But once throughout it all was there a touch of that somewhat sardonic humour that sometimes delights even Lord Salisbury's political foes.

Replying to the very clever speech of Lord Ribblesdale, Lord Salisbury described the speech as a confession, and all confessions, he added, were interesting, from St.Augustine to Rousseau, from Rousseau to Lord Ribblesdale.

That, I say, was the solitary gleam.

For the rest, it was an historical essay--with very bad history and worse conclusions; and the whole spirit was as bad as it could be.

The Irish were still the enemy such as they appear in the bloody pages of Edmund Spenser, or in the war proclamations and despatches of Oliver Cromwell; and yet I cannot feel that Lord Salisbury's language could be resented as, say, the same language would be from Mr.Chamberlain.It all sounded so like the dreamings of a student and recluse--discussing the problem without much passion--without even malignity--but with that strange frankness of the unheard and unechoed musings of the closet.
[Sidenote: A muttered soliloquy.] Finally, the speech also had the narrowness, shallowness, and unreality of the hermit's soliloquy.