horn or silver-set glasses. These old gentlemen appear to know
each other as if by magic. They cluster in groups like corks in a
basin of water, and then go hobbling eagerly along, peering closely
into the more promising works, jerking their heads from side to side,
so as to get the painting in as many lights as possible; and full of
talk--good critical talk--about the productions in course of
inspection. True, there may be something in their observations
speaking too much of the technical, and too little of the more ideal
faculty. They are greater upon flesh-tints and pearly grays, middle
distances and chiaroscuro, than upon conception, expression, or
elevation or magnificence of sentiment. Nevertheless, they know
thoroughly what appertains to a good picture. They give a work its
place in a moment, and assign it to its author by internal evidence,
with an unfailing accuracy, which speaks of long training and constant
familiarity with all the main studios of London. Perhaps you observe
one of our friends apparently fascinated before a particular canvas:
he dances about, so as to get it in every angle of light. Then he
shuffles off, and brings two other skilful old foggies, holding each
by an arm; and the three go through the former ceremony as to the
lights, and then lay their heads together; and then our original
personage glides softly up to the table where the secretary's clerk
sits with pen and ink before him, and whispers. The clerk smiles
affably--turns up a register: there are two or three confidential
words interchanged; and then he rises and sticks into the frame of the
lucky picture a morsel of card, labelled 'Sold;' and leaves the
purchaser gloating over his acquisition.

And where do these pictures go? Frequently to some quiet, solemn old
house in the West End, or to some grange or manor far down in the
country. The picture-gallery is the nursery of that house--its pride
and its boast. Year after year has the silent family of canvas been
increasing and multiplying. Their proprietor is, as it were, their
father. He has most likely no living ties, and all his thoughts and
all his ambitions are clustered round that silent gallery, where the
light comes streaming down from high and half-closed windows. The
collection gradually acquires a name. Descriptions of it are found in
guide-books and works upon art. Strangers come to see it with tickets,
and a solemn housekeeper shews them up the silent stairs, and throug