comfortable. 'A man may be as ugly as the devil, and yet if his heart
and actions are good, he is worth all the pretty-faced, perfumed puppies
that walk the Mall. Rose, my girl, it is very true he has not thy pretty
face, but I know him to be wealthy and liberal; and were he ten times
more ugly----'
'Which is inconceivable,' observed Rose.
'These two virtues would be sufficient,' continued her uncle, 'to
counterbalance all his deformity; and if not of power sufficient
actually to alter the shape of the features, at least of efficacy enough
to prevent one thinking them amiss.'
'Do you know, uncle,' said Rose, 'when I saw him standing at the door,
I could not get it out of my head that I saw the old, painted, wooden
figure that used to frighten me so much in the church of St. Laurence of
Rotterdam.'
Gerard laughed, though he could not help inwardly acknowledging the
justness of the comparison. He was resolved, however, as far as he
could, to check his niece's inclination to ridicule the ugliness of her
intended bridegroom, although he was not a little pleased to observe
that she appeared totally exempt from that mysterious dread of the
stranger which, he could not disguise it from himself, considerably
affected him, as also his pupil Godfrey Schalken.
Early on the next day there arrived, from various quarters of the town,
rich presents of silks, velvets, jewellery, and so forth, for Rose; and
also a packet directed to Gerard Douw, which, on being opened, was found
to contain a contract of marriage, formally drawn up, between Wilken
Vanderhausen of the Boom-quay, in Rotterdam, and Rose Velderkaust of
Leyden, niece to Gerard Douw, master in the art of painting, also of
the same city; and containing engagements on the part of Vanderhausen
to make settlements upon his bride, far more splendid than he had before
led her guardian to believe likely, and which were to be secured to her
use in the most unexceptionable manner possible--the money being placed
in the hands of Gerard Douw himself.
I have no sentimental scenes to describe, no cruelty of guardians, or
magnanimity of wards, or agonies of lovers. The record I have to make is
one of sordidness, levity, and interest. In less than a week after the
first interview which we have just described, the contract of marriage
was fulfilled, and Schalken saw the prize which he would have risked
anything to secure, carried off triumphantly by his formidable rival.
For two or three days he absented himself from the school; he then
returned and worked, if with less cheerfulness, with far more dogged
resolution than before; the dream of love had given place to that of
ambition.
Months passed away, and, contrary to his expectation, and, indeed, to
the direct promise of the parties, Gerard Douw heard nothing of his
niece, or her worshipful spouse. The interest of the money, which was
to have been demanded in quarterly sums, lay unclaimed in his hands. He
began to grow extremely uneasy.
Mynher Vanderhausen's direction in Rotterdam he was fully possessed
of. After some irresolution he finally determined to journey thither--a
trifling undertaking, and easily accomplished--and thus to satisfy
himself of the safety and comfort of his ward, for whom he entertained
an honest and strong affection.
His search was in vain, however. No one in Rotterdam had ever heard of
Mynher Vanderhausen.
Gerard Douw left not a house in the Boom-quay untried; but all in vain.
No one could give him any information whatever touching the object of
his inquiry; and he was obliged to return to Leyden, nothing wiser than
when he had left it.
On his arrival he hastened to the establishment from which Vanderhausen
had hired the lumbering though, considering the times, most luxurious
vehicle which the bridal party had employed to convey them to Rotterdam.
From the driver of this machine he learned, that having proceeded by
slow stages, they had late in the evening approached Rotterdam; but that
before they entered the city, and while yet nearly a mile from it, a
small party of men, soberly clad, and after the old fashion, with peaked
beards and moustaches, standing in the centre of the road, obstructed
the further progress of the carriage. The driver reined in his horses,
much fearing, from the obscurity of the hour, and the loneliness of the
road, that some mischief was intended.
His fears were, however, somewhat allayed by his observing that these
strange men carried a large litter, of an antique shape, and which they
immediately set down upon the pavement, whereupon the bridegroom, having
opened the coach-door from within, descended, and having assisted his
bride to do likewise, led her, weeping bitterly and wringing her hands,
to the litter, which they both entered. It was then raised by the men
who surrounded it, and speedily carried towards the city, and before it
had proceeded many yards the darkness concealed it from the view of the
Dutch charioteer.
In the inside of the vehicle he found a purse, whose contents more than
thrice paid the hire of the carriage and man. He saw and could tell
nothing more of Mynher Vanderhausen and his beautiful lady. This mystery
was a source of deep anxiety and almost of grief to Gerard Douw.
