"Ten ducats; but to speak frankly, I shall like as well to keep it. It is my first composition, and I have prayed so earnestly to God whilst I have painted it, that I fancy, somehow, it will bring me good luck." "Well, six ducats. Is not that good luck, rogue?" "It is money, father Ozorio; but I am resolved I will not sell it for less than ten." "You will repent it, you little fool! Come, Menesès!" After breakfast, next day, Bartholomew, putting his picture under his arm, took the way to the cloister of St. Francis, sought out the St. John, established himself right before it, and began to paint. Absorbed in his occupation, he heard some low voices murmering round him. He looked about, and beheld a stranger, splendidly attired, and of noble figure, looking at his picture. "Not badly done, my little friend! Who is your mas "That is a pity! At the same time, my child, in studying great masters, as you are now doing, you are following the secret path to excellence, and can do without a master." "Ah! there is one I should wish to be inspired by; but unhappily, I know nothing of him except his great reputation." "Who is that?" "Valasquez!" The stranger smiled. "You have better than he, my lad! Vandyke, Rubens, Raphael, Michael Angelo, Poussin." "I am only a boy, Sir, it is true," replied Bartholomew, looking suspiciously at the unknown; "but I think Valasquez may be classed with those you have just mentioned; and perhaps you, Signor, are not an artist!" At that moment Menesés came up, and Bartholomew whispered to him: "The servants of this stranger are down near the door; go and ask his name." "It is Signor Jaques Rodriguez da Sylva." Bartholomew, looking again at the stranger, answered, "Then I am not surprised." This little manoeuvre did not escape the stranger, who had comprehended and heard all. "Why?" said he. "Because, in despising Velasquez, you have spoken more like a great lord than like an artist." "And cannot one be both, my child?" "It is rare, Signor. We have seen it in Rubens, but such things don't happen twice in the same age." Well, you may be right, and I am not offended, my young master; but to show you that a nobleman can at least appreciate the talents of an artist, I see so much merit in your picture that I will buy it.—How much do ask?" "I refused six ducats for it yesterday," said Bartholomew; whilst Menesès touched him on the elbow, and whispered, "Say ten; it is a dealer's trick I see played at my father's every day,say twenty." "That would be a falsehood," replied Bartholomew. "You say, my young master," said the stranger, looking keenly at both boys, "that yesterday you refused-hem!-how much did you say?" 'Six ducats," unhesitatingly replied Bartholomew. "Well, I shall give you twenty; is the picture mine?" "But it is not worth that," said Bartholomew, blushing up to the eyes, with both pleasure and fear. "I know that," said Don Rodriguez. "I am not paying the artist that is, but the artist that will be, some of these future days. You cannot study at Seville-there is no school here-you must go to Madrid." "Oh! if I had enough to go to Italy," exclaimed Murillo so sorrowfully, the stranger seemed touched. "You will go to the native Spanish school; I will give you a letter to its chief." Young Murillo rose from his chair, trembling with agitation. "For Velasquez," said he. "And I shall see him, shall see him!" "As you see me." Well, Signor," said Menesès, "you have made Bartholomew happy at last. Velasquez is his hero-his model; he wants to do every thing like Velasquez. And that is net all. Velasquez has a peasant who laughs and cries at will. I am Murilio's peasant, and as I can't laugh and cry just as I am told, I get many a bad day of it, I can tell you." Young Murillo had remained stupified by the splendid visions this promise had conjured up. See Madrid and Velasquez! Don Rodriguez aroused him by shaking his hand, and saying, "Come this evening at 7 o'clock to the hotel on the Square of Castile," and disappeared before Murillo had recovered himself. As Bartholomew returned home, followed by Menesès, carrying his drawing materials, Therésina met him in the street. "Good news," said she. "You were scarcely gone, when Ozorio came, and gave me ten ducats for the picture." "Am I not unfortunate," replied Bartholomew. "I have just sold it for twenty." "But why grieve?" cried Menesès. "Give the ducats back to my father, and tell him the picture was sold before he came.' "Hold your tongue, Menesès: you are my evil spirit; what is done, is done. After dinner I shall go and apologize to Don Rodriguez. I only hope he will still give me the letter." "Ah! you have brought me the picture," said the nobleman, when Bartholomew was shown into the room where he was writing. "Signor, my mother had sold it before I got home." "Dearer?" asked Don Rodriguez. "Cheaper; but that is nothing." "What is your name?" "Bartholomew Esteban Murillo." "Have you a father and mother?" "Both, Signor." "Take me to them," said Don Rodriguez, looking at the boy in a way that made him feel confused. "I beg you It was quite dark when they reached the house of Estèban. will forgive my impatience, Signora ; but it is not so much the parents of my young artist that I wished to pay my respects to before I leave Seville, as "I can do more; I can present him to you now, if you like." "Da Sylva Velasquez. I am going into Italy to join Rubens. I shall not then receive you at Madrid, but I shall give orders about you. Do not fail to send him," added Velasquez, turning to Estèban. Your son is no ordinary painter; he will be a very great one some day." But Esteban falling ill again, and dying, Murillo found he must