On Sunday I had to go to my office, as the Director was absent in London, and there I applied myself to the notes and spaces below the stave, but relinquished the exercise, convinced that these mysteries were unattainable by man, while the knowledge that above the stave there were others and not less complex, stayed mournfully with me.

I returned home, and as novels (perhaps it is only for the duration of the war) do not now interest me I read for some time in Madame Blavatsky’s “Secret Doctrine,” which book interests me profoundly.  George Russell was out of town or I would have gone round to his house in the evening to tell him what I thought about Shaw, and to listen to his own much finer ideas on that as on every other subject.  I went to bed.

On the morning following I awoke into full insurrection and bloody war, but I did not know anything about it.  It was Bank Holiday, but for employments such as mine there are not any holidays, so I went to my office at the usual hour, and after transacting what business was necessary I bent myself to the notes above and below the stave, and marvelled anew at the ingenuity of man.  Peace was in the building, and if any of the attendants had knowledge or rumour of war they did not mention it to me.

At one o’clock I went to lunch.  Passing the corner of Merrion Row I saw two small groups of people.  These people were regarding steadfastly in the direction of St. Stephen’s Green Park, and they spoke occasionally to one another with that detached confidence which proved they were mutually unknown.  I also, but without approaching them, stared in the direction of the Green.  I saw nothing but the narrow street which widened to the Park.  Some few people were standing in tentative attitudes, and all looking in the one direction.  As I turned from them homewards I received an impression of silence and expectation and excitement.

On the way home I noticed that many silent people were standing in their doorways—­an unusual thing in Dublin outside of the back streets.  The glance of a Dublin man or woman conveys generally a criticism of one’s personal appearance, and is a little hostile to the passer.  The look of each person as I passed was steadfast, and contained an enquiry instead of a criticism.  I felt faintly uneasy, but withdrew my mind to a meditation which I had covenanted with myself to perform daily, and passed to my house.

There I was told that there had been a great deal of rifle firing all the morning, and we concluded that the Military recruits or Volunteer detachments were practising that arm.  My return to business was by the way I had already come.  At the corner of Merrion Row I found the same silent groups, who were still looking in the direction of the Green, and addressing each other occasionally with the detached confidence of strangers.  Suddenly, and on the spur of the moment, I addressed one of these silent gazers.

“Has there been an accident?” said I.