He had been browbeaten by Phineas Finn, simply
because Phineas had been able to retreat within those happy doors. He
knew that to the eyes of all the policemen and strangers assembled
Phineas Finn had been a hero, a Parliamentary hero, and he had been
some poor outsider,--to be ejected at once should he make himself
disagreeable to the Members. Nevertheless, had he not all the columns
of the _People's Banner_ in his pocket? Was he not great in the
Fourth Estate,--much greater than Phineas Finn in his estate? Could
he not thunder every night so that an audience to be counted by
hundreds of thousands should hear his thunder;--whereas this
poor Member of Parliament must struggle night after night for an
opportunity of speaking; and could then only speak to benches half
deserted; or to a few Members half asleep,--unless the Press should
choose to convert his words into thunderbolts. Who could doubt for
a moment with which lay the greater power? And yet this wretched
Irishman, who had wriggled himself into Parliament on a petition,
getting the better of a good, downright English John Bull by a
quibble, had treated him with scorn,--the wretched Irishman being for
the moment like a cock on his own dunghill.
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