HE led the way into the street as he spoke. I felt theirresistible force of his logic. I sympathized with the ardentphilanthropy of his motives. I burned with a noble ambition toextend the sphere of the Old Masters. In short, I took the tideat the flood, and followed Dick.

We plunged into some by-streets, struck off sharp into a court,and entered a house by a back door. A little old gentleman in ablack velvet dressing-gown met us in the passage. Dick instantlypresented me: "Mr. Frank Softly--Mr. Ishmael Pickup." The littleold gentleman stared at me distrustfully. I bowed to him withthat inexorable politeness which I first learned under theinstructive fist of Gentleman Jones, and which no force ofadverse circumstances has ever availed to mitigate in after life.Mr. Ishmael Pickup followed my lead. There is not the least needto describe him--he was a Jew.

"Go into the front show-room, and look at the pictures, while Ispeak to Mr. Pickup," said Dick, familiarly throwing open a door,and pushing me into a kind of gallery beyond. I found myselfquite alone, surrounded by modern-antique pictures of all schoolsand sizes, of all degrees of dirt and dullness, with all thenames of all the famous Old Masters, from Titian to Teniers,inscribed on their frames. A "pearly little gem," by Claude, witha ticket marked "Sold" stuck into the frame, particularlyattracted my attention. It was Dick's last ten-pound job; and itdid credit to the youthful master's abilities as a workman-likemaker of Claudes.

I have been informed that, since the time of which I am writing,the business of gentlemen of Mr. Pickup's class has rather fallenoff, and that there are dealers in pictures, nowadays, who are asjust and honorable men as can be found in any profession orcalling, anywhere under the sun. This change, which I report withsincerity and reflect on with amazement, is, as I suspect, mainlythe result of certain wholesale modern improvements in theposition of contemporary Art, which have necessitatedimprovements and alterations in the business of picture-dealing.

In my time, the encouragers of modern painting were limited innumber to a few noblemen and gentlemen of ancient lineage, who,in matters of taste, at least, never presumed to think forthemselves. They either inherited or bought a gallery more orless full of old pictures. It was as much a part of theireducation to put their faith in these on hearsay evidence, as toput their faith in King, Lords and Commons. It was an article oftheir creed to believe that the dead painters were the great men,and that the more the living painters imitated the dead, thebetter was their chance of becoming at some future day, and in aminor degree, great also. At certain times and seasons, thesenoblemen and gentlemen self-distrustfully strayed into thepainting-room of a modern artist, self-distrustfully allowedthemselves to be rather attracted by his pictures,self-distrustfully bought one or two of them at prices whichwould appear so incredibly low, in these days, that I reallycannot venture to quote them. The picture was sent home; thenobleman or gentleman (almost always an amiable and a hospitableman) would ask the artist to his house and introduce him to thedistinguished individuals who frequented it; but would neveradmit his picture, on terms of equality, into the society even ofthe second-rate Old Masters. His work was hung up in anyout-of-the-way corner of the gallery that could be found; it hadbeen bought under protest; it was admitted by sufferance; itsfreshness and brightness damaged it terribly by contrast with thedirtiness and the dinginess of its elderly predecessors; and itsonly points selected for praise were those in which it mostnearly resembled the peculiar mannerism of some Old Master, notthose in which it resembled the characteristics of the oldmistress--Nature.

The unfortunate artist had no court of appeal that he could turnto. Nobody beneath the nobleman, or the gentleman of ancientlineage, so much as thought of buying a modern picture. Nobodydared to whisper that the Art of painting had in anywise beenimproved or worthily enlarged in its sphere by any modernprofessors. For one nobleman who was ready to buy one genuinemodern picture at a small price, there were twenty noblemen readyto buy twenty more than doubtful old pictures at great prices.The consequence was, that some of the most famous artists of theEnglish school, whose pictures are now bought at auction salesfor fabulous sums, were then hardly able to make an income. Theywere a scrupulously patient and conscientious body of men, whowould as soon have thought of breaking into a house, orequalizing the distribution of wealth, on the highway, by thesimple machinery of a horse and pistol, as of making Old Mastersto order. They sat resignedly in their lonely studios, surroundedby unsold pictures which have since been covered again and againwith gold and bank-notes by eager buyers at auctions andshow-rooms, whose money has gone into other than the painter'spockets---who have never dreamed that the painter had thesmallest moral right to a farthing of it. Year after year, thesemartyrs of the brush stood, palette in hand, fighting the oldbattle of individual merit against contemporarydullness--fighting bravely, patiently, independently; and leavingto Mr. Pickup and his pupils a complete monopoly of all theprofit which could be extracted, in their line of business, fromthe feebly-buttoned pocket of the patron, and the inexhaustiblecredulity of the connoisseur.

