that conferred a great reward for past services, which, 1 am proud to say, was not greater than my desert. I have returned to protect that Constitution of which I was the parent and founder, from the assassination of such men as the right honorable gentleman and his unworthy associates. They are corrupt, they are seditious, and they, at this very moment, are in a conspiracy against their country. I have returned to refute a libel, as false as it is malicious, given to the public under the appellation of a report of the committee of the Lords. Here I stand, ready for impeachment or trial. I dare accusation. I defy the honorable gentleman; I defy the government; I defy their whole phalanx; let them come forth. I tell the ministers, I will neither give quarter nor take it. I am here to lay the shattered remains of my constitution on the floor of this House, in defence of the liberties of my country.-H. GRATTAN.

THE PAINTER OF SEVILLE.

Sebastian Gomez, better known by the name of the Mulatto of Murillo, was one of the most celebrated painters of Spain. There may yet be seen in the churches of Seville the celebrated picture which he was found painting, by his master, a St. Anne, and a holy Joseph, which are extremely beautiful, and others of the highest merit. The incident related occurred about the year 1630.

WAS morning in Seville; and brightly beamed The early sunlight in one chamber there; Showing where'er its glowing radiance gleamed, Rich, varied beauty. 'Twas the study where Murillo, the famed painter, came to share With young aspirants his long-cherished art, prove how vain must be the teacher's care Who strives his unbought knowledge to impart, The language of the soul, the feeling of the heart.

Το

The pupils came, and glancing round,
Mendez upon his canvas found,
Not his own work of yesterday,
But, glowing in the morning ray,
A sketch, so rich, so pure, so bright,
It almost seemed that there were given
To glow before his dazzled sight,

Tints and expression warm from heaven.

'T was but a sketch-the Virgin's head—
Yet was unearthly beauty shed
Upon the mildly beaming face;
The lip, the eye, the flowing hair,
Had separate, yet blended grace-

A poet's brightest dream was there!

Murillo entered, and amazed,

On the mysterious painting gazed; "Whose work is this?-speak, tell me!-he

Who to his aid such power can call," Exclaimed the teacher eagerly,

"Will yet be master of us all; Would I had done it!-Ferdinand! Isturitz, Mendez !-say, whose hand Among ye all?"-With half-breathed sigh, Each pupil answered-""T was not I!"

"How came it then?" impatiently Murillo cried; "but we shall see.

Ere long into this mystery.

Sebastian!"

At the summons came

A bright-eyed slave,

Who trembled at the stern rebuke

His master gave.

For, ordered in that room to sleep,
And faithful guard o'er all to keep,
Murillo bade him now declare
What rash intruder had been there,
And threatened-if he did not tell
The truth at once-the dungeon-cell.
"Thou answerest not," Murillo said;
(The boy had stood in speechless fear.)
"Speak on!"-At last he raised his head,
And murmured, "No one has been here."
""Tis false!" Sebastian bent his knee,

And clasped his hands imploringly,
And said, "I swear it, none but me!"

"List!" said his master. "I would know

Who enters here-there have been found
Before, rough sketches strewn around,
By whose bold hand, 't is yours to show;
See that to-night strict watch you keep,
Nor dare to close your eyes in sleep.
If on to-morrow morn you fail
To answer what I ask,

The lash shall force you-do you hear?
Hence! to your daily task."

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'Twas midnight in Seville; and faintly shone From one small lamp, a dim uncertain ray Within Murillo's study-all were gone

Who there, in pleasant tasks or converse gay, Passed cheerfully the morning hours away.

'T was shadowy gloom, and breathless silence, save, That to sad thoughts and torturing fear a prey,

One bright-eyed boy was there-Murillo's little slave.

Almost a child-that boy had seen
Not thrice five summers yet,
But genius marked the lofty brow,
O'er which his locks of jet

Profusely curled; his cheek's dark hue
Proclaimed the warm blood flowing through
Each throbbing vein, a mingled tide,
To Africa and Spain allied.

"Alas! what fate is mine!" he said.
"The lash, if I refuse to tell
Who sketched those figures-if I do,
Perhaps e'en more—the dungeon-cell!
He breathed a prayer to Heaven for aid;
It came for soon, in slumber laid,

He slept until the dawning day

Shed on his humble couch its ray.

"I'll sleep no more!" he cried; "and now, Three hours of freedom I may gain

Before my master comes; for then

I shall be but a slave again.
Three blessed hours of freedom! how
Shall I employ them?-ah! e'en now
The figure on that canvas traced
Must be yes, it must be effaced."

He seized a brush-the morning light
Gave to the head a softened glow;
Gazing enraptured on the sight,

He cried, "Shall I efface it?—No!
That breathing lip! that beaming eye!
Efface them?-I would rather die!"

The terror of the humble slave

Gave place to the o'erpowering flow
Of the high feelings Nature gave—
Which only gifted spirits know.
He touched the brow-the lip-it seemed
His pencil had some magic power;
The eye with deeper feeling beamed-
Sebastian then forgot the hour!
Forgot his master, and the threat

Of punishment still hanging o'er him;
For, with each touch, new beauties met
And mingled in the face before him.

At length 't was finished, rapturously
He gazed-could aught more beauteous bel→
Awhile absorbed, entranced he stood,
Then started-horror chilled his blood!
His master and the pupils all

Were there, e'en at his side!

The terror-stricken slave was mute-
Mercy would be denied,

E'en could he ask it-so he deemed,

And the poor boy half lifeless seemed.

Speechless, bewildered-for a space
They gazed upon that perfect face,
Each with an artist's joy;
At length Murillo silence broke,
And with affected sternness spoke-
"Who is your master, boy?"

"You, Señor," said the trembling slave.
"Nay, who, I mean, instruction gave,
Before that Virgin's head you drew?"
Again he answered, "Only you."