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 stairs--he 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 poetry--a 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 absurdities--absurdities 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.
