“A picture, sir—and such a picture!” responded the man emphatically, as he proceeded to place a small old oil painting in what he considered the most advantageous light. “A chef d’œuvre, sir; a work of one of the old masters. An undoubted original. Don’t you feel a sort of emotion overpower you as you stand before it?”
“Why, I do feel rather queer; but I thought it was indigestion,” replied the connoisseur, closely examining the picture.
“Psha!” exclaimed the little man rather contemptuously. “You ought to feel the all-pervading influence of superior genius. You are looking upon a master-piece. Do you remark the harmony with which the colours are blended in that wonderful production, the poetical treatment of the subject, and the sweet repose that pervades the picture?”
“To tell you the truth,” said the patron, looking a little puzzled, “I have been examining it very closely, and I can see nothing at all.”
“The effect of the great age of the picture, sir,” responded the dealer. “The influence of time has destroyed every vestige of colour on the canvass; and it is impossible to make out a single feature in the painting. But be assured, sir, it is a wonderful production—an invaluable work of art. Emperors would be glad of such an addition to their collections; and artists would travel over half the world to gaze upon an example so unique. I have had many handsome offers for it, sir. Sawdust bid very high. He knew its value, sir. But I resolved that it should enrich the invaluable Posthumous collection of paintings; and I therefore offer it to you at the low price of two hundred guineas.”
“Humph! I’m obliged to you, Marble,” remarked the manufacturer, still poking his foolish face as close to the canvass as he could, and apparently hesitating about making the purchase. “That fellow Sawdust has no soul for these things. But what is it about, Marble? I should like to know the subject. Tell me what it is about, Marble.”
“Why, sir, it is about—as far as I and all the best judges can ascertain—it is about the most ancient painting in the world,” replied the dealer.
“A very fine subject,” said the connoisseur; “and now I do begin to perceive a sort of a what’s-a-name. But do you think posterity would applaud my giving such a price for such a painting with such a subject?”
“They could not do otherwise than greatly applaud your fine discrimination and admirable liberality,” responded the little man with all the enthusiasm of a picture-dealer.
“Then I must have it,” remarked Posthumous, as he paid the money; “posterity will reward my exertions.”