A Rogue's Life

mpathized with the ardent philanthropy of his motives. I burned with a noble ambition to ext

ted me: "Mr. Frank Softly-Mr. Ishmael Pickup." The little old gentleman stared at me distrustfully. I bowed to him with that inexorable politeness which I first learned under the instructive fist of

y modern-antique pictures of all schools and sizes, of all degrees of dirt and dullness, with all the names of all the famous Old Masters, from Titian to Teniers, inscribed on their frames. A "pearly little gem," by

o are as just and honorable men as can be found in any profession or calling, anywhere under the sun. This change, which I report with sincerity and reflect on with amazement, is, as I sus

me future day, and in a minor degree, great also. At certain times and seasons, these noblemen and gentlemen self-distrustfully strayed into the painting-room of a modern artist, self-distrustfully allowed themselves to be rather attracted by his pictures, self-distrustfully bought one or two of them at prices which would appear so incredibly low, in these days, that I really cannot venture to quote them. The picture was sent home; the nobleman or gentleman (almost always an amiable and a hospitable man) would ask the artist to his house and introduce him to the distinguished individuals who frequ

lish school, whose pictures are now bought at auction sales for fabulous sums, were then hardly able to make an income. They were a scrupulously patient and conscientious body of men, who would as soon have thought of breaking into a house, or equalizing the distribution of wealth, on the highway, by the simple machinery of a horse and pistol, as of making Old Masters to order. They sat resignedly in their lonely studios, surrounded by unsold pictures which have since been covered again and again with gold and bank-notes by eager buyers at auctions and show-room

tion in the picture-world, never dreamed of by the noblemen and gentlemen of ancient lineage,

sant repetitions of Saints, Martyrs, and Holy Families, monotonous and uninteresting-and said so. They thought little pictures of ugly Dutch women scouring pots, and drunken Dutchmen playing cards, dirty and dear at the price-and said so. They saw that trees were green in nature, and brown in the Old Masters, and they thought the latter color not an improvement on the former-and said so. They wanted interesting subjects; variety, resemblanc

o accumulate. The posterity of Mr. Pickup still do a tolerable stroke of business (making bright modern masters for the market which is glutted with the dingy old material), and will, probably, continue to thrive and multiply in the future: the one venerable institution of this world which we can safely count upon as likely to last, being the institution of human folly. Nevertheless, if a wise man of the reformed taste wants a modern picture, there are places for him to go to now where he may be sure of getting it genuine; where, if the

ll say. I am very sorry-but we must stay a little longer,

rs, when a dirty little boy opened the door

great bound in me. I recognized the charmin

fused with a lovely rosy flush. Her glorious black hair-no! I will make an effort, I will suppress my ecstasies. Let me only say that she evidently

laimed her atten

," he said. "Plea

disturb Mr. Picku

back into ecstasies: her voice

hat it is. And please say, my father is very ill and very anxious. It wi

ently a promissory note. An angel on earth, sent by an

ppeared with

uch intense earnestness of purpose and such immeasurable depth of feeling. Do pray remember what you said yourself, the first time you

y sorry, miss. Th

piteous spectacle partially deprive me of my senses? I actually entreated her to let me be of some use-as if I had been an old

t, sir, that we are st

self and my family connections. She only answered that her father was too ill to see visi

t I am in great distress. I appeal

y in love, let the facts speak for the

ddress-I did really and seriously ask myself if these were the first symptoms of softening of the brain. I got up, and sat down again. I, the most aud

nce of my friend, the artist, in the picture-gallery. He app

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 l

dear, unlesh your Rembrandt ish good enough to take me in-even

f it had not occurred to me that the old wretch must know her father's name and address. I at once put the question. The Jew grinned, and shook h

etermined, sooner or lat

trusted me with the secret of the name and address. My plan looked promising enough at the time. But, as some wise person has said, Man is the sport of circumstances. Mr. Pickup and I parted company unexpecte