Now all this is changed. Traders and makers of all kinds ofcommodities have effected a revolution in the picture-world,never dreamed of by the noblemen and gentlemen of ancientlineage, and consistently protested against to this day by thevery few of them who still remain alive.

The daring innovators started with the new notion of buying apicture which they themselves could admire and appreciate, andfor the genuineness of which the artist was still living tovouch. These rough and ready customers were not to be led byrules or frightened by precedents; they were not to be easilyimposed upon, for the article they wanted was not to be easilycounterfeited. Sturdily holding to their own opinions, theythought incessant repetitions of Saints, Martyrs, and HolyFamilies, monotonous and uninteresting--and said so. They thoughtlittle pictures of ugly Dutch women scouring pots, and drunkenDutchmen playing cards, dirty and dear at the price--and said so.They saw that trees were green in nature, and brown in the OldMasters, and they thought the latter color not an improvement onthe former--and said so. They wanted interesting subjects;variety, resemblance to nature; genuineness of the article, andfresh paint; they had no ancestors whose feelings, as founders ofgalleries, it was necessary to consult; no critical gentlemen andwriters of valuable works to snub them when they were in spirits;nothing to lead them by the nose but their own shrewdness, theirown interests, and their own tastes--so they turned their backsvaliantly on the Old Masters, and marched off in a body to theliving men.

From that time good modern pictures have risen in the scale. Evenas articles of commerce and safe investments for money, they havenow (as some disinterested collectors who dine at certain annualdinners I know of, can testify) distanced the old pictures in therace. The modern painters who have survived the brunt of thebattle, have lived to see pictures for which they once askedhundreds, selling for thousands, and the young generation makingincomes by the brush in one year, which it would have cost theold heroes of the easel ten to accumulate. The posterity of Mr.Pickup still do a tolerable stroke of business (making brightmodern masters for the market which is glutted with the dingy oldmaterial), and will, probably, continue to thrive and multiply inthe future: the one venerable institution of this world which wecan safely count upon as likely to last, being the institution ofhuman folly. Nevertheless, if a wise man of the reformed tastewants a modern picture, there are places for him to go to nowwhere he may be sure of getting it genuine; where, if the artistis not alive to vouch for his work, the facts at any rate havenot had time to die which vouch for the dealer who sells it. Inmy time matters were rather different. The painters

We are stopping a long time in the picture-gallery, you will say.I am very sorry--but we must stay a little longer, for the sakeof a living picture, the gem of the collection.

I was still admiring Mr. Pickup's Old Masters, when a dirtylittle boy opened the door of the gallery, and introduced a younglady.

My heart--fancy my having a heart!--gave one great bound in me. Irecognized the charming person whom I had followed in the street.

Her veil was not down this time. All the beauty of her large,soft, melancholy, brown eyes beamed on me. Her delicatecomplexion became suddenly suffused with a lovely rosy flush. Herglorious black hair--no! I will make an effort, I will suppressmy ecstasies. Let me only say that she evidently recognized me.Will you believe it?--I felt myself coloring as I bowed to her. Inever blushed before in my life. What a very curious sensation itis!

The horrid boy claimed her attention with a grin.

"Master's engaged," he said. "Please to wait here."

"I don't wish to disturb Mr. Pickup," she answered.

What a voice! No! I am drifting back into ecstasies: her voicewas worthy of her--I say no more.

