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. It wasn't
broad--it wasn't generous--there was not a note in it above the tone of
the Crown Prosecutor, but it was subtle, well-reasoned--the blows were
happy, and told--and the Tories and Unionists were hugely and justly
delighted.
[Sidenote: The approach of the division.]
At last we are within sight of the end. Friday had come, and everybody
knew that this was the day which would see the division; and, after all,
the division was the event of the debate. In moments such as these you
can hear the quickened throb of the House of Commons, and if you fail to
notice it you soon learn it from the public. In the lobbies outside
stand scores of excited men and women begging, imploring,
threatening--using every means to get admission into the galleries to
witness a historic and immortal scene.
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