# Punch/Volume 147/Issue 3812/The Crisis

THE CRISIS.
["Lord Macaulay's prose seems to be finding favour again."
Oshkosh Sentinel.]
The place, too, was well fitted for such a gathering. Memories of departed monarchs spoke from the rich hangings of the room in tones that were not less eloquent for being silent. Here the First Gentleman of Europe had displayed the rounded symmetry of those calves which had defied the serried legions of the French and, in their lighter moments, had captured the wayward fancies of the fair or mitigated the harshness of a statesman. This was the chamber where the Sailor King, bluff but not undignified, had jested with his intimates, had smoothed a frown from the rugged brow of Wellington or held his own against the eagle glance of Grey; the chamber where the great Queen, conscious of her august destiny, had consecrated to grief such moments as could be spared from the needs of Empire; the chamber where her son had laboured for peace and extended the bounds of friendship; the chamber where a Disraeli, repaying scorn with scorn, may have spread his snares, and a Gladstone, overwhelmed by the torrent of his own eloquence, may have fallen into them.
Nothing was wanting to complete the solemnity of the spectacle. Outside, the scarlet-coated sentries paced rigidly on their accustomed rounds, and the populace, hemmed in by the strong arms and the panting forms of e constabulary, cheered to the echo its favourites or exchanged one another the harmless sallies that give pleasure to a crowd. Within, the King himself, his face now clouded with anxious thought, now lit with hope, gave a cordial welcome to the more unwonted of the guests he had summoned to his presence, while busy courtiers filled the corridors with an importance which lost nothing in weight from being unwarranted by knowledge or experience. Lackeys in the gorgeous liveries of the most brilliant Court in Europe were in attendance, ready to minister to those whose failing strength might need refreshment, or to execute with intelligence and despatch the humbler duties pertaining to their office.
Nor were the chiefs unworthy of the scene to which they had been called. There was the Speaker, Lowther, his brow beaming with the good humour which enabled him to abate pomposity without injuring the feelings even of the pompous, and to calm with a happy phrase the agitated waters of debate. There were Asquith, strong in the affection of his friends, and Lloyd George, braced to action by the invectives his foes. There were Law and Lansdowne, staunch defenders of the citadel in which the last of the Tories, stern and unbending as ever, had sought refuge. Waterford had sent John Redmond, the pride and champion of a nation, the unwearied vindicator of Ireland's right to govern herself. Through years of contumely and depression he had borne aloft her standard, and now, when her triumph was all but achieved, he was here to watch over a settlement which all desired, though none hitherto had been able to bring it about. With him had come John Dillon, tall, dignified and stately, whose grey hair and admirable bearing had won the respect and conciliated the temper of the more fastidious assembly in the world. Arrayed against these two, sons of Ireland no less than they, were Carson and Craig; Carson with his saturnine face and his swift and piercing intelligence, Craig of the burly form and uncompliant humour. Vowed to the Orange cause, and dwelling fondly on memories of the Boyne, they denounced with equal severity the religion of Rome and the political aspirations of the majority of their fellow-countrymen. Such were the men who were now met to decide the most momentous issue of our time.