[Sidenote: Toryism of the gutter.]
And, then, if you wanted to appreciate Sir George Trevelyan the more,
you had only to wait for a few moments to hear the man who followed him.
I am told on pretty good authority that, next to Lord Randolph
Churchill, the favourite orator of the Tory provincial platform is Sir
Ashmead Bartlett. I can well believe it. The empty shibboleths--the loud
and blatant voice--the bumptious temper--that make the commoner form of
Tory--all are there. He is the dramatically complete embodiment of all
the vacuous folly, empty-headed shoutings, and swaggering patriotism
which make up the stock-in-trade of most provincial Tories. Poor Mr.
Balfour was caught by Sir Ashmead before he had time to escape, and in
sheer decency had to remain while his servile adulator was pouring on
him buckets of butter, which must have appalled and disgusted him.
Indeed, the effect of the bellowings of the man from Sheffield could be
seen in the bent back, the depressed face, the general air of limpness
which overcame the Tory leader--as helpless, dejected, bent double, he
looked steadily at the green bench underneath him, and concealed from
the House as much as possible the tell-tale horror of his face.
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