The Mysterious Artist.
One beautiful summer morning, about the year 1630, several youths of Seville, in Spain, approached the dwelling of the celebrated painter Murillo, where they arrived nearly at the same time. After the usual salutations, they entered the studio or workshop of the artist. 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!” replied Cordova; “don’t you recollect that we all came away together?”
“This is a foolish jest, gentlemen,” answered Isturitz. “Last evening I cleaned my palette with the greatest care, and now it is as dirty as if some one had used it all night.”
“Look!” exclaimed Carlos; “here is a small figure in the corner of my canvass, and it is not badly done. I should like to know who it is that amuses himself every morning with sketching figures, sometimes on my canvass, sometimes on the walls. There was one yesterday on your easel, Ferdinand.”
“It must be Isturitz,” said Ferdinand.
“Gentlemen,” replied Isturitz, “I protest—”
“You need not protest,” replied Carlos; “we all know you are not capable of sketching such a figure as that.”
“At least,” answered Isturitz, “I have never made a sketch as bad as that of yours; one would think you had done it in jest.”
“And my pencils are quite wet,” said Gonzalo in his turn. “Truly, strange things go on here in the night.”
“Do you not think, like the negro Gomes, that it is the Zombi, who comes and plays all these tricks?” said Isturitz.
“Truly,” said Mendez, who had not yet spoken, being absorbed in admiration of the various figures which were sketched with the hand of a master in different parts of the studio, “if the Zombi of the negroes draws in this manner, he would make a beautiful head of the virgin in my Descent from the Cross.”
With these words, Mendez, with a careless air, approached his easel, when an exclamation of astonishment escaped him, and he gazed with mute surprise at his canvass, on which was roughly sketched a most beautiful head of the virgin; but the expression was so admirable, the lines so clear, the contour so graceful, that, compared with the figures by which it was encircled, it seemed as if some heavenly visitant had descended among them.
“Ah, what is the matter?” said a rough voice. The pupils turned at the sound, and all made a respectful obeisance to the great master.
“Look, Senor Murillo, look!” exclaimed the youths, as they pointed to the easel of Mendez.
“Who has painted this? who has painted this, gentlemen?” asked Murillo, eagerly; “speak, tell me. He who has sketched this virgin will one day be the master of us all. Murillo wishes he had done it. What a touch! what delicacy! what skill! Mendez, my dear pupil, was it you?”
“No, Senor,” said Mendez, in a sorrowful tone.
“Was it you then, Isturitz, or Ferdinand, or Carlos?”
But they all gave the same answer as Mendez.
“It could not however come here without hands,” said Murillo, impatiently.
“I think, sir,” said Cordova, the youngest of the pupils, “that these strange pictures are very alarming; indeed, this is not the first unaccountable event which has happened in your studio. To tell the truth, such wonderful things have happened here, one scarcely knows what to believe.”
“What are they?” asked Murillo, still lost in admiration of the head of the virgin by the unknown artist.
“According to your orders, Senor,” answered Ferdinand, “we never leave the studio without putting everything in order, cleaning our palettes, washing our brushes, and arranging our easels; 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, (beautiful ones to be sure they are,) sometimes of the head of an angel, sometimes of a demon, then again the profile of a young girl, or the figure of an old man, but all admirable, as you have seen yourself, Senor.”
“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 of about fourteen years old, who appeared at his call, “did I not desire you to sleep here every night?”
“Yes, master,” said the boy, timidly.
“And have you done so?”
“Yes, master.”
“Speak, then; who was here last night and this morning before these gentlemen came? Speak, slave, or I shall make you acquainted with my dungeon,” said Murillo angrily to the boy, who continued to twist the band of his trowsers without replying.
“Ah, you don’t choose to answer,” said Murillo, pulling his ear.
“No one, master, no one,” replied the trembling Sebastian with eagerness.
“That is false,” exclaimed Murillo.
“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 hands in supplication before his master.
“Listen to me,” pursued Murillo. “I wish to know who has sketched the head of this virgin, and all the figures which my pupils find here every morning, on coming to this studio. This night, instead 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 till the termination of the hour of instruction, Murillo was too much absorbed with his pencil to allow a word to be spoken but what regarded their occupation, but the moment he disappeared, the pupils made ample amends for this restraint, and as the unknown painter occupied all their thoughts, the conversation naturally turned to that subject.
“Beware, Sebastian, of the lash,” said Mendez, “and watch well for the culprit. Give me the Naples yellow.”
“You do not need it, Senor 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 or asses, with their Zombi?” said Gonzalo, laughing; “pray what is a Zombi?”
“Oh, an imaginary being, of course. But take care, Senor Gonzalo,” continued Sebastian, with a mischievous glance at his easel, “for it must be the Zombi who has sketched 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.”
“Oh, they say that negroes have the faces of asses, and the tongues of parrots,” rejoined Gonzalo, in a tone of indifference.
