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