disengaged at present.  The professional
gentleman who used to do him died the other
day in the Fleet—he had a turn for Rembrandts,
and can't be easily replaced.  Do you
think you could step into his shoes?  It's a
peculiar gift, like an ear for music, or a turn
for mathematics.  Of course you will be put
up to the simple elementary rules, and will
have the professional gentleman's last
Rembrandt as a guide; the rest depends, my dear
friend, on your powers of imitation.  Don't
be discouraged by failures, but try again and
again; and mind you are dirty and dark
enough.  You have heard a great deal about
the light and shade of Rembrandt—remember
always that, in your case, light means
dusky yellow, and shade dense black;
remember that, and——"

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

I agreed to everything, as I always do
under similar circumstances.  I was introduced
to the workshop, and to the eminent
gentlemen occupying it.  My model
Rembrandt was put before me; the simple
elementary rules were explained; and my
materials were all placed under my hands.
Regard for the lovers of the Old Masters,
and for the moral wellbeing of society, forbids
me to be particular about the nature of
my labours, or to go into dangerous detail
on the subject of my first failures and my
subsequent success.  I may, however,
harmlessly admit that my Rembrandt was to be
of the small or cabinet size, and that, as
there was a run on Burgomasters just
then, my subject was naturally to be of the
Burgomaster sort.  Three parts of my picture
consisted entirely of different shades of dirty
brown and black; the fourth being
composed of a ray of yellow light failing upon
the wrinkled face of a treacle-coloured old
man.  A dim glimpse of a hand, and a faint
suggestion of something like a brass wash-
hand basin, completed the job, which gave
great satisfaction to Mr. Pickup, and which
was described in the catalogue as, "A Burgomaster
at Breakfast. Originally in the collection
of Mynheer Van Grubb, Amsterdam.
A rare example of the master. Not engraved.
The chiar'oscuro in this extraordinary work
is of a truly sublime character.  Price, Two
Hundred Guineas."  I got five pounds for it.
I suppose Mr. Pickup got one, ninety-five.

This was perhaps not very encouraging as
a beginning, in a pecuniary point of view.
But I was to get five pounds more, if my
Rembrandt sold within a given time.  It sold
a week after it was in a fit state to be trusted
in the show-room.  I got my money, and
began enthusiastically on another Rembrandt
—A Burgomaster's Wife Poking the Fire.
Last time, the chiar'oscuro of the master
had been yellow and black, this time it was
to be red and black.  I had the pleasantest
possible anticipations of the result, and so
had Mr. Pickup, when an unexpected
catastrophe happened, which shut up the shop
and abruptly terminated my experience as a
maker of Old Masters.

"The Burgomaster's Breakfast" had been
sold to a new customer, a venerable connoisseur,
blessed with a great fortune and a large
picture-gallery.  The old gentleman was in
raptures with the picture—with its tone,
with its breadth, with its grand feeling
for effect, with its simple treatment of
detail.  It wanted nothing, in his opinion,
but a little cleaning. Mr. Pickup knew the
raw and ticklish state of the surface, however,
far too well, to allow of even an attempt
at performing this process, and solemnly
asserted, that he was acquainted with no
cleansing preparation which could be used on
the Rembrandt without danger of "flaying off
the last exquisite glazings of the immortal
master's brush."  The old gentleman was
quite satisfied with this reason for not cleaning
the Burgomaster, and took away his
purchase in his own carriage on the spot.
For three weeks we heard nothing more of
him.  At the end of that time, a Hebrew
friend of Mr. Pickup, employed in a lawyer's
office, terrified us all by the information that
a gentleman related to our venerable
connoisseur had seen the Rembrandt, had
pronounced it to be an impudent counterfeit,
and had engaged on his own account to have
the picture tested in a court of law, and to
charge the seller and maker thereof with
conspiring to obtain money under false
pretences.  Mr. Pickup and I looked at each
other with very blank faces on receiving this
agreeable piece of news.  What was to be
done?  I recovered the full use of my faculties
first; and I was the man who solved
that important and difficult question, while
the rest were still utterly bewildered by it.
"Will you promise me five and twenty
pounds, in the presence of these gentlemen,
if I get you out of this scrape?"  said I
to my terrified employer.  Ishmael Pickup
wrung his dirty hands, and answered, "Yesh,
my dear!"

Our informant in this awkward matter
was employed in the office of the lawyers
who were to have the conducting of the case
against us; and he was able to tell me some
of the things I most wanted to know in relation
to the picture. I found out from him
that the Rembrandt was still in our customer's
possession.  The old gentleman had
consented to the question of its genuineness
being tried, but had far too high an idea of
his own knowledge as a connoisseur to incline
to the opinion that he had been taken in.
His suspicious relative was not staying in the
house, but was in the habit of visiting him,
every day, in the forenoon.  That was as
much as I wanted to know from others.  The
rest depended on myself, on luck, time, human