have undergone a
change. It is not now the furtive thing that crawled into your bed and
which you fought with pill-boxes and medicine bottles. It has become
again a rider of the wind whom you may go coursing with through the
fields and open places. All the morbidity is gone, and the sickness, and
what remains to Death is now health and excitement. So Dublin laughed at
the noise of its own bombardment, and made no moan about its dead--in
the sunlight. Afterwards--in the rooms, when the night fell, and instead
of silence that mechanical barking of the maxims and the whistle and
screams of the rifles, the solemn roar of the heavier guns, and the red
glare covering the sky. It is possible that in the night Dublin did not
laugh, and that she was gay in the sunlight for no other reason than
that the night was past.

On this day fighting was incessant at Mount Street Bridge. A party of
Volunteers had seized three houses covering the bridge and converted
these into forts. It is reported that military casualties at this point
were very heavy. The Volunteers are said also to hold the South Dublin
Union. The soldiers have seized Guinness's Brewery, while their
opponents have seized another brewery in the neighbourhood, and between
these two there is a continual fusilade.

Fighting is brisk about Ringsend and along the Canal. Dame Street was
said to be held in many places by the Volunteers. I went down Dame
Street, but saw no Volunteers, and did not observe any sniping from the
houses. Further, as Dame Street is entirely commanded by the roofs and
windows of Trinity College, it is unlikely that they should be here.

It was curious to observe this, at other times, so animated street,
broad and deserted, with at the corners of side streets small knots of
people watching. Seen from behind, Grattan's Statue in College Green
seemed almost alive, and he had the air of addressing warnings and
reproaches to Trinity College.

The Proclamation issued to-day warns all people to remain within doors
until five o'clock in the morning, and after seven o'clock at night.

It is still early. There is no news of any kind, and the rumours begin
to catch quickly on each other and to cancel one another out. Dublin is
entirely cut off from England, and from the outside world. It is, just
as entirely cut off from the rest of Ireland; no news of any kind
filters in to us. We are land-locked and sea-locked, but, as yet, it
does not much matter.

Mean