laughter that the one object of any Irish Nationalist who should meet the Orangemen in such a position would be to take him out, even if he had to carry him to do so.  This reduction of the militancy of Ulster down to the level of playful satire did much to relieve the House from the tension which the wild language of Ulsteria had been calculated to provoke.  Finally, there came a beautiful peroration—­tender, touching, well sustained—­which was listened to with breathless attention by the House, and produced as profound a depth of emotion on the Liberal as even on the Irish Benches.  It was a peroration which lifted the great issue to all the heights of solemnity, nobility, and supreme interest which it reaches in the mouth of an eloquent orator.  This tremendous speech—­in its variety, in its power—­in its alternation of scathing scorn, copious analysis, playful and gentle wit—­was perhaps the most remarkable example in our times of the sway which an orator has over the House of Commons.

[Sidenote:  Mr. Carson.]

Mr. Carson was unfortunate in every sense in having to follow an oration of such extraordinary power, and in having to follow it at that dread hour when every member of the House of Commons is thinking of his long-postponed dinner.  The audience of “the Sleuth Hound of Coercion”—­as Mr. Carson is usually called—­if it was select, was at the same time, enthusiastic and appreciative.  The little band of Unionists, who get very cold comfort, as a rule, during these hard times, sate steadily in their seats and eagerly welcomed and warmly cheered Mr. Carson.  Behind him, too, was a pretty strong band of Tories, and Mr. Balfour sate throughout his entire speech listening to it with the keenest and most evident appreciation.  I have already described the appearance of Mr. Carson and the impression he makes upon me; curiously enough, this impression was confirmed by an experience that afternoon.  I happened to stand at a point of the House where I saw Mr. Carson from profile as he was speaking.  He had just got to the point where, with a hoarse and deep note in his usually cold voice, he said to Mr. Morley that if the Chief Secretary would move the omission of all the “safeguards” from the Bill, he would vote along with him.  There was a tone almost of ferocity—­the tone which conveyed all the rage and despair of the Ascendency party in Ireland at the prospect of departing power—­the fury of the Castle official that saw the approaching overthrow of all the powerful citadel of fraud and cruelty and wrong, of which he had been one of the chief pillars.  And as Mr. Carson was uttering these words, I saw his profile—­which often reveals more of men’s natures than the front face.

[Sidenote:  A curious reminiscence.]