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