The Mysteries of the Court of London — page 203: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

133 — But he dared not ask a question—he dared not suffer it to appear that he was ina state of com- plete mental obfuscation: for if he seemed even for a single moment to be in the dark concerning that picture—as indeed he most assuredly was— his reputation as a connoisseur would be destroyed for ever. Vainly did he torture his imagination to persuade itself that he really did see something: no— the canvass was an awful void, or rather a mass of unvaried darkness save where the glimmer of the farthing candle flickered upon it;—and yet Mr. Shrubsole said it was a picture— and gazed upon it as if it were—and therefore a picture, thought the elderly gentleman, it certainly must be! “ Well, my dear sir—are you not delighted—are you not enraptured ?” exclaimed Mr. Shrubsole, after another long and solemn silence. “Do you not feel an enthusiasm glowing in your veins ?—do you not experience a sensation as if you could fall down and worship that master-piece of the immor- tal Rembrandt? Ah! my dear sir, to a connoisseur like you this is indeed the richest of treats—far, far exceeding the most luxurious banquet !” “T contess that I am lost—bewildered—confused —astounded,” said the elderly gentleman — and most assuredly hewas. “I mean—Iam amazed by the magnificence——” * Oh! I can comprehend your feelings, my dear sir,” interrupted the picture-dealer. ‘Do you not long to become the owner of this treasure?” “ What is the sum ?” demanded the elderly gentle- man: for he felt convinced that if he could make nothing of the subject of the painting, his family and friends would be equally in the dark—and he knew that his reputation as a connoisseur would rise to the very zenith by the mere fact of pos- sessing a picture of such extraordinary merit that no one could understand it! * Alas! my dear sir,” said Mr. Shrubsole, forcing himself to heave a profound sigh,—“ the badness of the times—the flatness of business—the state of the Money-Market—all combine to induce me to part with my Rembrandt fora mere song. Five hundred guineas—not a farthing less—and even then it will cost me a pang to lose my Rembrandt !” Five hundred guineas you shall have,” said the elderly gentleman, emphatically. “It would be a desecration and a sacrilege to attempt to beat you down, But of course—that is,my dear sir—I sup- pose,’ added the customer, with aslight embarrass- ment in his tone and wanner,—“ you can get a paragraph inserted in the newspapers to the effect —ahem !—that your most valuable Vandyke and your Rembrandt master-piece have been purchased —ahem !—for a large sum by—ahem !—that liberal amateur and well-known connoisseur, Sir Brinksby Bull.” “What! is it indeed the famous Sir Slinksby Pull who has thus honoured my Gallery by his pre- sence ?” cried the old picture-dealer, affecting to survey his customer with the deepest reverence mingled with admiration : although, to tell the truth, he had never in his life heard the name be- fore, and had even now caught it so imperfectly that he made a sad mess of the euphonious nomen- clature when attempting torepeat it. “Then I am glad that my two best paintings have fallen to the possession of one who will know how to value them. My dear sir,” he continued, “you have acquired verfect treasures this day. The pictures shall be THE MYSTERIES. dusted and cleaned, and sent to your mansion ir the course of the week.” “Very good, Mr. Shrubsole!” exclaimed the elderly gentleman, who was a retired grocer, and having been mayor of some town when the corpo- ration thereof presented an address to the King had received the honour of Knighthood—since which occurrence he had settled, with Lady Brinksby Bull and all the little Briniksby Bulls, in a Square at the West End of London, where he gave grand parties and set himself up as a patron of the fine arts : although, as the reader may very well conceive, he was a much better judge of mus- covado than of pictures. However, Sir Brinksby wrote a check for nine hundred and fifty guineas—left his address—aund strode pompously away, thinkiug how he should astonish all his friends and aristocratic acquaint- ances with his magnificent Rembrandt. The moment the Knight’s back was turned, Mr. Shrubsole rubbed his hands smartly together, and chuckled in a low mumbling tone, as old gentle- men are wont to do when they are hugely de- lighted: and having thus demonstrated his satis- faction, he exclaimed, “ Now, TTom—where are you 2?” “ Here, sir,’ said a short, pale, thin, and dirty- looking urchin, as he emerged from behind the great picture. “ You must mind the shop for a little while,” continued his master. “ And remember, if any one comes in, this portrait is Admiral Drake,” he added, pointing to a bluff-looking naval officer, with a small cocked hat perched on the top of a large wig. “ Why, sir—I thought he was Van Trump,” ex- claimed the boy. “Van Tromp you mean!” cried Mr. Shrubsole. “ Well—he has been Van Tromp for the last three weeks—and no one will buy a Dutch Admiral. So we must see whether the public can be tempted with an English one. And this portrait,” con- tinued the picture-dealer, pointing to a military commander, “has been Prince Eugene long enough. No one cares a curse about Prince Eugene. Let him be the Duke of Marlborough. Have we got a Marquis of Granby?” “The last that Mr. Woodfall painted, sir, was sold yesterday,” answered the boy. ‘“Well--this Marshal Turenne must bea Granby, then, in case anybody wants one. And while I think of it, Tom,’ added Mr. Shrubsole, “ that Ru- bens in the window there had better be a Titian; and this picture which Mr. Woodfall paiated last week, and which we baked yesterday, must be a Michael Angelo. Now, shall you remember all these instructions ?” “To be sure I shall, sir,” returned the lad, wita a knowing leer. «“ Well—I’ve done a good afternoon’s business— and here’s a penny for you,” said Mr. Shrubsole, placing the copper coin as carefully in the boy’s hand as if it were a guinea, which he was fearful might drop and roll between the boards. Having thus given the poor half-starved wretch a proof of his liberality, the picture-dealer ascended several flights of narrow, dark, and dilapidated stairs, and ultimately reached the third floor. There he entered a front room in which several pictures, rest- ing on their easels, were distributed about. These works of art were in various stages towards comple- COM Ghooksscom