THE MULATTO OF MURILLO.

A TRUE STORY.

One beautiful summer morning, about the year 1630, several youths of Seville approached the dwelling of the celebrated painter Murillo, where they arrived nearly at the same time. After the usual salutation they entered the studio. Murillo was not yet there, and each of the pupils walked up quickly to his easel to examine if the paint had dried, or perhaps to admire his work of the previous evening.

"Pray, gentlemen," exclaimed Isturitz, angrily, "which of you remained behind in the studio last night?"

"What an absurd question! Don't you recollect that we all came away together?"

With these words Mendez, with a careless air, approached his easel, when an exclamation of astonishment escaped him, and he gazed in mute surprise on his canvas, on which was roughly sketched a most beautiful head of the Virgin.

At this moment some one was heard entering the room. The pupils turned at the sound, and all made a respectful obeisance to the great master.

"Look, Señor Murillo, look!" exclaimed the youths, as they pointed to the easel of Mendez.

"Who has painted this—who has painted this head, gentlemen?" asked Murillo, eagerly. "Speak; tell me. He who has sketched this head will one day be the master of us all. Murillo wishes he had done it. What skill! Mendez, my dear pupil, was it you?"

"No, señor," replied Mendez, in a sorrowful tone.

"Was it you, then, Isturitz, or Ferdinand, or Carlos?"

But they all gave the same reply as Mendez.

"I think, sir," said Cordova, the youngest of the pupils, "that these strange pictures are very alarming. To tell the truth, such wonderful things have happened in your studio that one scarcely knows what to believe."

"What are they?" asked Murillo, still lost in admiration of the beautiful head by the unknown artist.

"According to your orders, señor," answered Ferdinand, "we never leave the studio without putting everything in order; but when we return in the morning, not only is everything in confusion, our brushes filled with paint, our palettes dirtied, but here and there are sketches, sometimes of the head of an angel, sometimes of a demon, then again a young girl, or the figure of an old man, but all admirable, as you have seen yourself, señor."

"This is certainly a curious affair, gentlemen," observed Murillo, "but we shall soon learn who is this nightly visitant. Sebastian," he continued, addressing a little mulatto boy about fourteen years old, who appeared at his call, "did I not desire you to sleep here every night?"

"Yes, master," said the boy, with timidity.

"And have you done so?"

"Yes, master."

"Speak, then; who was here last night and this morning before these gentlemen came?"

"No one but me, I swear to you, master," cried the mulatto, throwing himself on his knees in the middle of the studio, and holding out his little hands in supplication before his master.

"Listen to me," pursued Murillo. "I wish to know who has sketched this head of the Virgin and all the figures which my pupils find every morning here on coming to the studio. This night, in place of going to bed, you shall keep watch, and if by to-morrow you do not discover who the culprit is, you shall have twenty-five strokes from the lash. You hear! I have said it. Now go and grind the colors; and you, gentlemen, to work."

From the commencement until the termination of the hour of instruction Murillo was too much absorbed with his pencil to allow a word to be spoken but what related to their occupation; but the moment he disappeared conversation began, and naturally turned to the subject in which they were all interested.

"Beware, Sebastian, of the lash," said Mendez, "and watch well for the culprit; but give me the Naples yellow."

"You do not need it, Señor Mendez; you have made it yellow enough already; and as to the culprit, I have already told you that it is the Zombi."

"Are these negroes fools with their Zombi?" said Gonzalo, laughing. "Pray what is a Zombi?"

"Oh, an imaginary being, of course. But take care, Señor Gonzalo," continued Sebastian, with a mischievous glance at his easel, "for it must be the Zombi who has stretched the left arm of your St. John to such a length that if the right resembles it he will be able to untie his shoe-strings without stooping."

"Do you know, gentlemen," said Isturitz, as he glanced at the painting, "that the remarks of Sebastian are extremely just, and much to the point? Who knows but that from grinding the colors he may one day astonish us by showing he knows one from another?"

It was night, and the studio of Murillo, the most celebrated painter in Seville, was now as silent as the grave. A single lamp burned upon a marble table, and a young mulatto boy, whose eyes sparkled like diamonds, leaned against an easel. Immovable and still, he was so deeply absorbed in his meditations that the door of the studio was opened by one who several times called him by name, and who, on receiving no answer, approached and touched him. Sebastian raised his eyes, which rested on a tall and handsome negro.

"Why do you come here, father?" he asked, in a melancholy tone.

"To keep you company, Sebastian."

"There is no need, father; I can watch alone."

"But what if the Zombi should come?"

"I do not fear him," replied the boy, with a sad smile.

