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,
coul