On the other hand, the chap-trap maxims of liberalism, foreign or domestic, meet from him with just as much credence and attention as they deserve; he never allows enthusiasm to intrude among political considerations. He measures the length, breadth, and thickness of the bill before him; calculates with his unerring precision and practical wisdom, the effect which it will have, either on the happiness of the people, or on the social or political constitution of the country. According to its value for good or for evil, does the Duke of Wellington support or oppose it; and from that hour its fate is usually decided. Why? because the unbending unflinching honesty of the man, and his political sagacity, have created him a character unprecedented in the annals of his country. The Duke's style of speaking is what might be expected from his character, plain, simple, straightforward. His sentences are short and pithy, his language clear and lucid; his delivery abrupt. When he makes a point, it falls on the mind with the force of a sledge-hammer. His voice reminds one of that of an officer giving the word of command; he lays emphasis, short and somewhat harsh, on the leading words of the sentence, and speaks the rest in an under tone. Although, however, in consequence of his age and the gradual approach of infirmity, his utterance is not so clear as it used to be, yet you can always understand immediately his whole meaning. He uses the plainest language of every-day colloquy. His style is impressive from its doric simplicity. You never entertain a doubt of his sincerity; and although you may not always agree with him in opinion, you have, at least, the satisfaction of knowing that his propositions are the true result of his feelings or his thoughts; and are not merely put forward to answer the purposes of party, or to secure a triumph in debate. For the same reason, the Duke never attempts to impose on the house a fictitious enthusiasm, or a pretended excitement. If he gets excited, (and he will sometimes get into a terrible passion at any infringement of constitutional integrity or breach of discipline), there is no mistaking it for a mere prepared climax to a speech; he is completely possessed by the demon. The only action he ever uses is on such occasions, and then it is almost convulsive. His arms and legs seem no longer to be under control, they quiver, and shake, and tremble: and the clenched fist, violently and frequently struck upon the table, denotes that some very potent feeling of indignation is, for the time, mastering the usual calmness of this self-possessed man. Yet though at times he is thus carried away by his feelings, his ultimate judgment of a measure is not impaired by it. He can cauterise or cut out the cankered part, and yet preserve all that was not offensive to his sense of right and wrong.