shall, if you please, attempt to relate the tradition which has
descended with the canvas.

There are few forms on which the mantle of romance hangs more
ungracefully than upon that of the uncouth Schalken--the boorish but
most cunning worker in oils, whose pieces delight the critics of our day
almost as much as his manners disgusted the refined of his own; and yet
this man, so rude, so dogged, so slovenly, in the midst of his
celebrity, had in his obscure, but happier days, played the hero in a
wild romance of mystery and passion.

When Schalken studied under the immortal Gerard Douw, he was a very
young man; and in spite of his phlegmatic temperament, he at once fell
over head and ears in love with the beautiful niece of his wealthy
master. Rose Velderkaust was still younger than he, having not yet
attained her seventeenth year, and, if tradition speaks truth, possessed
all the soft and dimpling charms of the fair, light-haired Flemish
maidens. The young painter loved honestly and fervently. His frank
adoration was rewarded. He declared his love, and extracted a faltering
confession in return. He was the happiest and proudest painter in all
Christendom. But there was somewhat to dash his elation; he was poor and
undistinguished. He dared not ask old Gerard for the hand of his sweet
ward. He must first win a reputation and a competence.

There were, therefore, many dread uncertainties and cold days before
him; he had to fight his way against sore odds. But he had won the heart
of dear Rose Velderkaust, and that was half the battle. It is needless
to say his exertions were redoubled, and his lasting celebrity proves
that his industry was not unrewarded by success.