of his beloved beer; this and a big picture of
some pink angels sprawling in, or rather on,
an opaque sky; these are pretty nearly all
that is visible above the wire-wove blinds
which veil the inner penetralia of Mr. Turps's
domicile. But, only walk in—arrive well-
dressed—come, above all, in a carriage—and
the complaisant, the voluble, Turps will show
you stacks, hecatombs of pictures. He deals
only in dead masters. He has nothing to
say to the moderns. There is an original
Sebastiano del Piombo, formerly in the Orleans
collection; there the Madonna col Bambino
of Rafaelle, which my Lord Bricabrac offered
to cover with golden sovereigns, would he,
Turps, only sell it to him. There is the
"Brigand Reposing," by Salvator Rosa, formerly in
the Boggotrotti Palace, and smuggled out of
Rome in an extraordinary manner. The
Prince Cardinal Boggotrotti, Turps tells you,
had been prohibited by the Papal
Government from selling any of his pictures; but
being deeply in debt, and wanting ready
money sadly, he ceded to the importunities
of the adventurous Turps, who purchased the
picture; but had another picture, "St. Bartholomew,
flayed alive," painted over the original,
but in distemper. With this he triumphantly
eluded discovery; and, though Saint
Bartholomew's great toe was nearly rubbed out by
a careless porter, passed the Custom House
and the Police, and brought his treasure to
England. But here is a gem of gems, Turps's
almost priceless picture—a little, old, shabby
panel, on which you can discover something
dimly, resembling a man's head, blinking
through a dark brown fog. This is THE
Rembrandt "Three-quarter Portrait of the
Burgomaster Six," painted in 1630. Wonderful
picture! wonderful!

I have a great respect for Mr. Turps (who
has a pretty house at Stamford Hill, and
can give you as good a glass of pale sherry,
when he likes, as ever you would wish to
taste); but I must tell the honest truth.
The Sebastiano del Piombo was bought at
Smith's sale, hard-by, for three pounds
seven; and Turps knows no more who
painted it, or where or when it was painted,
than the Cham of Tartary does. The Boggotrotti
Rafaelle was "swop," being bartered
with little Mo Isaacs, of Jewin Street, for a
Wouvermans, a millboard study by Mortimer,
and two glasses of brandy-and-water. As for
the famous Rembrandt, Turps, in good sooth,
had it painted himself on a panel taken from
a mahogany chest of drawers he picked up
cheap at a sale. He paid Young M'Gilp
(attached to a portrait club, and not too
proud to paint a sign occasionally), just
fifteen shillings for it; and a very good
Rembrandt, now it is tricked-up and smoked down,
it makes, as times go.

At the top of Mr. Turps's house he has two
large attics, where, some half-dozen of his
merry-men manufacture pictures to order.
According to the state of the market, and
the demand for the works of particular
painters, so do they turn out counterfeit
Claudes, Murillos, Poussins, Fra Bartolomeos,
Guidos, Guercinos, Giulio Romanos,
Tenierses, Ostades, Gerard Dows, and Jan
Steens. If the pictures they forge (a hard
word, but a true one) are on canvas, they
are, on completion, carefully lined so as
to resemble old pictures restored; if on panel,
the wood is stained and corroded so as to
denote antiquity. Little labels of numbers,
bearing reference to sale catalogues, are
carefully pasted on, and as carefully half torn off
again. Sometimes, the canvas is taken off
the stretcher, and rolled backwards, so as to
give it a cracked appearance; anon, the panel
is covered with a varnish, warranted to dry
in a very network of ancient-looking cracks.
Then the painting is tricked or "clobbered"
with liquorice-water, and other artful
mixtures and varnishes, which give it a clouded
appearance. Chemical substances are
purposely mixed with the colours to make them
fade; whites that dry yellow, and reds that
turn brown. And then this picture, painted
for the hire of a mechanic, is ready to be sold
at a princely price, to any British nobleman
or gentleman who will buy it. Here lies
Mr. Turps's profit. The price of one picture
will pay the expenses of his establishment
for a twelvemonth, and leave him heavy in
purse besides. His victims—well, never mind
who they are—perhaps mostly recruited from
the ranks of the vulgar with money, who
purchase fine pictures as a necessary luxury,
just as they buy fine clothes and carriages
and horses. There are magnates of this class,
who will absolutely buy pictures against each
other; Brown becoming frantic if Jones
possess more Titians than he does; Robinson
running neck and neck with Tomkins in
Claudes, and beating him cleverly sometimes
with a Canaletto. These competitions do
good, you may believe me, to Mr. Turps, and
bring considerable quantities of grist to his
mill. From his extensive collection also are
the "original chef d'Å“uvres of ancient masters,"
which, from time to time, are brought to the
auctioneer's hammer, both in private houses,
and in public sale-rooms. The "property of a
gentleman, going abroad;" the "collection of
a nobleman, deceased;" "the gallery of an
eminent amateur;"—all these Mr. Turps will
supply at per dozen, and many score of his
brethren in London are ready to do the
same.

Not, by any means, do I wish to insinuate
that there are no honest picture-dealers,
and no bonâ fide picture auctions, in London.
There are many—and there need be some, I
am sure, to counteract the swarms of those
which are mockeries, delusions, and snares.

Of the same kindred as Mr. Turps, and
having his abode in the same congenial
Cawdor Street, you will find the celebrated
Mr. Glaze, who turns his attention almost
entirely to modern pictures. His art-manufactures