Che Painter of Seville.

BY SUSAN WILSON.

Sebastian Gomez, better known by the name of the Mulatto of Murillo, was one of the most celebrated painters of Spain.

There may yet be

seen in the churches of Seville the celebrated picture which he was found painting, by his master, a St. Anne, and a holy Joseph, which are extremely beautiful, and others of the highest merit. The incident related occurred about the year 1630.

'Twas morning in Seville; and brightly beamed
The early sunlight in one chamber there;
Showing where'er its glowing radiance gleamed,
Rich, varied beauty. 'Twas the study where
Murillo, the famed painter, came to share
With young aspirants his long cherished-art,—
To prove how vain must be the teacher's care,
Who strives his unbought knowledge to impart,
The language of the soul, the feeling of the heart.

The pupils came, and glancing round,
Mendez upon his canvass found,
Not his own work of yesterday,
But, glowing in the morning ray,
A sketch so rich, so pure, so bright,

It almost seemed that there were given

THE PAINTER OF SEVILLE.

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To glow before his dazzled sight,

Tints and expression warm from heaven.

'Twas but a sketch, the Virgin's head.— Yet was unearthly beauty shed

Upon the mildly beaming face;

The lip, the eye, the flowing hair,
Had separate, yet blended grace,-
A poet's brightest dream was there!

Murillo entered, and amazed,

On the mysterious painting gazed;
"Whose work is this ?-speak, tell me!-he
Who to his aid such power can call,"
Exclaimed the teacher eagerly,

"Will yet be master of us all;
Would I had done it!-Ferdinand!
Isturitz! Mendez !-say, whose hand
Among ye all?"-With half-breathed sigh,
Each pupil answered,-"'Twas not I!"

"How came it then?" impatiently Murillo cried; "but we shall see, Ere long, into this mystery.

Sebastian!"

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THE PAINTER OF SEVILLE.

At the summons came

A bright-eyed slave,

Who trembled at the stern rebuke

His master gave.

For, ordered in that room to sleep,
And faithful guard o'er all to keep,
Murillo bade him now declare
What rash intruder had been there,
And threatened,-if he did not tell
The truth at once, the dungeon-cell.
"Thou answerest not," Murillo said;

(The boy had stood in speechless fear.) "Speak on!"-At last he raised his head,

And murmured, "No one has been here." "'Tis false !" Sebastian bent his knee,

And clasped his hands imploringly,
And said, "I swear it, none but me!"

"List!” said his master. "I would know
Who enters here;-there have been found
Before, rough sketches strewn around,
By whose bold hand, 'tis yours to show;
See that to-night strict watch you keep,
Nor dare to close your eyes in sleep.
If on to-morrow morn you fail

To answer what I ask,

THE PAINTER OF SEVILLE.

The lash shall force you,-do you hear!
Hence! to your daily task."

*

'Twas midnight in Seville; and faintly shone From one small lamp, a dim uncertain ray Within Murillo's study;-all were gone

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Who there, in pleasant tasks or converse gay, Passed cheerfully the morning hours away. 'Twas shadowy gloom, and breathless silence,

save,

That to sad thoughts and torturing fear a prey, One bright-eyed boy was there,-Murillo's little slave..

Almost a child, that boy had seen
Not thrice five summers yet,
But genius marked the lofty brow,

O'er which his locks of jet
Profusely curled; his cheek's dark hue
Proclaimed the warm blood flowing through

Each throbbing vein a mingled tide,

To Africa and Spain allied.

"Alas! what fate is mine!" he said.

"The lash, if I refuse to tell

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THE PAINTER OF SEVILLE.

Who sketched those figures;—if I do,

Perhaps e'en more, the dungeon-cell !"
He breathed a prayer to Heaven for aid;
It came,—for soon in slumber laid,
He slept, until the dawning day
Shed on his humble couch its ray.

"I'll sleep no more!" he cried; "and now,
Three hours of freedom I may gain,
Before my master comes; for then
I shall be but a slave again.
Three blessed hours of freedom! how
Shall I employ them?-ah! e'en now
The figure on that canvass traced
Must be,-yes, it must be effaced."

He seized a brush—the morning light
Gave to the head a softened glow;
Gazing enraptured on the sight,

He cried, "Shall I efface it ?—No!
That breathing lip! that beaming eye!
Efface them?-I would rather die!"

The terror of the humble slave

Gave place to the o'erpowering flow Of the high feelings Nature gave,— Which only gifted spirits know.