1839.]
Editors' Table.
449
attention of the company, by a triple rap of the hammer with one hand, while the other pointed to the conditions of sale. As soon as the lot was put up, the hammer was kept gracefully flourishing, while the head of the automaton nodded thankfully at every bidding. Now such a machine as this would supply an important desideratum in this metropolis of trade and commerce; and we hope the suggestion will meet the eye of some relative or friend of 'Jabez Doolittle, Esq., nigh Wallingford, Connecticut,' who may chance to encounter one, ready made, among the rubbish of his rat-traps, churns, apple-parers, pill-rollers, horse persuaders, shingle-splitters, and other inventions. There will be no difficulty, now, we may suppose, in gaining access to his shop; for he went away in a hurry, and left one end of it wide open, although 'no admittance' frowned on the other. Has the city reader ever passed along Chatham Square, and through the street from which it derives its name, without heating the eternal din of hammers closing bargains up, and the uproarious vociferations of the operators?—noises that, breaking upon the ear of a passer-by, who may be indulging the luxury of his own quiet thoughts, suddenly recall vivid ideas of Bedlam; an impression that is amply confirmed, by a glance at the shop's interior, where stands a lonely man, foaming at the mouth, sawing the air with his hand, and making the dirty counter before him to resound again with the noise of his mallet. The street 'crieur' is of another class. You shall see him, even of a cold winter morning, buttoned to the throat, with a waist-coat or a pair of unwhisperables whisking about on a long stick, which he holds in his hand, while he vociferates of the pedestrian auditory, who sometimes glance at him in passing, 'Twent'—'five! Thirt'—thirt'—thirt'-five, for them pants!' Much practice has made him an automaton, to all intents and purposes. But the most distinguished of auctioneers, is the vender of oil paintings; and the class has greatly multiplied, since it has been ascertained that at least an hundred 'original pictures,' on one and the same subject, and by the same renowned master, may be sold here from one auction mart. Goldsmith speaks of a man who, having disposed of a petrified lobster, which he had accidentally found, at a great bargain, straitway set about the manufacture of the article, and drove a wholesale trade in that unique line. The picture-vender acts upon this hint, and he succeeds equally well. He deals in bugs, well preserved; hum-bugs, of the first water. Hogarth, we remember, has a picture of Time, with a pipe in his mouth, whiffing smoky antiquity upon a fresh painting. Your modern picture-venders better understand the matter. We have recently read, in some of our periodicals, a brief account of the knowledge of art and the great artists which they display, but it did not come up to the reality. The great successor of Madame Malaprop, who flourished in England some ten or twelve years ago, could alone, were she among us, do justice to the auctioneer of modern paintings by the old masters. 'Here,' he exclaims, holding up a rather confused and mottled composition, 'is a splendid pictur', by a very ancient master of arts. You see the frame is old and worm-eaten, and there is the year '1528' on the back of it. It is the interior of a cathedral, in Spain, or else in Italy. They are a-worshippin' inside; the priest, up by the candles, is very much incensed with the smoke that the boys is a-whirlin' round his head; and the quire 's a-singin' a tedium: but look at your catalogues; it's all in them.' 'This pictur was exhibited fifty years in the Vacüum at Rome, where the pope keeps his celebrated bulls. What's bid for 't? Is five hundred dollars named, to start it? Five hundred do I hear?' This is struck down to a spectator at the farther end of the room, and another rises to view, with two naked figures in the fore-ground; backed by trees that are very, very green, and skies extremely blue. 'This gem of painting, gen'lemen, is a chef-dowver of De Buff, his celebrated 'Adam and Eve expulsed from Paradise.' Is three hundred dollars bid for this? It was sold for six hundred guineas in London! Is fifty dollars bid? Fifty—fifty—going! Yours, Mr. Suckedin.' This was followed by a painting which seemed to represent a street-view, 'Here, now, is treasure! It is a scene in the su-berbs of the city of Venice, that a gen'leman, who was here to see it this morning, called the 'Place Louis Quinzy,' named after a French officer in Napoleon's
