Western Reserve chronicle. [volume] (Warren, Ohio) 1855-1921, 1864-01-20
The Unknown Painter.

Murillo, the celebrated artist of Seville,
often found upon the canvas OF some OF
his pupils sketches or specimens OF draw
ing imperfect and unfinished, but bearing
the rich impress of genius. They were
executed during the night, and he was
utterly unable TO conjecture the author.
One morning the pupils had arrived at
the studio before him, and were grouped
before an easel, uttering exclamations Of
great surprise, when Murillo entered
His astonishment was equal TO their own
on finding an unfinished head of the Vir-
gin, of exquisite outline, with many touch
es of surprising beauty. He appealed
first 10 one and then TO another of the
young gentlemen to see if they could lay
claim to the choice but mysterious pro-
duction, but they returned sorrowful
negative. He who has left this tracery
will one day be master of us all Sebas-
tian," said he-a youthful slave stood
trembling before him-"who occupies this
studio at nightf'
mo one but myself, senor."
''Well, take your station here tonight,
and if you do not inform me of the mys-
terious visitant to this room. thirty lash
es shall be your reward on the morrow"
He bowed in quiet submission and re-
tired That night he threw his mat
tress before the easel and slept soundly
till the clock struck three. He then
sprang from his couch and exclaimed,
"Three hours are my own, the rest are
my masters He then seized pallet,
and took his seat at the frame TO
erase the work of the preceding night
With brush in hand, to make the oblivious
stroke, he paused. 20, those eyes," said
he, "they pierce me through; that blood
will run from those purple veins rather
let me finish it."
He went to work. and soon the slave,
the darkened brow, the child Of toll and
suffering, are merged into youthful
spirit rising from the impetus Of his own
deathless energies into a sphere of liberty
and bright beauty.
"A little eoloring here, touch there,
a shade here :" and thus the three hours
rolled unheeded by 80. those beaming
eyes; those lips, they will speak and
bless me; my beautiful. D, my beau
tiful =" a slight noise caused him to
look up. Murillo with his pupils stood
around; the sunshine was peering bright
ly through the easement, while yet the
taper burned. Again he
was a slave, and the spirits folded wing
scarce seemed to futter. His eyes fell
beneath their eager gaze.
"Who is your master. Sebastian
''You, senor."
''Your drawing-master, mean?"
"You, senor."
81 have never given you lessons"
No; but you gave these young
gentlemen, and heard them"
"Yes, you have done better-yOu have
profted by them. Does this boy deserve
punishment, or reward, my dear pupils?"
Reward, senor." was the quick re
sponse.
What shall it be?"
One suggested suit of clothes, another
a sum of money but no chord was touch
ed in the captive's bosom. Another said,
"The master feels kindly to-day; ask your
freedom, Sebastian"
He sunk on his knees and a grosn Of
anguish 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 breathed. Murillo folded
him t. his bosom. Your pencil shows
that you have talent, your request that
you have heart you are no longer my
slave, but my son. Happy Murillo! |
have not only painted but made a
painter"
There are still in classic Italy many
beautiful specimens from the pencils of
Murillo and Sebastian.