But for several weeks after the sale the fortunate purchasers of the bogus masterpieces lost no opportunity of exhibiting their treasures. Teas and At Homes were given to enable their less alert friends to. appreciate their varied charms, for it was understood in the town that the educational value of great works of art should not be neglected; and at the Mayor's Reception a short time afterwards two of the pictures were exhibited, for the educational benefit of the company, in their original Dutch-metal frames—the sort that one may buy for half a crown in a cash chemist's. In these days the man who had laughed at the private view was referred to in accents of scorn. But he continued to laugh, even when in the most kindly spirit he was advised by one of the successful bidders to remember that it was distinctly slanderous to suggest that a sale conducted under the auspices of the Sheriff of the county was a bogus affair. Then it was that the critic laughed loudest; and, so far as I can gather, he is laughing still.
One interesting point was brought out at the trial of the men. It was in respect of the actual manufacturer's price of the fraudulent pictures. The artist who had executed them was put into the box and stated that he received from five to fifteen shillings for each. The average trade price of a George Morland worked out at a fraction over seven shillings, so that to refer to these works as valueless would be wrong: those purchasers who were fortunate enough to secure good specimens of George Morland at the sale have the satisfaction of dwelling upon their varied beauties and reflecting that the actual value of each work is in the bogus market something between seven shillings and seven and twopence! (The “Sheriffs Sale” price of a Morland was six pounds.)
III.—THE COUNTRY PICTURE SALE
I was once present at a picture sale in a mansion some miles from a country town in which I lived. There were, I think, three full-length Gainsboroughs, five Reynoldses, a few Hoppners, two by Peters, and three or four by Northcote. I was standing in front of a man by the first-named painter, and was lost in admiration of the firm way in which the figure was placed on the floor in the picture, when a local dealer approached me, saying—
“Might I have a word with you, sir?”
Of course I told him to talk away. I knew the man very well. He was one of those useful dealers of the variety known as “general,” from whom one may occasionally buy a Spode plate worth ten shillings for three, or an odd ormolu mount for sixpence.
“We want to know if you believe these to be genuine pictures, sir,” said he.
“Genuine pictures!” I repeated, being rather puzzled to know just what he meant; but then I remembered that he was accustomed to attend sales where pictures labelled “Reynolds,” “Gainsborough,” “Murillo,” “Moroni,” and so forth were sold for whatever they might fetch—usually from fifteen shillings to a pound, the word “genuine” never being so much as breathed by anyone. When I recollected this I laughed and said—“Make your mind easy. If these are not genuine pictures you will never see any come under the hammer.”