is the barrack-master's, which, like the lawyer's
house in a village, is far from being the worst in
the place; and then comes another small guardroom,
and another gateway leading on to the
breakwater. When returning, he will observe a
small landing-place to the right, used for the
unloading of ammunition, &c., which is conveyed
from Woolwich in government vessels. From
this landing-place to the entrance there is only
a wall loopholed about every forty yards for
defence. The most interesting object is the
armoury, the long building already mentioned,
entrance to which may be gained by application
to the head clerk; it is said to be the next in
importance to Woolwich, and a regular staff of
workmen is employed here. Entering from the
front by folding-doors, the stranger finds himself
in a small hall facing a staircase about eight feet
wide. In and round this hall are numerous
articles used in ancient warfare, coats of mail
and suits of armour of every kind, from that of
the knight to the mousquetaire, while pikes,
battle-axes, and blunderbusses adorn the walls,
and festoons of bayonets, wreaths of pistols, and
stars formed of small-swords aud daggers, decorate
the sides of the staircase. Up the stairs is
a long wide room, at the end of which another
room similar in size branches off to the right;
here again the walls are covered with "pikes
and guns and bows, and good old swords and
bucklers too," while in every window-ledge is
displayed the model of a cannon or some other
destructive engine of war. Down the middle of
these rooms, in tier upon tier, are over thirty
thousand Enfield and Whitworth rifled muskets,
with bayonets to match, besides more than a
thousand six-barrelled revolver pistols. In this
building are arms for an army, and not one
hundred yards from them is the ammunition.

Here is then, quite handy when required, just
what the Brothers of St. Patrick want, nicely laid
out for them to take away. Not a house is
within a mile of the outside of the fort, there
is no thoroughfare in that direction, no telegraph
wire even in case of fire to intimate the fact to
the Dublin authorities. There are only five
sentinels posted in and round the fort, or a
guard of fifteen men with two corporals and a
sergeant. During the summer months there
are, in addition to these, about eighty men
usually stationed there for musketry instruction;
but it is a standing order in the fort for all the
ammunition to be collected from the men as
soon as they enter it and given into store, and
eighty men without ammunition are less formidable
than a dozen men with it.

"Within a few miles are the Wicklow
mountains, where a couple of thousand Fenians could
easily assemble, although one-tenth of that
number would be sufficient. Then, if a small
steamer with two or more good sized boats were
chartered from some Irish port, say Dundalk or
Belfast, and sailing thence ostensibly bound for
Glasgow, were to make for some unfrequented
part of the Wicklow coast, and there lie to, until
two or three hundred "Brethren" got on board
from the shore in the ship's boats; then about
midnight, if that vessel were to slip through Dublin
Bay, quietly steam past the lighthouse until
opposite to the small landing-place where the
warlike stores are embarked and disembarked,
stop there, lower a boat, send it with half a dozen
men and muffled oars to surprise and gag the
sentry—not a very difficult matter when his
musket is unloaded—what might follow?

TO HIS LOVE:

WHO HAD UNJUSTLY REBUKED HIM.

GENTLE as Truth, and zealous even as Love—
Which is the fiercest of all earthly things;
Frank, and yet using caution as a glove
To guard the skin from foulnesses or stings,—
Giving the bare hand surely to the true:
Such would I be, to make me worthy you.

Bitter sometimes, as wholesome tonics are;
Wrathful as Justice in her earnest mood;
Scornful as Honour is, yet not to bar
Appreciation of the lowest good;
Hating the vile, the cruel, the untrue:
How should my manhood else be worthy you?

Say I am subtil, fierce, and bitter-tongued:
Love is all this, and yet Love is beloved.
But say not that I wilfully have wrong'd
Even those whose hate and falsehood I have proved.
Who say this know me not, and never knew
What I would be, but to be worthy you.

FALSE HOPE.

GOD save me from mine enemy,
I pray we ne'er may meet again.
She has been worse than foe to me:
And yet, if we should meet again
I should believe her to my bane.

She has been worse than foe to me,
With promised love and present pain,
Till love seem'd only injury,
And troth was known to be in vain:
I did believe her, to my bane.

Her clear eyes look'd so lovingly,
She clung with such a hearty strain,
Her lips—so sweet, so sweet to me—
Left upon mine a poison blain:
I did believe her, to my bane.

She has been worse than foe to me:
Yet I should love her o'er again
If we should meet—dear Injury!
Men call her Hope—but she is Pain.
Pray God we may not meet again!

WHO ARE THEY?

I GO a great deal about London alone, and,
having no one to talk to, I consequently talk to
myself; I do not mean audibly or visibly, but
to that inner self which we all carry about with
us, like a leaden image or a silver one, as the
ease may be. And I generally talk of the people
I see, say in omnibuses or at the theatre,
wondering who they are, and what their social
condition, and how they live, and what the great
whirring wheels of life are doing for them in
that big workshop of fate where the patterns of