a genuine Raphael, originally in the collection of
Cardinal Ritz. It is a genuine engraved picture,’’
remarked the official, examining some apocryphal
memorandum through his gold eye-glass, “termed
the Virgin and Twilight, which accounts for the
dark and solemn nature of the subject.”
The noses and the pins now became violently agitated.
“Ah! that ain’t for such as we,” said one.
“No,” said another, “it’s a pity it should be put up when the trade ain’t here.”
“Come, gentlemen, make your bidding,” said the voice from the rostrum, “you must have it at your own price.”
“Well, then, just to give it a start,” said the gentleman in the blue bird’s eye neckerchief, “I’ll say 5l.”
“What! for this untouched picture,” almost shrieked the horror-stricken auctioneer. “More likely 500l”
The noses began to grow excited. They actually seemed bidding “five pun ten,” “six pun,” “seven pun but the clergyman made no sign.
“Gentlemen,” said the auctioneer, wiping the sweat of agony from his brow, “I cannot rob my employers in this way. What! only seven pounds for this untouched gem of Italian art! Jim, run round to the executor’s, in Doctors’ Commons, and ask him if I must throw the pictures away into the dirt in this manner.”
Jim obeyed the order; and, calculating the time it would take to go and return, in pipes and goes, quietly stepped into an adjoining tap.
In about five minutes he rushed back. “Mr. says they must go at any price — they must be closed at once.”
“Very well. You hear what he says, gentlemen; it’s not my fault — go it shall and with a look of horror he held the hammer aloft, — “Going at seven pounds.”
“Let me look,” gently interposed the clergyman. He looked, wiped the Virgin’s face with a wetted handkerchief, and scrutinised the worm-eaten panel, enriched with the seal of the art-loving Cardinal.
“Here’s the buyer for the National Gallery coming,” remarked the tall man by his side.
“Ah! I thought he wouldn’t be far off to-day,” said the auctioneer, exultingly.
“Eight pounds!“ cried the clergyman.
“Wait a minute,” said the auctioneer; “here’s a gentleman coming that knows what a good picture is.”
“Nine pounds!“ shouted the deacon.
“Fifteen pounds!“ cried the new comer, scarcely deigning to look at the gem.
“Twenty pounds!“ faintly but hastily rejoined the clergyman.
The purchaser for the National Gallery, for some unaccountable reason which Mr. Conyngham should inquire into, would not go further, and the clergyman gained what the nation should have possessed — so said the auctioneer.
“You’ve been and made your fortune, sir,” said the deacon; and so the worthy purchaser seemed to think.
I fancy I can see that dear old black-gaitered pastor, in his snug vicarage, standing, some fine morning, before his priceless gem, his finger and thumb between the fresh-cut leaves of this week’s Guardian , pointing out its beauties to a brother of the cloth.
“Snapped it up, sir, for a bagatelle, under the nose of the National Gallery purchaser — a gem from the Pitti Palace — sold under a distress for rent.”
What other ancient masters were given away on that day I know not; for, happening to hazard some mild doubt as to the genuineness of the Raphael, the deacon, to my amazement and horror, addressed a few words to my private ear that I never dreamed could have fallen from his simple evangelical lips. I shall not repeat them, but merely content myself by saying, that with Doric strength he intimated that I had better depart, or it would be the worse for me; and, taking the hint, I retired.
Since that occasion, I have passed the establishment several times, and, I regret to say, Mr. Ichabod has not yet accomplished the sale of the whole of the stock, nor has the deacon yet returned to the duties of his local Zion. He still bids with charming simplicity for the china tea-service; nay, it would appear that he is not yet cured of that nervous bashfulness which led him to break the tea-cup, for I saw him repeat his misfortune, with many apologies, only yesterday; and, if I am not greatly mistaken, I also perceived a pile of tea- cups behind the rostrum, which the benevolent proprietor, to all appearances, has provided against his unfortunate casualties. Strange to say, the cattle-dealer has not yet been able to tear himself away from the excitement of the bidding.
At the same time that we must admire the skill with which some figures in these little dramas play their parts, I cannot help thinking that, on one or two points, there is room for improvement, and if Mr. Ichabod is not proud, I will venture to make a suggestion or two. In the first place, why does he not introduce one or two lady bidders — representatives of those stout females, all false-front and catalogues, who cheapen pots and pans at genuine sales? Then, to make it look more like the real thing, there should be a little more chaffing going on — quarrelling with the auctioneer — anything to break up the ghost-like silence of the bidders. I miss, too, our old friend the porter— one of those grimy individuals into whose soul dirty carpet has entered. Surely the genius that dressed the deacon and manages his deportment, is equal to improvising so necessary a functionary. There is another point which strikes me as entirely neglected. There should be more bustle among the company, more incoming, and out-going. Why could they not pass out by a back-door and in again at the mart- entrance, thus economising their numbers as they do in grand processions at the theatres? Some arrangement of this sort would give to the scene an out-of-door life which at present is altogether wanting, and the absence of which tends to excite the public suspicion, which might, with great advantage (to the proprietors), be avoided by a little ingenuity.
The next time I pass Mr. Ichabod’s establishment I shall see if he is above taking the hints I thus freely throw out.
