Again, the Whigs are victims to their inherent sense of politeness--to
their instinctive observance of courtesy towards the Tories. There has been
no bold defiance--no challenge to mortal combat for the cause of public
good; but when Whig has called out Tory, it has been in picked and holiday
phrase--

"As if a brother should a brother dare,
To gentle exercise and proof of arms."

For a long time the people have expected to see "cracked crowns and bloody
noses," and at length, with true John Bull disgust, turned from the ring,
convinced that the Whigs, whatever play they might make, would never go in
and fight.

But have the Tories been correspondingly courteous? By no means; the
generosity of politeness has been wholly with the Whigs. They, like
frolicsome youths at a carnival, have pelted their antagonists with nothing
harder than sugar-plums--with egg-shells filled with rose-water; while the
Tories have acknowledged such holiday missiles with showers of brickbats,
and eggs _not_ filled with aromatic dew. What was the result? The Tories
increased in confidence and strength with every new assault; whilst the
battered Whigs, from their sheer pusillanimity, became noisome in the
nostrils of the country.

At length, the loaves and fishes being about to be carried off, the Whigs
speak out: like sulky Master Johnny, who, pouting all dinner-time, with his
finger in his mouth, suddenly finds his tongue when the apple-dumplings are
to be taken from the table. Then does he advance his plate, seize his ivory
knife and fork, put on a look of determined animation, and cry aloud for