by Laman Blanchard.
Originally published in Ainsworth's Magazine: A Miscellany of Romance (Chapman and Hall) vol.2 #4 (1847).
Few people, except the enjoyers of princely incomes, can boast of possessing such pictures as my old acquaintance, Ferret. How did he get them? He did not inherit them, as he inherited that bright, sharp, searching eye of his; he never had a legacy left to him; he never had a fortune to spend on superfluities; and he never committed a burglary in his life. How did he get them, is not the question; but where did he pick them up?
There are people who can hardly set foot out of doors in a large city without "picking up" a picture. Ferret is one of this fortunate set of prize-finders. Pictures are to him the sole realities of life. The only tangible things he knows of are panel and canvas—except gilt frames. To his eye the whole world presents but two colours—oil colour and water colour. The earth, as he walks upon it, seems to have a coat of varnish over it; and society, from the point whence he surveys it, is only a great work of art—a large, bold composition, in which, however, the lights are too much concentrated, and the shadows too abrupt and deep. The finest compliment he can pay to nature is to think she looks gloriously artificial; and when he sees the fiery flush of a sunset, he feels that it almost comes up to Turner. He nothing cares about the common salt sea and mere salt-sea wonders; he is for poetry's
"-- painted ship
Upon a painted ocean;"
floating on real water, as he says exultingly, like Stanfield's! He never paused to look on a noble scene, from hill, valley, or river, without considering how it would "come," when properly reduced by the artist. No, never did he linger over a rich and varied landscape, except to determine in his mind how it would look framed, in an exhibition—perhaps, what it would sell for at an auction, or how it would exchange for a Benjamin West that he didn't want.
When he went to Niagara, and first stood within view of the great fall, he said, musingly, "Ah! I should like to have that in my back drawing-room!" Were he the spectator of a scene in Newgate, the view would excite a similar feeling—"it would hang extremely well opposite the window"—between the two Websters. When he takes a country stroll, he tells you that he went down the lane, past the bit of Gainsborough, till he came to a Hofland, between the trees; and were he to direct a stranger to the next town, he would desire him to leave the Nasmyth on his left hand, turn off by the Collins at the cottage, and keep on till he saw a David Roberts before him.
He dates every event pictorially, having no idea of figures save those whereof lay figures are the "rude forefathers." He declares that he has made his little study a complete bit of Cattermole; he was married—he forgets the year—that very season in which the fine Etty was exhibited at Somerset House; and he knows the age of his little girl—whom he says looks like a Chalon—from her being born when Maclise's Rock picture was brought out. Of his wife he observes, that you would not have known her, five years ago, from a Pickersgill; but somehow, he does not know how it is, she has of late acquired quite a Rubensy look, with considerable breadth of effect. When he hears her voice, as he does sometimes, rising above its ordinary pitch, he is wont to say, with a fair share of jocoseness, that there is a good tone about her still.
Lies are related of everybody. They do say, that dining where there was a pig upon table, he sent up his plate, "for another bit of the Morland"—which he pronounced to be an undoubted original. Whey the dessert and its decorations made their appearance, he remarked that he had not seen nicer specimens of Lance for several seasons.
Allowing for a little excess in colouring, there is truth enough here to shew that Ferret thinks, reads, speaks, and dreams of nothing but pictures. But thinking &c. of a thing does not always involve the possession of it. Patrons of art cannot dream chefs d'œuvre upon their walls, and talk old masters into their galleries. Unless they steal, or buy them, they must infallibly "pick them up." This is what my friend Ferret docs—this is what he came into the world to do, and he has done nothing else. In his collection, he sees the fruit of his life's toils; in every separate picture he reads the record of some triumph of superior knowledge, profound ingenuity, and untiring labour.
But we must shew the how and the where. Some of his gems he has brought from the dark unfathomed caves of coalsheds; some of his immortal flowers he has plucked in the desert air of auction-rooms, which, but for him, had been buyerless. Some he has discovered on worm-eaten wainscoats; others he has detected beneath the dust of old-rubbish rooms; and many he has secured in the fair way of barter, by giving gaudy bad pictures for dingy good ones. Ferret is mightily fond of offering new lamps for old. He has always by him a little stock of showy skies and flashy foregrounds, ready to exchange for dark brown bits of canvas, which he afterwards contrives to rub into brightness and value.
