And there was something of the same look on the profile of Mr.Carson--I could almost have pitied him and the party and traditions and past which he represented as I saw its death-throes marked on his suffering and fierce face.
But the speech of Mr.Carson was a clever one.

Whatever the inner eye may see in the depths of Mr.Carson's soul, to the outward eye he has an appearance of a self-possession amounting almost to the offensive.

He is dressed almost as well as Mr.Austen Chamberlain, but, unlike Mr.
Chamberlain's promising lad--who still has much of the graceful shyness and unsteady nerve of youth--Mr.Carson has all the coolness, self-assertion, and hardness of the man who has passed through the fierce and tempestuous conflicts of Irish life.

Mr.Carson stands at the box and leans upon it as though he had been there all his life; he shoots his cuffs--to use a House of Commons' phrase--as dexterously and almost as frequently as Mr.Gladstone; his points are stated slowly, deliberately, with that wary and watchful look of the man who has been accustomed to utter the words that consigned men to the horrors of Tullamore.

The speech of Thursday evening was a clever speech.