the purcell papers-2-第23部分

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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