“With this distinction,” observed Ferdinand, “that the parrot repeats by rote, while Sebastian shows judgment in his remarks.”
“Like the parrot, by chance,” retorted Gonzalo.
“Who knows,” said Mendez, who had not digested the Naples yellow, “that from grinding the colors, he may one day astonish us by showing that he knows one from another.”
“To know one color from another, and to know how to use them, are two very different things,” replied Sebastian, whom the liberty of the studio allowed to join in the conversation of the pupils; and truth obliges us to confess that his taste was so exquisite, his eye so correct, that many of them did not disdain to follow the advice he frequently gave them respecting their paintings. Although they sometimes amused themselves by teasing the little mulatto, he was a great favorite with them all; and this evening, on quitting the studio, each, giving him a friendly tap on the shoulder, counselled him to keep a strict watch and catch the Zombi, for fear of the lash.
(To be continued.)
Peter Pilgrim’s Account of his Schoolmates. No. 2.
Among my schoolmates, there were two boys who were always inseparable, yet they were as unlike each other in all respects as can well be conceived; What strange sympathy united them so closely, was to us all a matter of wonder; yet their friendship continued to increase, and the one seemed ever unhappy when absent from the other. Bill Hardy was a stout, hearty little fellow, fond of active and athletic sports, and ever the foremost in all feats of daring and mischief. If there was a battle to be fought with the butcher’s saucy imp, or the blacksmith’s grim-faced apprentice, who but Bill was thrust forward as the ready champion. And many a hard-fought contest did he wage with them, and many a black eye did he give and receive in his wars. But his spirit was ever unconquerable. If he received from their wicked fists a sound drubbing to-day, he was nothing loth to-morrow to try his luck again; and thus, by dint of persevering courage, he often contrived by a lucky blow to win a victory over his more powerful adversaries. Often did the graceless youth return to his widowed mother with a disfigured face, and with torn garments, and, after receiving her gentle reprimand, promise better things for the future; but with the next morning’s sun all his good resolutions vanished, and his repentant promises were forgotten. He seemed to overflow with the very spirit of fun and mischief. It was his delight to fasten a tin kettle to the tail of any vagabond dog in the streets, and send him howling with terror from one end of the village to the other. He enjoyed also great satisfaction in worrying every luckless cat that he could lay his hands on; and every poor broken-down horse in the pasture could attest to the weight of his arm and the sharpness of his heel. No unfortunate little bird could find a perch for its nest high enough to be safe from his marauding fingers, for he would fearlessly clamber to the very tops of the highest tree, like a squirrel, and scale the most dangerous precipice, in pursuit of his prey.
Little Jemmy Galt, on the contrary, though he accompanied his friend Billy in all his ramblings, never took an active part or interest in them. He was of a much more quiet and gentle nature, and endeavored to restrain his friend in his thoughtless pranks. He used especially all his little powers of persuasion with him to prevent him from engaging in his frequent pitched battles; but when his remonstrances were all in vain, he barely stood by him, holding his cap and jacket during the contest, and anxiously acting the good Samaritan, in arranging the disordered dress, and removing the stains of dirt and blood from his friend. This truly kind and humane nature often served to check the cruel propensities of his friend, and saved many a poor bird or animal from torture. But if the spirited Billy carried away the palm in the pastimes of the fields and woods, his quiet comrade was no less distinguished and pre-eminent in the school-room; for here his studious habits and intelligent mind gave him a marked precedence. And here his skill in mastering a difficult task enabled him to reward the protecting services of his friend, by helping him through the slough of many a tough sum in the arithmetic, or many a deep bog in grammar, from which less acute Billy was vainly endeavoring to extricate himself. It seemed to be a mutual alliance, in which the one was to fight the battles of the other in return for the intellectual aid rendered him in the school-room.
I happened one bright holiday afternoon to overhear a conversation between them, which may well serve to illustrate their several minds. The subject of their discussion related to the choice of their future profession in life, and the selection of each was such as I should have readily anticipated.
“It is my wish and intention,” said Bill, “to be a sailor. That is the profession that my poor father loved and followed, and nothing but the sea and a ship will ever satisfy my mind. To be sure, you may say that he, poor man, was lost, together with all who sailed with him, on a distant coast, and in a dreadful tempest, but that is no reason why I should meet with the same misfortune. How many there are who sail the ocean for a good long life-time in perfect safety, and at length, after earning a heap of gold and silver, die quietly in their beds at home, mourned and respected by all who knew them. I never look on those rusty old pistols and cutlass in our parlor, which my father always prized so dearly, without a keen desire to pack them away in a chest of my own, and hasten away to B., and enter upon my voyagings in one of those noble ships that you may always see there at the wharves. And then, when I look at those beautiful sea-shells that adorn our mantel, and the shark’s jaw, and the whale’s spine, and the stuffed flying-fish, I feel the strongest inclination to sail myself to foreign shores, and gather such curiosities with my own hands, and bring them home, to still further adorn our little room. Heigho! I wish I had a pea-jacket and was bound for sea to-morrow!”
