ought not to have deceived a child. A ragged-edged
yellow collar on a starch-caked yellow
shirt, a high black stock worn threadbare at the
sides, a well-brushed thin black dress coat, and
rather shiny black trousers that would bear no
violent exercise, a pair of mended Blucher boots,
and a pair of ragged cotton gloves, is not the
costume usually worn by wealthy collectors of
art. Yet these were the highly polished men
who were supposed to be regardless of money
when a Rubens or a Corregio came in their way,
and who, if not investing for themselves, were the
confidential agents of Lord Mumblepeg, a devoted
buyer of pictures, who was prevented by
paralysis from attending personally at the sales.
Poor wretches; they looked with their clean-
shaven, melancholy faces, as if the slightest
whispered invitation to a substantial dinner at a
snug warm City tavern would have thrown them
off their balance, and have caused them to fly,
like a cloud of swallows, from the barren feast
of paint.

Inside the auction-trap was a sprinkling of
eager confederate dealers; the four or five
porters, who were probably "junior partners,"
and who looked like prize-fighters; and the usual
number of "picture agents." As soon as a
promising stranger entered the room, it was
the business of one of these latter men to fasten
on him, and to explain the beauties and defects
of the collection under sale. It must always be
delightful to a man of refinement, to have such
agreeable guides at his elbow, and to overlook
their flavour of onions, tobacco, and stale-clothes,
in admiration of their intense appreciation of
art. There can, of course, be nothing to jar
the most sensitive nerves in hearing a thick
hoarse spunging-house voice enlarging upon the
minute rendering of the crown of thorns, or in
seeing a grimed knobby finger half hooped with
brassy rings, employed in pointing out the
hidden touches of the agony in the garden.

The sales at Mr. Van Slemann's were not
entirely supported by family contributions, but
were swollen by many "noble works" and
"religious subjects" that were sent by other
traders of a similar stamp. A fine of two
shillings and sixpence upon every lot was found
sufficient to cover the expenses upon these
consignments, and pay the auctioneer a trifle for
his trouble. When the sale of a high-priced
picture to an ignorant but greedy purchaser
did really occur—as it sometimes did—the
transaction was saddled with, and able to bear,
a commission of a very princely character. No
man ever entered those rooms, or even peeped
in at the window, who was not followed, and
whose position in society was not thoroughly
learnt, if he looked like, or promised to bud
into a buyer. He may have been astonished
to find that the pictorial treasures of his
mansion were known to numbers of unsightly
men, like sheriff's officers. He may have been
astonished to find that after he had inquired
about a landscape or a tavern scene at the shop
of "Slayman and Co.," his hall table was loaded
the next morning with Claudes and Tenierses,
from "Sleighman and Sleighman's," that had
been left for his examination and approval by a
strange man, a strange woman, or even a strange
boy. He may have been astonished to find that
his steps had been dogged from a print-shop;
and that when he wanted a little advice about
a picture to guide his not very reliable judgment,
the owner of the property seemed to know where
he had applied for that advice, if not the exact
words of the advice that had been given. He
would have been more astonished, if he had not
"bled freely," to find himself the purchaser of a
fine old crusted collection of Italian saints, and
half a dozen sturdy witnesses springing out of the
ground, who had each and all a distinct
recollection that he had promised to pay two thousand
guineas for them. If he gave any indications
that, with proper care and management, he was
likely to become that sallow-faced, wild-eyed
spectre—the collector who would "bleed to
death"—a net was woven round him, from
which there was little chance of escape; he
was fed with nothing but what was likely to
encourage his one idea, and he was never
deserted until he was reduced to madness, or to
a mere fruitless husk.

This is the great victim that every art-huckster
is always searching for, and who he knows is
existing for him in some hidden corner of the
world. His shops his family organisation—his
"knock-out" combinations—his delusive sales—
are nothing but ingenious devices to employ his
time, compared with the great mission of his
life the necessity for finding this victim in the
crowd.

These were the experiences and teachings
that were constantly before young Eizak Sleman
as he grew to be a man; and when he attained
that period of life, of course he became a
picture-dealer.

IV.

And what had Mr. Huggin been doing for the
last five-and-twenty years to prepare himself for
the slaughter? Beyond the fact, already
recorded, that he had made a good deal of money
in the tallow-trade, he seemed to have reached
the age of five-and-forty without being much
the wiser for it.

His business was not sufficient to occupy his
mind, and he wished to be known as something
more than a successful merchant. Society did
not fraternise with him. His dinners were eaten;
but eaten with silent contempt; and it was while
suffering under this galling treatment that, being
unable to write a book or shake the senate, he
formed the melancholy idea of setting up as a
person of taste. He proceeded very gently
—almost imperceptibly at first—as a man with his
trading instincts and knowledge of the value of
money would naturally do; but, by degrees, he
gained courage, or found that timidity was worse
than useless in the art-collecting world. He
deserted his prints and etchings, his Antonios and
Bolswerts, for paintings of various qualities and
many schools. Living in a northern town, he
employed in commissions a rude provincial
practitioner, like a country barber, with no more