"He may carry you away, and then the poor negro Gomez will have no one to console him in his slavery."

"Oh, how sad! how dreadful it is to be a slave!" exclaimed the boy, weeping bitterly.

"It is the will of God," replied the negro, with an air of resignation.

"God!" ejaculated Sebastian, as he raised his eyes to the dome of the studio, through which the stars glittered—"God! I pray constantly to Him, my father (and He will one day listen to me), that we may no longer be slaves. But go to bed, father; go, go, and I shall go to mine there in that corner, and I shall soon fall asleep. Good-night, father, good-night."

"Good-night, my son;" and having kissed the boy, the negro retired.

The moment Sebastian found himself alone he uttered an exclamation of joy. Then suddenly checking himself, he said: "Twenty-five lashes to-morrow if I do not tell who sketched these figures, and perhaps more if I do. Oh, my God, come to my aid!" and the little mulatto threw himself upon the mat which served him for a bed, where he soon fell fast asleep.

Sebastian awoke at daybreak; it was only three o'clock. "Courage, courage, Sebastian," he exclaimed, as he shook himself awake; "three hours are thine—only three hours; then profit by them; the rest belong to thy master. Slave! Let me at least be my own master for three short hours. To begin, these figures must be effaced," and seizing a brush, he approached the Virgin, which, viewed by the soft light of morning, appeared more beautiful than ever.

"Efface this!" he exclaimed—"efface this! No; I will die first. Efface this—they dare not—neither dare I. No—that head—breathes—speaks; it seems as if her blood would flow if I should offer to efface it, and that I should be her murderer. No, no, no; rather let me finish it."

Scarcely had he uttered these words, when, seizing a palette, he seated himself at the easel, and was soon totally absorbed in his occupation. Hour after hour passed unheeded by Sebastian, who was too much engrossed by the beautiful creation of his pencil, which seemed bursting into life, to mark the flight of time.

But who can describe the horror and consternation of the unhappy slave, when, on suddenly turning round, he beheld all the pupils, with his master at their head, standing beside him!

Sebastian never once dreamed of justifying himself, and, with his palette in one hand and his brushes in the other, he hung down his head, awaiting in silence the punishment he believed that he justly merited.

Murillo having, with a gesture of the hand, imposed silence on his pupils, and concealing his emotion, said in a cold and severe tone, while he looked alternately from the beautiful picture to the terrified slave,

"Who is your master, Sebastian?"

"You," replied the boy, in a voice scarcely audible.

"I mean your drawing-master," said Murillo.

"You, señor," again replied the trembling slave.

"It can not be; I never gave you lessons," said the astonished painter.

"But you gave them to others, and I listened to them," rejoined the boy, emboldened by the kindness of his master.

"And you have done better than listen; you have profited by them," exclaimed Murillo, unable longer to conceal his admiration. "Gentlemen, does this boy merit punishment or reward?"

At the word punishment Sebastian's heart beat quick; the word reward gave him a little courage; but fearing that his ears deceived him, he looked with timid and imploring eyes toward his master.

"A reward, señor," cried the pupils, in a breath.

"That is well; but what shall it be?"

Sebastian began to breathe.

"Speak, Sebastian," said Murillo, looking at his slave. "Tell me what you wish for; I am so much pleased with your beautiful composition that I will grant any request you may make. Speak, then; do not be afraid."

"Oh, master, if I dared—" And Sebastian, clasping his hands, fell at the feet of his master.

With the view of encouraging him, each of the pupils suggested some favor for him to demand.

"Ask gold, Sebastian."

"Ask rich dresses, Sebastian."

"Ask to be received as a pupil, Sebastian."

A faint smile passed over the countenance of the slave at the last words, but he hung down his head and remained silent.

"Come, take courage," said Murillo, gayly.

"The master is so kind," said Ferdinand, half aloud, "I would risk something; ask your freedom, Sebastian."

At these words Sebastian uttered a cry of anguish, and raising his eyes to his master, he exclaimed, in a voice choked with sobs, "The freedom of my father! the freedom of my father!"

"And thine also," said Murillo, who, no longer able to conceal his emotion, threw his arms round Sebastian, and pressed him to his breast. "Your pencil," he continued, "shows that you have talent; your request proves that you have a heart; the artist is complete. From this day consider yourself not only as my pupil, but as my son. Happy Murillo! I have done more than paint. I have made a painter."

Murillo kept his word, and Sebastian Gomez, better known under the name of the Mulatto of Murillo, became one of the most celebrated painters in Spain. There may yet be seen in the churches of Seville the celebrated picture which he had been found painting by his master, and others of the highest merit.