gazing earnestly upwards. Presently one of the trees-as I must call them-unfolded a long ciliary process, with which it seized one of the gleaming fruits that glittered on its summit, and sweeping slowly down, held it within reach of Animula. The sylph took it in her delicate hand and began to eat. My attention was so entirely absorbed by her that I could not apply myself to the task of determining whether this singular plant was or was not instinct with volition.

I watched her as she made her repast, with the most profound attention. The suppleness of her motions sent a thrill of delight through my frame; my heart beat madly as she turned her beautiful eyes in the direction of the spot in which I stood. What would I not have given to have had the power to précipitate myself into that luminous ocean, and float with her through those groves of purple and gold! While I was thus breathlessly following her every movement, she suddenly started, seemed to listen for a moment, and then cleaving the brilliant ether in which she was floating, like a flash of light, pierced through the opaline forest, and disappeared.

Instantly a series of the most singular sensations attacked me. It seemed if I had suddenly gone blind. The luminous sphere was still before me, but my daylight had vanished. What caused this sudden disappearance? Had she a lover or a husband? Yes, that was the solution! Some signal from a happy fellow-being had vibrated through the avenues of the forest, and she had obeyed the

summons.

The agony of my sensations, as I arrived at this conclusion, startled me. I tried to reject the conviction that my reason forced upon me. I battled against the fatal conclusion, but in vain. It was so. I had no escape from it. I loved an animalcule!

It is true, that, thanks to the marvelous power of my microscope, she appeared of human proportions. Instead of presenting the revolting aspect of the coarser creatures that live and struggle and die in the more easily resolvable portions of the water-drop, she was fair and delicate and of surpassing beauty. But of what account was all that? Every time that my eye was withdrawn from the instru ment, it fell on a miserable drop of water, within which, I

must be content to know, dwelt all that could make my life lovely.

Could she but see me once! Could I for one moment pierce the mystical walls that so inexorably rose to separate us, and whisper all that filled my soul, I might consent to be satisfied for the rest of my life with the knowledge of her remote sympathy. It would be something to have established even the faintest personal link to bind us together, to know that at times, when roaming through these enchanted glades, she might think of the wonderful stranger who had broken the monotony of her life with his presence, and left a gentle memory in her heart!

But it could not be. No invention of which human intellect was capable could break down the barriers that Nature had erected. I might feast my soul upon her wondrous beauty, yet she must always remain ignorant of the adoring eyes that day and night gazed upon her, and even when closed, beheld her in dreams. With a bitter cry of anguish I fled from the room, and flinging myself on my bed, sobbed myself to sleep like a child.

LOCH INA.1

I know a lake where the cool waves break,
And softly fall on the silver sand-

And no steps intrude on that solitude,

And no voice, save mine, disturbs the strand.

And a mountain bold, like a giant of old

Turned to stone by some magic spell,

Uprears in might his misty height,

And his craggy sides are wooded well.

!

In the midst doth smile a little Isle,

And its verdure shames the emerald's green

On its grassy side, in ruined pride,

A castle of old is darkling seen.

On its lofty crest the wild cranes nest,

In its halls the sheep good shelter find;

And the ivy shades where a hundred blades

Were hung, when the owners in sleep reclined.

1 A beautiful salt-water lake in County Cork near Baltimore.

That chieftain of old could he now behold
His lofty tower a shepherd's pen,

His corpse, long dead, from its narrow bed

Would rise, with anger and shame again.

"T is sweet to gaze when the sun's bright rays

Are cooling themselves in the trembling waveBut 't is sweeter far when the evening star

Shines like a smile at Friendship's grave.

There the hollow shells through their wreathed cells,
Make music on the silent shore,

As the summer breeze, through the distant trees,
Murmurs in fragrant breathings o'er.

And the sea weed shines, like the hidden mines
Or the fairy cities beneath the sea,

And the waved-washed stones are bright as the thrones
Of the ancient Kings of Araby.

If it were my lot in that fairy spot

To live for ever, and dream 't were mine,

Courts might woo, and kings pursue,

Ere I would leave thee-Loved Loch-Ine.

