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nicated; by a flight of steps; with the vault

below。



In this chamber Schalken and his

entertainer seated themselves; and the sexton;

after some fruitless attempts to engage his

guest in conversation; was obliged to apply

himself to his tobacco…pipe and can to

solace his solitude。



In spite of his grief and cares; the

fatigues of a rapid journey of nearly forty

hours gradually overcame the mind and

body of Godfrey Schalken; and he sank

into a deep sleep; from which he was

awakened by some one shaking him

gently by the shoulder。 He first thought

that the old sexton had called him; but HE

was no longer in the room。



He roused himself; and as soon as he

could clearly see what was around him; he

perceived a female form; clothed in a kind

of light robe of muslin; part of which was

so disposed as to act as a veil; and in her

hand she carried a lamp。 She was moving

rather away from him; and towards the

flight of steps which conducted towards the

vaults。



Schalken felt a vague alarm at the sight

of this figure; and at the same time an

irresistible impulse to follow its guidance。

He followed it towards the vaults; but

when it reached the head of the stairs; he

paused; the figure paused also; and; turning

gently round; displayed; by the light of

the lamp it carried; the face and features

of his first love; Rose Velderkaust。 There

was nothing horrible; or even sad; in the

countenance。 On the contrary; it wore

the same arch smile which used to enchant

the artist long before in his happy days。



A feeling of awe and of interest; too

intense to be resisted; prompted him to

follow the spectre; if spectre it were。 She

descended the stairshe followed; and;

turning to the left; through a narrow

passage; she led him; to his infinite

surprise; into what appeared to be an old…

fashioned Dutch apartment; such as the

pictures of Gerard Douw have served to

immortalise。



Abundance of costly antique furniture

was disposed about the room; and in one

corner stood a four…post bed; with heavy

black…cloth curtains around it; the figure

frequently turned towards him with the

same arch smile; and when she came to

the side of the bed; she drew the curtains;

and by the light of the lamp which she

held towards its contents; she disclosed to

the horror…stricken painter; sitting bolt

upright in the bed; the livid and demoniac

form of Vanderhausen。 Schalken had

hardly seen him when he fell senseless

upon the floor; where he lay until

discovered; on the next morning; by persons

employed in closing the passages into the

vaults。 He was lying in a cell of considerable

size; which had not been disturbed for

a long time; and he had fallen beside a

large coffin which was supported upon

small stone pillars; a security against the

attacks of vermin。



To his dying day Schalken was satisfied

of the reality of the vision which he had

witnessed; and he has left behind him a

curious evidence of the impression which

it wrought upon his fancy; in a painting

executed shortly after the event we have

narrated; and which is valuable as

exhibiting not only the peculiarities which

have made Schalken's pictures sought

after; but even more so as presenting a

portrait; as close and faithful as one taken

from memory can be; of his early love;

Rose Velderkaust; whose mysterious fate

must ever remain matter of speculation。



The picture represents a chamber of

antique masonry; such as might be found

in most old cathedrals; and is lighted

faintly by a lamp carried in the hand of

a female figure; such as we have above

attempted to describe; and in the

background; and to the left of him who

examines the painting; there stands the

form of a man apparently aroused from

sleep; and by his attitude; his hand being

laid upon his sword; exhibiting considerable

alarm: this last figure is illuminated

only by the expiring glare of a wood or

charcoal fire。



The whole production exhibits a beauti…

ful specimen of that artful and singular

distribution of light and shade which has

rendered the name of Schalken immortal

among the artists of his country。 This

tale is traditionary; and the reader will

easily perceive; by our studiously omitting

to heighten many points of the narrative;

when a little additional colouring might

have added effect to the recital; that we

have desired to lay before him; not a figment

of the brain; but a curious tradition

connected with; and belonging to; the

biography of a famous artist。







SCRAPS OF HIBERNIAN BALLADS。



Being an Eighth Extract from the Legacy of the late

Francis Purcell; P。 P。 of Drumcoolagh。



I have observed; my dear friend;

among other grievous misconceptions

current among men otherwise

well…informed; and which tend to

degrade the pretensions of my native land;

an impression that there exists no such

thing as indigenous modern Irish composition

deserving the name of poetrya

belief which has been thoughtlessly

sustained and confirmed by the unconscion…

able literary perverseness of Irishmen

themselves; who have preferred the easy

task of concocting humorous extravaganzas;

which caricature with merciless exaggeration

the pedantry; bombast; and blunders

incident to the lowest order of Hibernian

ballads; to the more pleasurable and

patriotic duty of collecting together the

many; many specimens of genuine poetic

feeling; which have grown up; like its wild

flowers; from the warm though neglected

soil of Ireland。



In fact; the productions which have

long been regarded as pure samples of

Irish poetic composition; such as 'The

Groves of Blarney;' and 'The Wedding

of Ballyporeen;' 'Ally Croker;' etc。; etc。;

are altogether spurious; and as much like

the thing they call themselves 'as I to

Hercules。'



There are to be sure in Ireland; as in all

countries; poems which deserve to be

laughed at。 The native productions of

which I speak; frequently abound in

absurditiesabsurdities which are often;

too; provokingly mixed up with what is

beautiful; but I strongly and absolutely

deny that the prevailing or even the

usual character of Irish poetry is that of

comicality。 No country; no time; is

devoid of real poetry; or something

approaching to it; and surely it were a

strange thing if Ireland; abounding as she

does from shore to shore with all that is

beautiful; and grand; and savage in

scenery; and filled with wild recollections;

vivid passions; warm affections; and keen

sorrow; could find no language to speak

withal; but that of mummery and jest。

No; her language is imperfect; but there

is strength in its rudeness; and beauty in

its wildness; and; above all; strong feeling

flows through it; like fresh fountains in

rugged caverns。



And yet I will not say that the

language of genuine indigenous Irish

composition is always vulgar and uncouth:

on the contrary; I am in possession

of some specimens; though by no means

of the highest order as to poetic merit;

which do not possess throughout a single

peculiarity of diction。 The lines which

I now proceed to lay before you; by way

of illustration; are from the pen of an

unfortunate young man; of very humble

birth; whose early hopes were crossed by

the untimely death of her whom he loved。

He was a self…educated man; and in after…

life rose to high distinctions in the Church

to which he devoted himselfan act which

proves the sincerity of spirit with which

these verses were written。



 'When moonlight falls on wave and wimple;

 And silvers every circling dimple;

     That onward; onward sails:

 When fragrant hawthorns wild and simple

     Lend perfume to the gales;

 And the pale moon in heaven abiding;

 O'er midnight mists and mountains riding;

 Shines on the river; smoothly gliding

     Through quiet dales;



 'I wander there in solitude;

 Charmed by the chiming music rude

     Of streams that fret and flow。

 For by that eddying stream SHE stood;

     On such a night I trow:

 For HER the thorn its breath was lending;

 On this same tide HER eye was bending;

 And with its voice HER voice was blending

     Long; long ago。



 Wild stream! I walk by thee once more;

 I see thy hawthorns dim and hoar;

     I hear thy waters moan;

 And night…winds sigh from shore to shore;

     With hushed and hollow tone;

 But breezes on their light way winging;

 And all thy waters heedless singing;

 No more to me are gladness bringing

     I am alone。



 'Years after years; their swift way keeping;

 Like sere leaves down thy current sweeping;

     Are lost for aye; and sped

 And Death the wintry soil is heaping

     As fast as flowers are shed。

 And she who wandered by my side;

 And breathed enchantment o'er thy tide;

 That makes thee still my friend and guide

     A

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