There was evidently fraud in the dealing of Vanderhausen with him,
though for what purpose committed he could not imagine. He greatly
doubted how far it was possible for a man possessing in his countenance
so strong an evidence of the presence of the most demoniac feelings, to
be in reality anything but a villain; and every day that passed without
his hearing from or of his niece, instead of inducing him to forget his
fears, on the contrary tended more and more to exasperate them.
The loss of his niece's cheerful society tended also to depress his
spirits; and in order to dispel this despondency, which often crept upon
his mind after his daily employment was over, he was wont frequently
to prevail upon Schalken to accompany him home, and by his presence to
dispel, in some degree, the gloom of his otherwise solitary supper.
One evening, the painter and his pupil were sitting by the fire, having
accomplished a comfortable supper, and had yielded to that silent
pensiveness sometimes induced by the process of digestion, when their
reflections were disturbed by a loud sound at the street-door, as if
occasioned by some person rushing forcibly and repeatedly against it.
A domestic had run without delay to ascertain the cause of the
disturbance, and they heard him twice or thrice interrogate the
applicant for admission, but without producing an answer or any
cessation of the sounds.
They heard him then open the hall-door, and immediately there followed a
light and rapid tread upon the staircase. Schalken laid his hand on his
sword, and advanced towards the door. It opened before he reached it,
and Rose rushed into the room. She looked wild and haggard, and pale
with exhaustion and terror; but her dress surprised them as much even
as her unexpected appearance. It consisted of a kind of white woollen
wrapper, made close about the neck, and descending to the very ground.
It was much deranged and travel-soiled. The poor creature had hardly
entered the chamber when she fell senseless on the floor. With some
difficulty they succeeded in reviving her, and on recovering her senses
she instantly exclaimed, in a tone of eager, terrified impatience:
'Wine, wine, quickly, or I'm lost!'
Much alarmed at the strange agitation in which the call was made, they
at once administered to her wishes, and she drank some wine with a haste
and eagerness which surprised them. She had hardly swallowed it, when
she exclaimed, with the same urgency:
'Food, food, at once, or I perish!'
A considerable fragment of a roast joint was upon the table, and
Schalken immediately proceeded to cut some, but he was anticipated; for
no sooner had she become aware of its presence than she darted at it
with the rapacity of a vulture, and, seizing it in her hands she tore
off the flesh with her teeth and swallowed it.
When the paroxysm of hunger had been a little appeased, she appeared
suddenly to become aware how strange her conduct had been, or it may
have been that other more agitating thoughts recurred to her mind, for
she began to weep bitterly and to wring her hands.
'Oh! send for a minister of God,' said she; 'I am not safe till he
comes; send for him speedily.'
Gerard Douw despatched a messenger instantly, and prevailed on his niece
to allow him to surrender his bedchamber to her use; he also persuaded
her to retire to it at once and to rest; her consent was extorted upon
the condition that they would not leave her for a moment.
'Oh that the holy man were here!' she said; 'he can deliver me. The dead
and the living can never be one--God has forbidden it.'
With these mysterious words she surrendered herself to their guidance,
and they proceeded to the chamber which Gerard Douw had assigned to her
use.
'Do not--do not leave me for a moment,' said she. 'I am lost for ever if
you do.'
Gerard Douw's chamber was approached through a spacious apartment, which
they were now about to enter. Gerard Douw and Schalken each carried
a was candle, so that a sufficient degree of light was cast upon all
surrounding objects. They were now entering the large chamber, which,
as I have said, communicated with Douw's apartment, when Rose suddenly
stopped, and, in a whisper which seemed to thrill with horror, she said:
'O God! he is here--he is here! See, see--there he goes!'
She pointed towards the door of the inner room, and Schalken thought he
saw a shadowy and ill-defined form gliding into that apartment. He
drew his sword, and raising the candle so as to throw its light with
increased distinctness upon the objects in the room, he entered the
chamber into which the shadow had glided. No figure was there--nothing
but the furniture which belonged to the room, and yet he could not be
deceived as to the fact that something had moved before them into the
chamber.
A sickening dread came upon him, and the cold perspiration broke out in
heavy drops upon his forehead; nor was he more composed when he heard
the increased urgency, the agony of entreaty, with which Rose implored
them not to leave her for a moment.
'I saw him,' said she. 'He's here! I cannot be deceived--I know him.
He's by me--he's with me--he's in the room. Then, for God's sake, as you
would save, do not stir from beside me!'
They at length prevailed upon her to lie down upon the bed, where she
continued to urge them to stay by her. She frequently uttered incoherent
sentences, repeating again and again, 'The dead and the living cannot be
one--God has forbidden it!' and then again, 'Rest to the wakeful--sleep
to the sleep-walkers.'
These and such mysterious and broken sentences she continued to utter
until the clergyman arrived.
