men are being shot every other minute, or bayoneted, or blown into
scraps or burned into cinders. These things are happening, nevertheless,
but much of their importance has vanished.

I met a man at the Green who was drawing a plan on the back of an
envelope. The problem was how his questioner was to get from where he
was standing to a street lying at the other side of the river, and the
plan as drawn insisted that to cover this quarter of an hour's distance
he must set out on a pilgrimage of more than twenty miles. Another young
boy was standing near embracing a large ham. He had been trying for
three days to convey his ham to a house near the Gresham Hotel where his
sister lived. He had almost given up hope, and he hearkened
intelligently to the idea that he should himself eat the ham and so get
rid of it.

The rifle fire was persistent all day, but, saving in certain
localities, it was not heavy. Occasionally the machine guns rapped in.
There was no sound of heavy artillery.

The rumour grows that the Post Office has been evacuated, and that the
Volunteers are at large and spreading everywhere across the roofs. The
rumour grows also that terms of surrender are being discussed, and that
Sackville Street has been levelled to the ground.

At half-past seven in the evening calm is almost complete. The sound of
a rifle shot being only heard at long intervals.

I got to bed this night earlier than usual. At two o'clock I left the
window from which a red flare is yet visible in the direction of
Sackville Street. The morning will tell if the Insurrection is finished