the purcell papers-2-第21部分

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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

　　　　　And　she　is　dead。'





These　lines　I　have　transcribed　in　order

to　prove　a　point　which　I　have　heard

denied；　namely；　that　an　Irish　peasant

for　their　author　was　no　moremay　write

at　least　correctly　in　the　matter　of　measure；

language；　and　rhyme；　and　I　shall　add

several　extracts　in　further　illustration　of

the　same　fact；　a　fact　whose　assertion；　it

must　be　allowed；　may　appear　somewhat

paradoxical　even　to　those　who　are

acquainted；　though　superficially；　with

Hibernian　composition。　The　rhymes　are；

it　must　be　granted；　in　the　generality　of

such　productions；　very　latitudinarian

indeed；　and　as　a　veteran　votary　of　the

muse　once　assured　me；　depend　wholly

upon　the　wowls　（vowels）；　as　may　be　seen

in　the　following　stanza　of　the　famous

'Shanavan　Voicth。'



　'　〃What'll　we　have　for　supper？〃

　　　　　Says　my　Shanavan　Voicth；

　〃We'll　have　turkeys　and　roast　BEEF；

　And　we'll　eat　it　very　SWEET；

　And　then　we'll　take　a　SLEEP；〃

　　　　　Says　my　Shanavan　Voicth。'





But　I　am　desirous　of　showing　you　that；

although　barbarisms　may　and　do　exist　in

our　native　ballads；　there　are　still　to　be

found　exceptions　which　furnish　examples

of　strict　correctness　in　rhyme　and　metre。

Whether　they　be　one　whit　the　better　for

this　I　have　my　doubts。　In　order　to

establish　my　position；　I　subjoin　a　portion

of　a　ballad　by　one　Michael　Finley；　of

whom　more　anon。　The　GENTLEMAN　spoken

of　in　the　song　is　Lord　Edward　Fitzgerald。



　'The　day　that　traitors　sould　him　and　inimies　bought　him；

　　　　　The　day　that　the　red　gold　and　red　blood　was　paid

　Then　the　green　turned　pale　and　thrembled　like　the　dead　leaves　in

Autumn；

　　　　　And　the　heart　an'　hope　iv　Ireland　in　the　could　grave　was

laid。



　'The　day　I　saw　you　first；　with　the　sunshine　fallin'　round　ye；

　　　　　My　heart　fairly　opened　with　the　grandeur　of　the　view：

　For　ten　thousand　Irish　boys　that　day　did　surround　ye；

　　　　　An'　I　swore　to　stand　by　them　till　death；　an'　fight　for　you。



　'Ye　wor　the　bravest　gentleman；　an'　the　best　that　ever　stood；

　　　　　And　your　eyelid　never　thrembled　for　danger　nor　for　dread；

　An'　nobleness　was　flowin'　in　each　stream　of　your　blood

　　　　　My　bleasing　on　you　night　au'　day；　an'　Glory　be　your　bed。



　'My　black　an'　bitter　curse　on　the　head；　an'　heart；　an'　hand；

　　　　　That　plotted；　wished；　an'　worked　the　fall　of　this　Irish　hero

bold；

　　　　　God's　curse　upon　the　Irishman　that　sould　his　native　land；

　An'　hell　consume　to　dust　the　hand　that　held　the　thraitor's

gold。'





Such　were　the　politics　and　poetry　of

Michael　Finley；　in　his　day；　perhaps；　the

most　noted　song…maker　of　his　country；　but　

as　genius　is　never　without　its　eccentricities；

Finley　had　his　peculiarities；　and　among

these；　perhaps　the　most　amusing　was　his

rooted　aversion　to　pen；　ink；　and　paper；　in

perfect　independence　of　which；　all　his

compositions　were　completed。　It　is

impossible　to　describe　the　jealousy　with

which　he　regarded　the　presence　of　writing

m