"If you will be so kind as to show him this," she proceeded; "heknows what it is. And please say, my father is very ill and veryanxious. It will be quite enough if Mr. Pickup will only send meword by you--Yes or No."

She gave the boy an oblong slip of stamped paper. Evidently apromissory note. An angel on earth, sent by an inhuman father, toask a Jew for discount! Monstrous!

The boy disappeared with the message.

I seized my opportunity of speaking to her. Don't ask me what Isaid! Never before (or since) have I talked such utter nonsense,with such intense earnestness of purpose and such immeasurabledepth of feeling. Do pray remember what you said yourself, thefirst time you had the chance of opening your heart to

"Mr. Pickup's very sorry, miss. The answer is, No."

She lost all her lovely color, and sighed, and turned away. Asshe pulled down her veil, I saw the tears in her eyes. Did thatpiteous spectacle partially deprive me of my senses? I actuallyentreated her to let me be of some use--as if I had been an oldfriend, with money enough in my pocket to discount the notemyself. She brought me back to my senses with the utmostgentleness.

"I am afraid you forget, sir, that we are strangers.Good-morning."

I followed her to the door. I asked leave to call on her father,and satisfy him about myself and my family connections. She onlyanswered that her father was too ill to see visitors. I went outwith her on to the landing. She turned on me sharply for thefirst time.

"You can see for yourself, sir, that I am in great distress. Iappeal to you, as a gentleman, to spare me."

If you still doubt whether I was really in love, let the factsspeak for themselves. I hung my head, and let her go.

When I returned alone to the picture-gallery--when I rememberedthat I had not even had the wit to improve my opportunity bydiscovering her name and address--I did really and seriously askmyself if these were the first symptoms of softening of thebrain. I got up, and sat down again. I, the most audacious man ofmy age in London, had behaved like a bashful boy! Once more I hadlost her--and this time, also, I had nobody but myself to blamefor it.

These melancholy meditations were interrupted by the appearanceof my friend, the artist, in the picture-gallery. He approachedme confidentially, and spoke in a mysterious whisper.

"Pickup is suspicious," he said; "and I have had all thedifficulty in the world to pave your way smoothly for you at theoutset. However, if you can contrive to make a small Rembrandt,as a specimen, you may consider yourself employed here untilfurther notice. I am obliged to particularize Rembrandt, becausehe is the only Old Master disengaged at present. The professionalgentleman who used to do him died the other day in the Fleet--hehad a turn for Rembrandts, and can't be easily replaced. Do youthink you could step into his shoes? It's a peculiar gift, likean ear for music, or a turn for mathematics. Of course you willbe put up to the simple elementary rules, and will have theprofessional gentleman's last Rembrandt as a guide; the restdepends, my dear friend, on your powers of imitation. Don't bediscouraged by failures, but try again and again; and mind youare dirty and dark enough. You have heard a great deal about thelight and shade of Rembrandt-- Remember always that, in yourcase, light means dusky yellow, and shade dense black; rememberthat, and--"

"No pay," said the voice of Mr. Pickup behind me; "no pay, mydear, unlesh your Rembrandt ish good enough to take me in--evenme, Ishmael, who dealsh in pictersh and knowsh what'sh what."

What did I care about Rembrandt at that moment? I was thinking ofmy lost young lady; and I should probably have taken no notice ofMr. Pickup, if it had not occurred to me that the old wretch mustknow her father's name and address. I at once put the question.The Jew grinned, and shook his grisly head. "Her father'sh indifficultiesh, and mum's the word, my dear." To that answer headhered, in spite of all that I could say to him.

With equal obstinacy I determined, sooner or later, to get myinformation.

I took service under Mr. Pickup, purposing to make myselfessential to his prosperity, in a commercial sense--and then tothreaten him with offering my services to a rival manufacturer ofOld Masters, unless he trusted me with the secret of the name andaddress. My plan looked promising enough at the time. But, assome wise person has said, Man is the sport of circumstances. Mr.Pickup and I parted company unexpectedly, on compulsion. And, ofall the people in the world, my grandmother, Lady Malkinshaw, wasthe unconscious first cause of the events which brought me andthe beloved object together again, for the third time!