Balfour. With all his faults, there is
a certain saving refinement in Mr. Balfour--it is not a refinement that
has restrained him from being cruel with the hysteric violence of the
effeminate, but it is a refinement that preserves him from the mere
Newmarket horseplay of Jimmy Lowther, and the thin rancour of a
Brummagem drummer. Joe, I say, was there, ready to back up Jimmy in his
worst exploits, but, after all, Jimmy was the leader. In this mighty
struggle--not merely for the reconciliation of England and Ireland, but
for the existence of Parliamentary institutions--the stakes are no
smaller--the gentlemen of England were represented by Mr. Lowther, and
the rude democracy by Mr. Gladstone. Democrats need not feel much
ashamed of the contrast.
[Sidenote: The apotheosis of Jimmy.]
But there Jimmy Lowther was, gulping and obstructing, obstructing and
gulping. The deadly and almost animal dulness of the performance I must
insist on again and again. Mr. Lowther does not speak--he is as
inarticulate as one of the prize bulls which, I doubt not, he delights
to view at Islington what time the Agricultural Hall opens its portals
to fat men and fat beasts.
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