When a few days ago I was half-way through the speech I delivered in the House of Commons on the land system the faithful Commons were summoned in the manner consecrated by centuries of tradition to the bar of the House of Lords to hear the royal assent being given to the bill for the constitution of the Irish Free State. Notwithstanding a natural preoccupation with my interrupted speech two scenes came to my mind during my short journey to and from the upper chamber.

The first was the spectacle of a crowded House of Commons nearly thirty years ago. When the doors were opened for prayers there was the unwonted sight of a throng of hustling M.P.'s pressing through the swing doors to secure seats. I need hardly say this was not the symptom or the outcome of any religious revival amongst our legislators. It was entirely due to the ancient custom that confers upon a member occupying a seat at prayers the unchallengeable right to that seat for the rest of the sitting. Rows of chairs were arrayed on the floor of the House. That was an innovation never since followed. What was it all about? There sat in the middle of the Treasury bench huddled up and almost hidden by more stalwart and upright figures an old man of 83 years, to all appearances in the last stage of physical decrepitude and mental lassitude. His name was William Ewart Gladstone, the greatest parliamentary gladiator of all time. The lifelong champion of oppressed nationalities was to-day to inaugurate his final effort to give freedom to the Irish race trodden for centuries by ruthless force. The last remnant of his strength was to be consecrated to the achievement of Irish liberty, and hundreds of eager legislators to whom Peel and Russell, Palmerston and Disraeli were but historical names, were avid competitors for seats from which they could better listen to a man who had sat in governments with the first three and crossed swords with the fourth. It was a memorable sight.

The preliminary questions which precede all parliamentary business were by common consent postponed, and a deep and solemn silence thrilling with expectancy fell upon the humming assembly as Mr. Speaker Peel in his sonorous voice called out "the Prime Minister." The inert heap which was the centre of all gaze sprang to the table an erect and alert figure. The decrepitude was cast off like a cloak—the lassitude vanished as by a magician's wand, the shoulders were thrown back, the chest was thrown forward, and in deep, ringing tones full of music and force the proposed new Irish charter was expounded for three unwearying hours by the transfigured octogenarian rejuvenated by the magic of an inspired soul. I had a seat just opposite the great orator. I was one of the multitude who on that occasion listened with marvel to that feat of intellectual command and physical endurance. It was more than that. It was an unrivalled display of moral courage, rare in political conflict. Mr. Gladstone had only just emerged out of a general election where, in spite of six years of his eloquent advocacy, the voice of Great Britain had declared emphatically against his Irish policy, and the poor parliamentary majority at his back was made up out of the preponderating Irish vote in favour of Home Rule. He was confronted with the most formidable parliamentary opposition ever ranged against a minister, redoubtable in debating quality, still more redoubtable in its hold on British pride. He was eighty-three years of age, but he never quailed, and through the sultry summer months of 1893 he fought night by night with mighty strokes the battle of Irish emancipation. He did not live to carry the cause through to victory, but he planted the banner so firmly in the soil that no assault could succeed in tearing it down, and on the day when I stood with Mr. Bonar Law at the bar of the House of Lords I saw this banner flourished in triumph from the steps of the throne by a Unionist Lord Chancellor. That was the first memory that flashed through my brain.

The next was of a dreary December night just one year ago when on one side of the Cabinet table in 10 Downing Street sat four representatives of Great Britain and on the other five Irish leaders. It was the famous room wherein British cabinets have for generations forged their Irish policies. Coercion and concession alike issued from that chamber. Pitt's Act of Union was discussed there, and so were Gladstone's Home Rule bills, the decision to use British soldiers to throw Irish tenants out of their houses with battering ram and torch and equally the bill which made every Irish tenant lord and master of his home at the expense of the British treasury—all issued forth from this simple and unadorned council chamber. And now came the final treaty of peace. Would it be signed? It was an anxious moment charged with destiny for the two great races who confronted each other at that green table.

The British representatives who were associated with me on the occasion were Mr. Austen Chamberlain; [I recall now how he sat by the side of his doughty father, Mr. Joseph Chamberlain, in 1893, during the famous nightly duel between him and Mr. Gladstone. How strangely little thirty arduous years have changed his personal appearance!] Lord Birkenhead, who, in 1893 was carving for himself a brilliant career as a student at Oxford and as a debater in the Union; Mr. Winston Churchill who was then a cadet at Sandhurst whilst his father was engaged in the last great parliamentary struggle of his dazzling but tragic career; Sir Gordon Hewart, now Lord Hewart, the man who has risen on the pinions of a powerful intelligence to the height of Lord Chief Justice of England. My recollection is that the other two British delegates—Sir Laming Worthington-Evans and Sir Hamar Greenwood—were stricken with illness and were unable to be present. After weeks of close investigation the climax of decision had been reached. Britain had gone to the limit of concession. No British statesman could have faced any assembly of his countrymen had he appended his signature to a convention that placed Ireland outside that fraternity of free nations known as the British Empire or freed her from that bond of union which is represented by a common fealty to the sovereign. It is not easy to interpret the potency of this invisible bond to those who are brought up to venerate other systems. It is nevertheless invincible. Would the Irish leaders have the courage to make peace on the only conditions under which peace was attainable—liberty within the Empire?

