For this was what it had come to in the House of Commons. It was Jimmy
Lowther against Mr. Gladstone. Mr. Balfour occasionally dropped in a
perfunctory word; now and then even tried to raise the standard of
revolt against Mr. Lowther; and, of course, had finally to accept the
consequences of Mr. Lowther's acts. Joe was there too; much more active
in sympathy with Jimmy than Mr. 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. He cannot stand on his legs for five minutes
together without saying half-a-dozen times, "I repeat what I have
already said;" he has no ideas, no language, nothing except sheer
bull-headed power of standing on his legs, and occupying a certain