Balfour, and Mr. John
Morley, as a sublime and daring joke by Disraeli which belongs to, and
could only happen in an epoch when sober England was ready to allow her
Oriental juggler and master to play any kind of Midsummer's Night's
Dream pranks even with the sternest realities of human life. Yet
sometimes the thought occurs to me that if he were a little more
articulate, or, perchance, if the time came when a democracy had to be
met, not with bursts of Parliamentary eloquence, but with shot and
shell, and the determination to kill or be killed, the leadership of the
party of the aristocracy would fall from the effeminate hands of the
supersubtle and cultivated Mr. Balfour into the firm and tight grip of
the rugged, uncultured country gentleman who sits remote and neglected
close to him. There are the tightness and firmness of a death-trap in
the large, strong mouth, a dangerous gleam in the steady eyes, infinite
powers of firmness, inflexibility, and of even cruelty in the whole
expression, not in the least softened, but rather heightened and exalted
by the pretty constant smile--the smile that indicates the absence alike
of the heat of passion or the touch of pity, and that speaks aloud of
the unquestioning and dogged resolve of the aristocrat to fight for
privilege to the death.
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