emendation.

The few chapters which make up this book are not a history of the
rising. I knew nothing about the rising. I do not know anything about it
now, and it may be years before exact information on the subject is
available. What I have written is no more than a statement of what
passed in one quarter of our city, and a gathering together of the
rumour and tension which for nearly two weeks had to serve the Dublin
people in lieu of news. It had to serve many Dublin people in place of
bread.

To-day, the 8th of May, the book is finished, and, so far as Ireland is
immediately concerned, the insurrection is over. Action now lies with
England, and on that action depends whether the Irish Insurrection is
over or only suppressed.

In their dealings with this country, English Statesmen have seldom shown
political imagination; sometimes they have been just, sometimes, and
often, unjust. After a certain point I dislike and despise justice. It
is an attribute of God, and is adequately managed by Him alone; but
between man and man no other ethics save that of kindness can give
results. I have not any hope that this ethic will replace that, and I
merely mention it in order that the good people who read these words may
enjoy the laugh which their digestion needs.

I have faith in man, I have very little faith in States man. But I
believe that the world moves, and I believe that the weight of the
rolling planet is going to bring freedom to Ireland. Indeed, I name this
date as the first day of Irish freedom, and the knowledge forbids me
mourn too deeply my friends who are dead.

It may not be worthy of mention, but the truth is, that Ireland is not
cowed. She is excited a little. She is gay a little. She was not with
the revolution, but in a few months she will be, and her heart which was
withering will be warmed by the knowledge that men have thought her
worth dying for. She will prepare to make herself worthy of devotion,
and that devotion will never fail her. So little does it take to raise
our hearts.

Does it avail anything to describe these things to English readers? They
have never moved the English mind to anything except impatience, but
to-day and at this desperate conjunction they may be less futile than
heretofore. England also has grown patriotic, even by necessity. It is
necessity alone makes patriots, for in times of peace a patriot is a
quack when he is not a shark. Idealism pays in times of peace, it die