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.