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Dublin intrigued me. The people are grubby and intellectual, and crafty and philosophic, and sublime and material all at the same time. The fat beggars whine their piteous stories at every corner, and the children tell the tale as glibly as the mothers. Each person is more droll than the next, and nobody really believes anybody else.

Every day provided a new excitement. I have forgotten half of them now; but one I remember clearly. It happened during one of my first walks.

I was coming home across one of the bridges over the canal on the south side of the city. Men, women, and children were peering over into the water, and I peered too. All I saw were four big, important policemen, who seemed to be guarding the canal.

Then, in the middle of the canal, I discovered a large oil drum floating with the Sinn Fein flag on top. Below the flag was a placard—“Spies and Informers, beware.”

While I was still gaping, as was everybody else, a lorry load of troops, with tin hats and rifles, rattled up.