Opposite me sat a dark, short, but sturdy figure with the face of a thinker. That was Mr. Arthur Griffith, the most un-Irish leader that ever led Ireland, quiet to the point of gentleness, reserved almost to the point of appearing saturnine. A man of laconic utterance, he answered in monosyllables where most men would have considered an oratorical deliverance to be demanded by the dignity of the occasion. But we found in our few weeks' acquaintance that his yea was yea and his nay meant nay. He led the Irish deputation. He was asked whether he would sign. In his abrupt, staccato manner he replied, "Speaking on my own behalf I mean to sign."

By his side sat a handsome young Irishman. No one could mistake his nationality. He was Irish through and through, in every respect a contrast to his taciturn neighbour. Vivacious, buoyant, highly strung, gay, impulsive, but passing readily from gaiety to grimness and back again to gaiety, full of fascination and charm—but also of dangerous fire. That was Michael Collins, one of the most courageous leaders ever produced by a valiant race. Nevertheless he hesitated painfully when the quiet and gentle little figure on his left had taken his resolve. Both saw the shadow of doom clouding over that fateful paper—their own doom. They knew that the pen which affixed their signature at the same moment signed their death-warrant. The little man saw beyond his own fall Ireland rising out of her troubles a free nation and that sufficed for him. Michael Collins was not appalled by the spectre of death, but he had the Irishman's fear of encountering that charge which comes so readily to the lips of the oppressed—that of having succumbed to alien wile and betrayed their country. Patriots who cheerfully face the tyrant's steel lose their nerve before that dread accusation. It was the first time Michael Collins ever showed fear. It was also the last. I knew the reason why he halted, although he never uttered a word which revealed his mind, and I addressed my appeal to an effort to demonstrate how the treaty gave Ireland more than Daniel O'Connell and Parnell had ever hoped for, and how his countrymen would be ever grateful to him not only for the courage which won such an offer, but for the wisdom that accepted it.

He asked for a few hours to consider, promising a reply by nine o'clock. Nine passed, but the Irish leaders did not return. Ten. Eleven, and they were not yet back. We had doubts as to whether we should see them again. Then came a message from the secretary of the Irish delegation that they were on their way to Downing Street. When they marched in it was clear from their faces that they had come to a great decision after a prolonged struggle. But there were still difficulties to overcome—they were, however, difficulties not of principle but of detail. These were discussed in a businesslike way, and soon after one o'clock in the morning the treaty was complete. A friendly chat full of cheerful goodwill occupied the time whilst the stenographers were engaged in copying the draft so disfigured with the corrections, interpolations and additions, each of which represented so many hours of hammering discussion.

Outside in the lobby sat a man who had used all the resources of an ingenious and well-trained mind backed by a tenacious will to wreck every endeavour to reach agreement—Mr. Erskine Childers, a man whose slight figure, whose kindly, refined and intellectual countenance, whose calm and courteous demeanour offered no clue to the fierce passions which raged inside his breast. At every crucial point in the negotiations he played a sinister part. He was clearly Mr. de Valera's emissary, and faithfully did he fulfil the trust reposed in him by that visionary. Every draft that emanated from his pen—and all the first drafts were written by him—challenged every fundamental position to which the British delegates were irrevocably committed. He was one of those men who by temperament are incapable of compromise. Brave and resolute he undoubtedly was, but unhappily for himself he was also rigid and fanatical. When we walked out of the room where we had sat for hours together, worn with tense and anxious labour, but all happy that our great task of reconciliation had been achieved, we met Mr. Erskine Childers outside sullen with disappointment and compressed wrath at what he conceived to be the surrender of principles he had fought for.

I never saw him after that morning. Michael Collins and Arthur Griffith I met repeatedly after the signature of the treaty, to discuss the many obstacles that surged up in the way of its execution, and I acquired for both a great affection. Poor Collins was shot by one of his own countrymen on a bleak Irish roadside, whilst he was engaged in restoring to the country he had loved so well the order and good government which alone enables nations to enjoy the blessings of freedom. Arthur Griffith died worn out by anxiety and toil in the cause he had done so much to carry to the summit of victory. Erskine Childers was shot at dawn for rebellion against the liberties he had helped to win.

Truly the path of Irish freedom right up to the goal is paved with tragedy. But the bloodstained wilderness is almost through, the verdant plains of freedom are stretched before the eyes of this tortured nation. Ireland will soon honour the name of the Green Isle, and I am proud to have had a hand in erecting the pillar which will for ever mark the boundary between the squalor of the past and the hope of the future.

London, December 16th, 1922.