Reputation—O what is the reputation of this man or of that?” That is the point of view of the hero-blackguard whom great emergencies so often call forth. “Let what will happen, so no man can call me untrue to my principles,” is another point of view, that of the man who cannot be quite fully a hero because he is constitutionally incapable of being the least bit of a blackguard. Thin partitions divide heroism and blackguardism; all space lies between them and the great kingdom of the smug. The best of the smug can rise to very considerable heights, but their fastidiousness prevents them achieving the splendour of perfect selflessness; they might be content with the locusts and wild honey of desert exile, but they could not do without a toothbrush. Lord Courtney was not afraid of the desert. He could live without popularity and often went out of his way to flout the herd. He never feared the consequences of being right. But a greater man would have been less timorous of the consequences of being occasionally a little wrong. He would, over a dozen questions—this business of the franchise, for example, Ireland, South Africa, and the Great War—have struck a balance between opposing considerations, and in no case would he have cast into either scale the thought of his own reputation. He would not thus have been false to himself. But he would have been truer to greater interests than himself.