The Mysteries of the Court of London — page 206: what you’re looking at

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THE MYSTERIES. tion; and their subjects were as varied and their respective style as different as those which were dis- played for sale in the shop and apartments beneath. In fact, it was in this room that all Mr. Shrubsole’s Raphaels, Michael Angelos, Correggios, Titians, Guidos, Rembrandts, Vandykes, Claudes, Poussins, Murillos, and Hogarths were composed and manu- factured; and from that sordid-looking studio flowed the stream of “ master-pieces” that supplied the pic- ture galleries of the aristocratic and wealthy class throughout England. | And who was the artist that combined in his own person a glimmering reflection of the talents of all those great masters? The reader may perhaps sus- pect that the paintings were the veriest daubs in the universe: but such indeed they were not. On the contrary, they evinced immense skill, a profound ac- quaintance with the style of those originals of which they were imitations, and no small experience in ing fine effects. In a word, genius was stamped upon each and all; and if that genius were far in- ferior to the assemblage of models which it kept in view, it was nevertheless of no common order. In the workshop, or studio, which we have just seen Mr. Sbrubsole enter, a young man was busily employed with his palette and brushes, He was tall —thin—but symmetrical in proportions, and cf a genteel appearance. His countenance was pale, without being absolutely sickly: and his large dark eyes flashed with the fire of genius. Coal black hair, silky and gloasy as that of a woman, curled naturally above the high, noble, and intellectual forehead over which it was parted; and his whiskers, of the same jetty dye, met beneath his chin, the oval countenance thus being framed in ebony. His delicately pencilled brows were finely arched: he had the short and slightly curved upper lip which denoted a haughty disposition ;—and his teeth were remarkably white and even. His toilette was plain, and even homely: but his linen was perfectly clean, his boots well blacked, and his clothes carefully brashed. When at work, he wore an apron, which reached half-way up his chest; and altogether his appearance was so neat and interesting that it not caly contrasted strongly with the miserable aspect of the apartment, but was also widely different from the slovenliness and neglect which usually characterise men of that profession. This young artist, whose age was certainly not more than five-and-twenty, was named George Woodfall ; and he it was who, for a remuneration ridiculously mederate, touched up and altered the old pictures which his employer bought at sales and elsewhere, and likewise painted new ones. In fact, he was the author of the Michael Angelos, Rembrandts, and other “ master-pieces” which Mr. Shrubsole disposed of as originals, and for which he obtained large sams. “Well, my dear George,” said the picture-dealer, as be entered the room: “hard at work—eh? No- thing like it—nothing like it! I have just sold the Vandyke—the Saints, you know? Let me see: that painting I bought at a sale in Wardour Street—and then you touched it up.” “Touched it up!” exclaimed the young man, in- dignantly : “I made it what itis—I converted it from a vile daub into something which, at all events, you have managed to pass off as a Vandyke. But how much did you obtain for it?” he asked, in a milder tone, 18§ “A mere trifle—forty guineas,” answered Shrub- sole, telling this great falsehood without a blush and without the quivering of a muscle of his countenance. “T shall add half-a-guinea to your wages on Satur- day night: I can’t do more, as times go.” “ Wages !—do you look upon me asa servant ?” cried Woodfall, grinding his teeth. “Call it pittance —stipend—income—salary—anything you choose: but not wages !”” “Well — well —I didn’t mean to offend you, George,” said the picture-dealer, trembling at the young man’s excitement. “ But I have something else to inform you this afternoon. I’ve sold a Rem- brandt.”” “Which ?” demanded Woodfall. “Whichever you like to make it,” responded Mr. Shrubsole, with a chuckling laugh. “Ah! I see—you have been playing off the black canvass on the imagination of some simpleton,” ob- served the young man. “ Well —I can scarcely blame you. The world are so vain and conceited that they deserve to be taken in. Sooner than con- fess themselves ignorant, they will affect to see a picture where no picture exists. Oh! the contemp- tible foola—the drivelling idiots !” “‘ Come—don’t excite yourself on that account, my dear young friend,” said Mr. Shrubsole, laying his long, lean, withered hand upon the shoulder of the tall, graceful young man. “Not I indeed,” exclaimed Woodfall, with a con-: temptuous curl of the lip: “ these miserable ignorami are not worth a sneer. But how much did you get from your customer by persuading him into the be- lief that a dark canvass was a solendid painting ?” “A tnfle—a mere trifle—tnirty guineas,” re- sponded Shrubsole, telling lie the second. “But I shall add another half-guinea to your wa—— salary,” he cried, hastily correcting himself, “next Saturda night. Come—you must paint in a female Saint or some such thing on the dark canvass: a quarter of an hour in the oven will then give it a few cracks all over, and bestow an ancient appearance on it ;—and perhaps we shall use a little meguelp or turpentine to subdue the freshness of the colouring, and make it look a Zeetle black and dirty.” “ T will go down and fetch up the canvass at once,” said Woodfall. “Eh! that’s a dear good young man. Lose no time about it. I'll just look at the pictures you’ve been working on to-day, till you come up again.” And while Mr. Shrubsole turned towards the par- tially finished paintings on their easels, the talented artist descended into the shop. “Tom,” he said, immediately acoosting the boy, into whose hand he slipped a shilling; “how much did your master receive for that Vandyke 2” “Four hundred and fifty guineas, sir,” was the reply. “ And for the pretended Rembrandt?” was Wood- fall’s next query. “ Five hundred guineas, sir,” answered the lad. “Thank you, Tom: you are a good boy—a very good boy,” observed the artist, in a low and hurried tone—for he was afraid of being overheard by the picture-dealer. “ And who was the purchaser ?” “Sir Brjnksby Bull,” returned Tom. George Woodfall drew forth his pocket-book— made a few hasty memoranda—and then proceeded to carry the daubed canvass up to his workshop on the third floor. COMNGLROO S COMM