Perhaps no measure was more violently fought over in the whole history of the British Parliament; on one occasion, in July, 1894, it ended in what very nearly became a free fight in Committee. It was said that Colonel Saunderson even struck a blow. I can certify that there was no truth in that, for I was actually standing next to him, sleeve to sleeve; his arm with his fist clenched was held out straight in front of him, but there was no blow struck. The riot was furious and disgraceful enough without any exaggeration; Mr. Ashmead Bartlett theatrically shook his fist across the House at Mr. Gladstone, shouting: “This is your doing, Sir.” The Speaker was sent for, and never shall I forget the effect of the appearance of that majestic presence. Mr. Peel entered solemn and dignified, above all as calm and emotionless as a statue. His pale, noble features might have been carved in ivory. In an instant the turbulent, noisy mob of legislators was quelled like a parcel of naughty schoolboys by the mere sight of the Head Master. Mr. Peel’s command of the House was magnetic, and he could cow the most unruly. I doubt whether any other man could have exercised the same silent power that he did at that difficult and trying moment. He was the embodiment of the old Roman poet’s idea: “Vir pietate gravis.” In the Home Rule debates Mr. Gladstone had to deal with formidable adversaries, men proof against all the magic of his great eloquence, and who never missed a chance of proving the joints in his armour. Mr. Balfour’s speeches were superb. He was not only gifted with the power of words, but he was possessed of a consummate knowledge of the subject, a knowledge acquired during the time when, as Chief Secretary for Ireland, he had by travel and personal investigation made himself master of every detail in connection with the distressful country. All the floods of Mr. Gladstone’s eloquence passed over him, leaving him high and dry. There was no drowning him. Mr. Chamberlain, too, was a giant in debate, certainly the greatest debater that I ever knew. His speeches were magnificent and full of that mysterious power over an audience which is one of the rarest of faculties given to a statesman; but when it came to the shorter discussion in Committee, there he was absolutely matchless. No matter what card might be played against him he always seemed to have the ace of trumps up his sleeve. Never was this better exemplified than in the debate of July 3rd, 1893.