language has been able to do. His fine scholarship, poetic sense, and strong yet delicate handling of language and of incident give these tales a place quite apart among works of sensational fiction. But perhaps the most interesting of all his novels is THE HOUSE BY THE CHURCHYARD-a wonderful mixture of sensationalism, humour, tragedy, and romance, In poetry his 'Shemus O'Brien,' a capital piece written for recitation, is a well-known favourite, and has been made the basis of a fine Irish opera by C. Villiers Stanford. It is noteworthy, by the way, that Le Fanu, the son of a Dean of the Established Church, and proprietor and editor of a Tory newspaper, became a rebel whenever he wrote verse.

The piece from 'The Legend of the Glaive' here given shows the weird and romantic touch which Le Fanu had at command, and 'The Address to the Bottle' has much of the almost savage energy which he showed more in certain scenes of THE HOUSE BY THE CHURCHYARD than anywhere else.

From Mr. Alfred Perceval Graves's introduction to Le Fanu's poems we may take the following picture of his habits and character in later years:

'Those who possessed the rare privilege of Le Fanu's friendship, and only they, can form any idea of the true character of the man; for after the death of his wife, to whom he was most deeply devoted, he quite forsook general society, in which his fine features, distinguished bearing, and charın of conversation marked him out as the beau-ideal of an Irish wit and scholar of the old school.

From this society he vanished so entirely that Dublin, always ready with a nickname, dubbed him The Invisible. Prince'; and, indeed, he was for long almost invisible, except to his family and most familiar friends, unless at odd hours of the evening, when he might occasionally be seen stealing, like the ghost of his former self, between his newspaper office and his home in Merrion Square. Sometimes too he was to be encountered in an old, out-of-the-way bookshop, poring over some rare black-letter Astrology or Demonology.'

Le Fanu was born in Dublin in 1814, and graduated at Trinity College, Dublin, in 1837. About 1838 he purchased The Warder, a Conservative journal, and afterwards became editor and owner of The Dublin Evening Mail and of The Dublin University Magazine. Most of his poetic and prose work appeared first in the last-named periodical. His POEMS appeared for the first time in a collected edition, edited by Mr. Alfred Perceval Graves, in 1896. He died in 1873.

FIONULA

How to this hour she is sometimes seen by night in Munster
From THE LEGEND OF THE GLAIVE

By the foot of old Keeper, beside the bohreen,

In the deep blue of night the thatched cabin is seen ;
Neath the furze-covered ledge, by the wild mountain brook,
Where the birch and the ash dimly shelter the nook,
And many's the clear star that trembles on high
O'er the thatch and the wild ash that melt in the sky.
'Shamus Oge' and old Teig are come home from the fair,
And the car stands up black with its shafts in the air,

A warbling of laughter hums over the floor,

And fragrant's the flush of the turf through the door.
Round the glow the old folk and the colleens and boys
Wile the hour with their stories, jokes, laughter, and noise ;
Dogs stretched on the hearth with their chins on their feet lie,
To her own purring music the cat dozes sweetly;
Pretty smiles answer, coyly, while soft spins the wheel,
The bold lover's glances or whispered appeal.
Stealing in, like the leather-wings under the thatch,
A hand through the dark softly leans on the latch,
An oval face peeps through the clear deep of night,
From her jewels faint tremble blue splinters of light.
There's a stranger among us, a chill in the air,
And an awful face silently framed over there ;
The green light of horror glares cold from each eye,
And laughter breaks shivering into a cry.

A flush from the fire hovers soft to the door,

In the dull void the pale lady glimmers no more.
The cow'ring dogs howl, slowly growls the white cat,
And the whisper outshivers, 'God bless us what's that?'

The sweet summer moon o'er Aherlow dreams,
And the Galtees, gigantic, loom cold in her beams;
From the wide flood of purple the pale peaks uprise,
Slowly gliding like sails 'gainst the stars of the skies;
Soft moonlight is drifted on mountain and wood,
Airy voices sing faint to the drone of the flood,
As the traveller benighted flies onward in fear,
And the clink of his footsteps falls shrill on his ear.

There's a hush in the bushes, a chill in the air,

While a breath steals beside him and whispers, 'Beware!'
While aslant by the oak, down the hollow ravine,
Like a flying bird's shadow smooth-gliding, is seen
Fionula the Cruel, the brightest, the worst,
With a terrible beauty the vision accurst,
Gold-filleted, sandalled, of times dead and gone-
Far-looking, and harking, pursuing, goes on:

Her white hand from her ear lifts her shadowy hair,
From the lamp of her eye floats the sheen of despair ;
Her cold lips are apart, and her teeth in her smile
Glimmer death on her face with a horrible wile.
Three throbs at his heart-not a breath at his lip,
As the figure skims by like the swoop of a ship;
The breeze dies and drops like a bird on the wing,
And the pulse of the rivulet ceases to sing ;
And the stars and the moon dilate o'er his head,
As they smile out an icy salute to the dead.

The traveller-alone--signs the cross on his breast,
Gasps a prayer to the saints for her weary soul's rest;
His 'gospel' close pressed to the beat of his heart,
And fears still to linger, yet dreads to depart.

By the village fire crouched, his the story that night,
While his listeners around him draw pale with affright;
Till it's over the country-'God bless us, again!'

How he met Fionula in Aherlow Glen.

ABHRAIN AN BHUIDEIL

ADDRESS OF A DRUNKARD TO A BOTTLE OF WHISKY

FROM what dripping cell, through what fairy glen,
Where 'mid old rocks and ruins the fox makes his den,
Over what lonesome mountain,

Acuishle mo chroidhe!

Where gauger never has trod,
Sweet as the flowery sod,

Wild as the breath

Of the breeze on the heath,

And sparkling all o'er like the moon-lighted fountain,

Are you come to me-
Sorrowful me?

Dancing-inspiring--
My wild blood firin';
Oh! terrible glory—

Oh

beautiful siren

Come, tell the old story

Come, light up my fancy, and open my heart.

Oh, beautiful ruin

My life my undoin'

Soft and fierce as a pantheress,

Dream of my longing, and wreck of soul, I never knew love till I loved you, enchanthress!

At first, when I knew you, 'twas only flirtation,
The touch of a lip and the flash of an eye;
But 'tis different now-'tis desperation !

I worship before you,

I curse and adore you,

And without you I'd die.

Wirrasthrue!1

I wish 'twas again

The happy time when

1 Wirrasthrue = Mhuire is truaż: 'O Mary, 'tis pity.'

I cared little about you,
Could do well without you,

But would just laugh and view you ;
'Tis little I knew you!

Oh terrible darling,

How have you sought me,

Enchanted, and caught me ?

See, now, where you've brought me -
To sleep by the roadside, and dress out in rags.
Think-how you found me ;

Dreams come around me—

The dew of my childhood and life's morning beam; Now I sleep by the roadside, a wretch all in rags. My heart that sang merrily when I was young

Swells up like a billow and bursts in despair; And the wreck of my hopes on sweet memory flung And cries on the air,

Are all that is left of the dream.

Wirrasthrue!

My father and mother,

The priest, and my brother

Not a one has a good word for you.

But I can't part you, darling; their preaching's all vain ;
You'll burn in my heart till these thin pulses stop;
And the wild cup of life in your fragrance I'll drain—
To the last brilliant drop.

Then oblivion will cover

The shame that is over,

The brain that was mad, and the heart that was sore; Then, beautiful witch,

I'll be found-in a ditch,

With your kiss on my cold lips, and never rise more,