known to
the pretty maiden herself, and his declaration was followed by a
corresponding confession upon her part.

Schalken, however, was a poor man, and he possessed no counterbalancing
advantages of birth or position to induce the old man to consent to
a union which must involve his niece and ward in the strugglings and
difficulties of a young and nearly friendless artist. He was, therefore,
to wait until time had furnished him with opportunity, and accident with
success; and then, if his labours were found sufficiently lucrative, it
was to be hoped that his proposals might at least be listened to by her
jealous guardian. Months passed away, and, cheered by the smiles of the
little Rose, Schalken's labours were redoubled, and with such effect and
improvement as reasonably to promise the realisation of his hopes,
and no contemptible eminence in his art, before many years should have
elapsed.

The even course of this cheering prosperity was, however, destined to
experience a sudden and formidable interruption, and that, too, in a
manner so strange and mysterious as to baffle all investigation, and
throw upon the events themselves a shadow of almost supernatural horror.

Schalken had one evening remained in the master's studio considerably
longer than his more volatile companions, who had gladly availed
themselves of the excuse which the dusk of evening afforded, to withdraw
from their several tasks, in order to finish a day of labour in the
jollity and conviviality of the tavern.

But Schalken worked for improvement, or rather for love. Besides, he
was now engaged merely in sketching a design, an operation which,
unlike that of colouring, might be continued as long as there was light
sufficient to distinguish between canvas and charcoal. He had not then,
nor, indeed, until long after, discovered the peculiar powers of
his pencil, and he was engaged in composing a group of extremely
roguish-looking and grotesque imps and demons, who were inflicting
various ingenious torments upon a perspiring and pot-bellied St.
Anthony, who reclined in the midst of them, apparently in the last stage
of drunkenness.

The young artist, however, though incapable of executing, or even of
appreciating, anything of true sublimity, had nevertheless discernment
enough to prevent his being by any means satisfied with his work; and
many were the patient erasures and corrections which the limbs and
features of saint and devil underwent, yet