Gerard Douw began to fear, naturally enough, that the poor girl, owing
to terror or ill-treatment, had become deranged; and he half suspected,
by the suddenness of her appearance, and the unseasonableness of the
hour, and, above all, from the wildness and terror of her manner, that
she had made her escape from some place of confinement for lunatics, and
was in immediate fear of pursuit. He resolved to summon medical advice
as soon as the mind of his niece had been in some measure set at rest
by the offices of the clergyman whose attendance she had so earnestly
desired; and until this object had been attained, he did not venture to
put any questions to her, which might possibly, by reviving painful or
horrible recollections, increase her agitation.
The clergyman soon arrived--a man of ascetic countenance and venerable
age--one whom Gerard Douw respected much, forasmuch as he was a veteran
polemic, though one, perhaps, more dreaded as a combatant than beloved
as a Christian--of pure morality, subtle brain, and frozen heart. He
entered the chamber which communicated with that in which Rose reclined,
and immediately on his arrival she requested him to pray for her, as
for one who lay in the hands of Satan, and who could hope for
deliverance--only from heaven.
That our readers may distinctly understand all the circumstances of the
event which we are about imperfectly to describe, it is necessary to
state the relative position of the parties who were engaged in it. The
old clergyman and Schalken were in the anteroom of which we have already
spoken; Rose lay in the inner chamber, the door of which was open; and
by the side of the bed, at her urgent desire, stood her guardian; a
candle burned in the bedchamber, and three were lighted in the outer
apartment.
The old man now cleared his voice, as if about to commence; but before
he had time to begin, a sudden gust of air blew out the candle which
served to illuminate the room in which the poor girl lay, and she, with
hurried alarm, exclaimed:
'Godfrey, bring in another candle; the darkness is unsafe.'
Gerard Douw, forgetting for the moment her repeated injunctions in the
immediate impulse, stepped from the bedchamber into the other, in order
to supply what she desired.
'O God I do not go, dear uncle!' shrieked the unhappy girl; and at the
same time she sprang from the bed and darted after him, in order, by her
grasp, to detain him.
But the warning came too late, for scarcely had he passed the threshold,
and hardly had his niece had time to utter the startling exclamation,
when the door which divided the two rooms closed violently after him, as
if swung to by a strong blast of wind.
Schalken and he both rushed to the door, but their united and desperate
efforts could not avail so much as to shake it.
Shriek after shriek burst from the inner chamber, with all the piercing
loudness of despairing terror. Schalken and Douw applied every energy
and strained every nerve to force open the door; but all in vain.
There was no sound of struggling from within, but the screams seemed to
increase in loudness, and at the same time they heard the bolts of the
latticed window withdrawn, and the window itself grated upon the sill as
if thrown open.
One LAST shriek, so long and piercing and agonised as to be scarcely
human, swelled from the room, and suddenly there followed a death-like
silence.
A light step was heard crossing the floor, as if from the bed to the
window; and almost at the same instant the door gave way, and,
yielding to the pressure of the external applicants, they were nearly
precipitated into the room. It was empty. The window was open, and
Schalken sprang to a chair and gazed out upon the street and canal
below. He saw no form, but he beheld, or thought he beheld, the waters
of the broad canal beneath settling ring after ring in heavy circular
ripples, as if a moment before disturbed by the immersion of some large
and heavy mass.
No trace of Rose was ever after discovered, nor was anything certain
respecting her mysterious wooer detected or even suspected; no clue
whereby to trace the intricacies of the labyrinth and to arrive at a
distinct conclusion was to be found. But an incident occurred, which,
though it will not be received by our rational readers as at all
approaching to evidence upon the matter, nevertheless produced a strong
and a lasting impression upon the mind of Schalken.
Many years after the events which we have detailed, Schalken, then
remotely situated, received an intimation of his father's death, and of
his intended burial upon a fixed day in the church of Rotterdam. It was
necessary that a very considerable journey should be performed by the
funeral procession, which, as it will readily be believed, was not very
numerously attended. Schalken with difficulty arrived in Rotterdam
late in the day upon which the funeral was appointed to take place. The
procession had not then arrived. Evening closed in, and still it did not
appear.
Schalken strolled down to the church--he found it open--notice of the
arrival of the funeral had been given, and the vault in which the body
was to be laid had been opened. The official who corresponds to our
sexton, on seeing a well-dressed gentleman, whose object was to attend
the expected funeral, pacing the aisle of the church, hospitably invited
him to share with him the comforts of a blazing wood fire, which, as
was his custom in winter time upon such occasions, he had kindled on the
hearth of a chamber which communicated, 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
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
oldfashioned 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 beautiful 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 unconscionable 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. He was a self-educated man, and in after-life rose
to high distinctions in the Church to which he devoted himself--an
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.