But the long, lantern, black-coloured jaws, the protruding mouth, the cavernous eyes, the high forehead with the hair combed straight back--all seem to suggest that he ought to be wearing the wig, the queue, and the sword of the eighteenth century.

He looks as though he had come from consultation, not with Mr.Balfour, but Lord Castlereagh, and as if the work he were engaged in was the sending of the Brothers Sheares to Tyburn, not William O'Brien to Tullamore, and as though he had stopped up o' nights to go over again the list of the Irishmen that could be bought or bullied, or cajoled into the betrayal of Ireland's Parliament.
Look at him as he stands at the box.

You can see that he has been bred into almost impudent self-confidence, by those coercion tribunals, in which the best men of Ireland lay at the mercy of a creature like Mr.
Balfour and the meaner creatures who were ready to do Mr.Balfour's work.

Mr.Carson, not a year in the House, places his hands on the box, then on his hips, with all the airs of a man who had been in Parliament for a lifetime--attacks Mr.Gladstone, Mr.Morley, Mr.Justice Mathew--three of the highest-minded and ablest men of their time--as though he were at Petty Sessions, with Mr.Cecil Roche dispensing justice.

It is an odious sight.