“I regret,” said master Jemmy, “the choice you have made; for I think you are about to devote yourself to a hard and dangerous life. Far better were it for you to hold the plough than the rudder, to plough up the rich furrows of the farm, than the rough billows of the ocean. Consider how many privations you will have to endure, and what perils you must face. Think of the dark, stormy nights at sea, with the wild winds howling through the rigging, the mast creaking, and bending, and ready to break, and the torn sails flapping and struggling to break free from your feeble grasp. Then will come the pelting rain, and the blinding snow, and the sharp sleet, and the blood will freeze in your veins, and every limb become benumbed with the cold. Then you must endure the sharp and bitter taunts and execrations of your officers, and, after a hard and thankless struggle with the storm, creep to your wet and cheerless hammock, in the dark and comfortless forecastle, and sigh for death, or lament that you ever left the warm fireside and the kind friends of your country home. I have no taste myself for such a boisterous life, and prefer to cultivate my mind, and devote myself to some gentler and more studious employment. How pleasant to stand at the bar and plead the case of some forlorn body, falsely accused, or to visit and heal at the sick bed, or to minister in the sacred desk, or even to preside over the little school in some humble village. Such is the height of my ambition.”
“You present to my view,” said Bill, “only the dark side of the picture. Think, on the contrary, of the brave, stout ship, with all its gaudy streamers flying from each spiring mast, all its snow-white canvass bellying on the tall spars, the fresh breeze blowing us on our course, and the bright and boundless sea smiling, and shining, and rolling around the bow. Then think of the visit to the green islands of the Bermudas and Madeira, and all the fruit-bearing isles of the West Indies. Think of the glorious gallop among the mountains and plantations of Cuba. There the loveliest fruits grow as plentifully as the apples in our orchard, and you have only the trouble to help yourself to the plantain, the banana, the pine-apple, the orange, and the melon. Think of the delicious groves of palm and lemon that cover the land, filled with numberless birds of the richest plumage. Then also what famous shores may we not visit in our voyagings. We may drop anchor at Liverpool and London, and view without cost all the wonders of those mighty cities; view the multitudes of strange faces, and elegant shops, and splendid edifices, palaces, halls, and churches—view at pleasure the Tower, Westminster Abbey, St. Paul’s, and all the noble parks of London. Then also we may touch at Havre, or Rochelle, or Marseilles, and take a trip to gay and lively Paris, and visit Versailles, the Tuilleries, the Boulevards, and the Palais Royal; or perhaps touch at Leghorn, and thence make a trip to the Leaning Tower of Pisa—of which we have a print in our school-room—or ride over to Florence and see the beautiful Duomo, and all the rare palaces and galleries of the Medici, of whom we read in our school history;—or perhaps sail into the glorious bay of Naples, and ascend to the very summit of Mount Vesuvius, and bring home to the good folks of our village specimens of the sulphur from the very crater of the burning mountain;—or even ride over to old Rome itself, and visit the Vatican, with all its fine pictures, and the great St. Peter’s, which is said to be bigger than all the churches of Massachusetts put together. Then also we may sail up the blue Mediterranean, and visit Sicily and Malta, and Athens, and all the isles of Greece, and cast anchor off Smyrna and Constantinople, or coast along the shores of Syria, or sail up the harbor of Alexandria and take a look at the Nile, the Desert, and the Pyramids, and get a glimpse of Mehemit Ali himself, in the midst of his wild Egyptian guards. What could you desire better than all that? And all this I can enjoy by only going to sea as a sailor. Then also I can sail across the Pacific and Indian oceans, and take a look at the wonders of Bombay, Madras, Manilla, Calcutta, and Canton, and walk the streets of Pekin itself.”
After some further conversation the two friends parted. Each of the little fellows followed in course of time their several inclinations. Jemmy, after many struggles against poverty, overcame all difficulties, and at length quietly settled down as the “orthodox preacher” in a pleasant, quiet, and happy little village of New England, where he married a pretty little wife, and reared up a thriving and numerous progeny, who, I hope, are following in the good example set before them by their amiable parent. Master Billy had his wish and went to sea, where he was tossed and knocked about by the winds and waters for many a year, and, after rising to the command of a ship, finally retired from the service, and purchasing a farm with the fruits of his hard earnings, quietly settled down as a parishioner of his boyhood’s friend. He several times, however, suffered shipwreck; and at one time nearly lost his life while out in a whaleboat, engaged in that perilous fishery; was once taken by pirates, and had nearly been compelled to “walk the plank.” But he luckily escaped all these perils, and now loves to recite them over to his listening neighbors; but he never omits to confess the errors of his boyhood, and to declare that the habits he then formed had nearly proved fatal to his success in life.
(To be continued.)