R. BARRY O'BRIEN.

(1847 ——)

RICHARD BARRY O'BRIEN, the historian, was born at Kilrush, County Clare, in 1847. He was educated by private tutors and at the Catholic University, Dublin. In 1874 he was called to the Irish bar and in 1875 to the English. After practicing for a time in England he turned to politics and literature, devoting himself mainly to Irish historical studies. He has written the following books: The Irish Land Question and English Public Opinion,' 'The Parliamentary History of the Irish Land Question,'' Fifty Years of Concessions to Ireland,''Thomas Drummond's Life and Letters,' Irish Wrongs and English Remedies,' 'The Life of Charles Stewart Parnell,' 'The Life of Lord Russell of Killowen.' He has also edited, with an introduction, a new edition of the Autobiography of Wolfe Tone.' Mr. O'Brien was one of the founders of the Irish Literary Society, and since its establishment he has been its Chairman.

THE CAPTURE OF WOLFE TONE.

FromAutobiography of Wolfe Tone.'

Yet another effort was to be made. On September 20th the last French expedition sailed from Brest. It consisted of a fleet of one sail of the line, the Hoche (74 guns), eight frigates, Loire, Résolue, Bellone, Coquette, Embuscade, Immortalité, Romaine, Sémillante, and one schooner, the Biche, under the command of Admiral Bompard, and of an army of 3,000 men under General Hardy. Tone was on board the admiral's ship, the Hoche. As on the previous occasion, the ships were scattered on the voyage; but on October 10 Bompard arrived at the entrance of Lough Swilly with the Hoche, the Loire, the Résolue, and the Biche. He was instantly signaled from the shore. At daybreak next morning a British squadron, consisting of six sail of the line, one razee (60 guns) and two frigates, under the command of Sir John Borlase Warren, hove in sight. Bompard signaled the French frigates and the schooner to retreat, and cleared the Hoche for action. A boat from the Biche came alongside the Hoche for last orders.

The French officers gathered around Tone, and urged him to escape. "The contest is hopeless," they said. "We

shall be prisoners of war, but what will become of you?" He answered, "Shall it be said that I fled when the French were fighting the battles of my country? No; I shall stand by the ship." The British admiral, having dispatched two sail-the razee and a frigate-to give chase to the Loire and the Résolue, bore down on the Hoche with the rest of the squadron. The French ship was surrounded; but Bompard nailed his colors to the mast. For six hours the Hoche stood the combined fire of the British ships. Her masts were dismantled; her rigging was swept away; the scuppers flowed with blood; the wounded filled the cock-pit. At length with yawning ribs, with five feet of water in the hold, her rudder carried away, her sails and cordage hanging in shreds, her batteries dismounted and every gun silenced, she struck. Tone commanded a battery, and fought like a lion, exposing himself to every peril of the conflict.

The Hoche was towed into Loch Swilly, and the prisoners landed and marched to Letterkenny. The Earl of Cavan invited the French officers to breakfast. Tone was among the guests. An old college companion, Sir George Hill recognized him. "How do you do, Mr. Tone?" said Hill. "I am very happy to see you." Tone greeted Hill cordially, and said, "How are you, Sir George? How are Lady Hill and your family?" The police, who suspected that Tone was among the prisoners, lay in waiting in an adjoining room. Hill went to them, pointed to Tone, and said "There is your man." Tone was called from the table. He knew that his hour had come, but he went cheerfully to his doom. Entering the next apartment, he was surrounded by police and soldiers, arrested, loaded with irons, and hurried to Dublin.

On November 10 he was put on his trial before a courtmartial. He said to his judges: "I mean not to give you the trouble of bringing judicial proof, to convict me, legally, of having acted in hostility to the Government of his Britannic Majesty in Ireland. I admit the fact. From my earliest youth I have regarded the connection between Ireland and Great Britain as the curse of the Irish nation, and felt convinced that, whilst it lasted, this country could never be free nor happy. My mind has been confirmed in this opinion by the experience of every succeeding year,