remain to support his mother. At last, when he was abont sixteen, and his mother able to take care of herself, Murillo decided on leaving. Having little money, he bought canvass, cut it into little squares, made a number of small pictures representing saints or religious subjects, and flowers, and sold them for America. Dividing the profit with his mother, he left Seville. When he reached Madrid, he found Velasquez returned from Italy. He went to him. Velasquez at once recognized his young protège, and procured him abundant work in the Escurial, and other palaces at Madrid. Murillo remained there three years. After that, he returned to Seville, and having painted for the cloister of St. Francis "The death of St. Clare," and a "St. Jean giving alms," these two pictures made such a noise, that all the religious communities at Seville were eager for pictures by him. Murillo was one of the greatest painters that ever honored Spain. He died at Seville, the 3d of April, 1682. His chief pupils are Antolines, Meneses Ozorio, Jobar, Villavicenuo, and Sebastian Gomez, surnamed the Mulatto of Murillo. THE SELF-MADE BOY. Marly years ago, a poor boy of seventeen was seen travelling on foot and alone in England. He carried over his shoulder, at the end of a stick, all the clothing he had in the world, and had in his pocket an old leather purse, containing a few pieces of money given him by his mother, when with a prayerful heart, she took leave of him near her own cottage. Our young traveller was the son of poor, but honest and pious parents, small farmers in a village called Ugborough. John Prideaux, for that was his name, had six brothers, and five sisters, all of whom had to labor hard on the farm for a living. Being a pious boy, he used to assist the parish clerk in singing in divine worship. When the old clerk died, John hoped to fill his place, but another young man was preferred by the parish, and John Prideaux, to his great grief and trouble, lost the clerkship. He now wished to leave home and try to get his living elsewhere. His parents at last consented, and sent him forth with their prayers and blessing. He first went to Exeter, where he met with no success; but as he looked on the beautiful cathedral, and at the books in the shop windows, a strong desire sprang up in his mind to become a student, and he at once set off for Oxford, two hundred miles, walking the whole weary way. At night he sometimes slept in barns or by the side of a haystack. He lived chiefly on bread and water, with a little milk now and then. When he reached the splendid and ancient city of Oxford, his clothing was nearly worn out, his feet were sore, his spirits were cast down, and he scarcely knew what to do. He had heard of Exeter College in Oxford, and thither he went, and engaged himself as servant to the cook. Here he might have been seen scouring his pans and at the same time reading a book. His love of study soon drew the attention of the learned doctors, and they took him into the college as a "poor scholar," and provided for his wants. John felt grateful for their kindness, studied hard, and was soon at the head of his class. It was not long before he was made Fellow of the College, and received the degree of Master of Arts; soon after which he was ordained to the ministry. Afterwards he was chosen Rector of the college, then Professor of Divinity, and then Vice-Chancellor of the University. While he had the charge of the college, his learning and his winning manners caused it to flourish more than any other college in England, and more foreigners came to it for instruction than ever was known before. In 1641 he was chosen Bishop of Worcester, and he used often to say, "If I had been chosen parish clerk of Ugborough, I should never have been Bishop of Worcester." He rose to a great honor as a scholar, was very useful as a minister of Christ, and many years before his death, in 1650, when he was seventy-two, he visited his father and mother, who were delighted to see their son not only a "great scholar," but a good bishop. He was a man of gentle and winning manners, of great piety, and of such extensive learning, that he was called "a pillar of the faith." He was also to the last very humble, and kept part of the ragged clothes in which he came to Oxford in the same closet where he kept the robe in which he left that university. Such was John Prideaux, the pious and diligent boy, and the learned but humble bishop.-American Messenger. REST. We have never, we believe, says an exchange, seen verses more true and touching than those which we give below. They are a new and perfect expression of a world-wide feeling. That nameless soldier had a cultured mind and noble spirit, and on his poor pallet in the Southern Hospital went out a light that might have illumined many. The world loses, but he has gained his "Rest." The Living Age says: "The following lines were found under the pillow of a soldier who was lying dead in a hospital, near Port Royal, South Carolina:" I lay me down to sleep, A bowing burdened head, My good right hand forgets To march the weary march I am not eager, bold, Nor strong all that is past; I am ready not to do At last, at last. My half day's work is done, I give a patient God; My patient heart. And grasp His banner still, Though all its blue be dim; These stripes no less than stars, THE GIFTS OF THE MAGI. They gave to Thee Myrrh, Frankincense and gold; But, Lord, with what shall we Present ourselves before thy majesty, Whom thou didst purchase back when we were sold? Yet it is soft, and may Accept it Lord, and say, this thou hadst rather; Thy holy image, and it shall outshine Jeremy Taylor, 1650. |