The Portland daily press., 1863-04-30
MISCELLANY.
The Unknown Painter.

Murillo the celebrated artist of Seville, often
found upon the canvas of some one of his pu-
pills sketches or specimens of drawing, imper-
feet and unfinished, bnt bearing the rich i'm
press of genius. They were executed during
the night, and he was utterly unable to con-
lecture the author. One morning the pupils
had arrived at the studio before him, and were
grouped before an easel, uttering exclama-
tons of delighted surprise, when Murillo en-
tered. His establishment was equal to their
own on finding an unfinished head of the Vir-
gin, of exquisite outline, with many touches of
surprising beauty. He appealed first to one
and then to another Of the young gentlemen,
to see if they could lay claim to the choice but
mysterious production, but they returned
sorrowful negative. "He who has left this
tracery will one day be master of us all. Sc
bastien," said he--a youthful slave stood trem-
bling before him-"who occupies this studio
at night?"
"No one but myself, senor."
"Well, take your station here tonight, and If
you do not inform of the mysterious visitant
to this room, thirty laslles shall be your reward
on the morrow"
He bowed in quiet submission and retired.
That night he threw his mattress before the
easel and slept soundly until the clock struck
three. He then sprung from his couch and
exclaimed, s'Three hours are my own, the rest
are my master's" He then seized palette
and took his seat at the frame, to erase the
work of the preceding nights. With brush in
hand, to make the oblivious stroke, he paused:
"Oh, those eyes, said he, "they pierce me
through; that blood will run from those pur-
pie veins i cannot. oh, / cannot erase it; rath-
er let me finish it."
He went to work, and soon the slave, the
darkened brow, the child Of toll and suffering
we're merged in a youthful spirit, rising from
the impetus of its own deathless energies into
sphere Of liberty and bright beauty.
"a little coloring here, touch there, a soft
shade here" and thus three hours rolled un-
needed by. Fs
/. aOh, those beaming eyes; those lips, they
will speak and bless me: my beautiful! oh, my
beautiful slight noise caused him to look
up. Murillo with his pupils stood around; ;
the sunshine was peering brightly through the
easement while yet the unextinguished taper
burned. Again he was slave, and the spirits
folded wing scarcely seemed to futter. His
eyes fell beneath their eager gaze.
"Who is your master, Sebastian"
@You, senor." EHeenal
"Your drawing master, L mean?'
"You, senor."
81 have never given you lessons"
mo; but you have given them to these
young gentlemen, and / have heard them"
"Yes, you have done better-you have
profited by them. Does this boy deserve
punishment, or reward, my dear pupils ?"
Reward, senor," was the quick response.
"What shall it be?'
One suggested new suit of clothes, another
sum Of money, but no chord was touched in
the captive's bosom. Another said, The master
feels kindly to-day; ask your freedom, Sebas-
tian.r
He sunk on his knees, and groan of an
guish burst from him, he lifted his burning
eyes to his masters face: "The freedom of my
father"
The death chill had passed from his heart,
and he bredthed, Murillo folded him to his
bosom. "Your pencil shows that you have
talent, your request that you have a heart;
you are no longer my slave, but my son.
Happy Murillo!I have not only painted, but
made a painterw
There are still to be seen in classic Italy
many beautiful specimens from the pencils of
Murillo and Sebastian.
Is there not voice fraught with sweet elo-
quence from this little story, penetrating to the
sanctuary of the heart and awakening its holt
est sensibilities? Is there not between the
circumstances and trials of our little hero,
and the events that sometimes occur in
the career of the Christian an impressive an
alogy?
Does he not sometimes feel that the shad-
ows of night encompass his pathway, that a
dark captivity rests upon him !; but true to the
uchscuiy Impulse, nc hccpc DiiShby DuluiiiS
the lamp of faith? With chastened spirit he
applies himself vigorously, earnestly, to his
work, his appointed work, and o what springs,
perennial springs of life and beauty, are unseal-
ed to him in that hour of dark, stern trial.
He finds by the light of his wondrous lamp,
locked in the cell of his oppressed heart, the
germ of infinite treasures, and opening into its
profoundest depths fountain of light from
the shores of immortality. He forgets his cap
tivity, forgets that sin and sorrow have cast
their murky shadows over him in the delight
full service Of his heavenly Master.
bright will the morn Of eternity dawn
Sometimes he thought he was toilng alone
and unheeded, but that light will disclose
cherubm and seraphim with eyes of eager in
terest bent upon him, arms of everlasting love
ready TO enfold him, and voice filling his
soul with untold bliss, shall say: have loved
thee, loved thee with infinite and unchanging
tenderness; thou hast overcome; henceforth
thou art mine, forever mine.