What a life has he led, and what contradictions compose his destiny! Seeking for beauty inexpressible, he has passed years amidst the squalid and reeking dens of towns and cities. For pearl, he has gone to swine. With an eye beholding, in the intensity of its inquiry, nothing less bright than the hues of Rubens, he has pried unweariedly into the innermost recesses of old brokers' shops; with a sense appreciating the seraphic forms of Guido, he has tumbled over, unloathingly, the treasures of a temple sacred to marine stores. He has, indeed, sought sunshine in the shady places.
No auction that happens to have a picture in it ever escapes his notice. He knows the contents of every public gallery, nay, every private collection in the kingdom. He is a living catalogue of the "gems" in every dealer's hands. Mention a picture-cleaner, and he will particularize the fine specimens at that moment in his keeping. He can tell you who had the Giorgione that was for sale in Tottenham-court Road, and who bought the doubtful Titian in the Minories. He is many picture-hunters in one—an Art-Union!
For weeks together, perhaps, has he gone his daily rounds—sometimes eastward of the city, now westward, and anon in the widely-spreading suburbs—looking out for adventures, and beating up for prizes; but picking out of the chaff and ruin no treasure obscure—no scrap of Morland, no bit of Bonnington, not even an endurable copy of Rembrandt or Sir Joshua! But then, has he not secured something as good?
As good? Ay, some new lamp to exchange for an old one!—some pleasing abomination at a low price; some poor copy, carefully finished, of a sketch by a great master; or some bad original by a painter that happens just at the moment to be in fashion! Either of these, duly set off with a shining surface and a frame re-burnished, would hardly fail, in the market of ignorance, (and people in general know less about pictures than anything else, except themselves,) to secure to him the transfer of a small prize, a modest, inattractive, and by no means brilliant performance, yet really worthy to be called a work of art. This, for its subject's sake, perhaps, or because there is nothing startling about it, wins its way in a better market than the other; and, by the aid of a showy companion, flung gratuitously in to set off its simple merits to advantage, is bartered for a real prize, a handsome second-rate; which, in turn, accompanied by two or three agreeable illusions in blue and yellow—with frames of a new pattern—is made over to some infallible connoisseur, in exchange for the grand object, the unquestionable treasure, the fine picture by the fine master.
Months, perhaps years, have been devoted to the full working out of this manœuvre; but there, nevertheless, is the master at last.
Suppose, however, that the prize turns up in the regular course of the wheel!—that in the old iron shop, in the loft or cellar heaped with lumber, a genuine picture, encrusted like an old coin, and of equally solid pretensions to be judged according to a standard of value, now and then flashes out upon the practised and all-penetrating eye! With what an anxious, yet exulting scrutiny, is it visited! When was hieroglyphic deciphered, when was black-letter scanned, with half the devotion, the hope, the fear, the enthusiasm, which stir the throbbing pulses of the picture-hunter, as he seeks, "behind the scenes," the author of the enchantment!—examining the bare back of the picture, and tracing in every mark discoverable on the canvas, a confirmation of, or a contradiction to, his theory,—finding in the crazy stretcher a token, and in the carved framework a sign!
Then with what a triumph is the obscure and dirty kitcat carried off! How is the venerable and sensitive canvas handled reverentially, as never was bank-paper with "£1000" in the corner!—how carefully is it lined, stretched, and strengthened!—with what tenderness and delicacy are the layers of varnish removed, and the colours brought out into admiring day! Above all, perhaps, with what an ecstasy of aspiration, a kindling of the whole soul, does the eye search among the brightening lines which chequer the foliage in the foreground, for an initial or a date! If but one letter steals slowly into sight at last, it is sure—this is an invariable rule—to be the initial of some great painter; and it happens not less curiously, that, whoever the painter may be, the picture then and there a subject of such fond speculation, is certain to be not only a manifest production of his school, but an unquestionable specimen of his individual style. C. stands for Cuyp all the world over; and if the date should shew that he was only three years of age at the time, the picture is the more remarkable for being so early a production of his easel. Cuyp had produced precious things before, but here is a prodigy.
Let it not be here imagined, however, that my friend Ferret is a self-deceiver—like Garrick, a dupe to his art—the possessor of wooden nutmegs instead of the original spices. Years ago, indeed, he fell regularly into this error. Then every forged initial on a daub purposely damaged, and ingeniously made ancient, was the handwriting of a master. He thought it little to go out with four and sixpence in his pocket, and bring home a Claude. The acquisition of eleven undoubted Canalettis in a week was slow work, and with a sigh on Saturday, over his miserable progress, he said, "This wont do!" Monday found him mending; and a sketch of Raphael's, a group by one or both of the Poussins, and two or three originals of the modern school, (real Wilsons, most likely,) all publicly purchased for five-and-twenty shillings, promised better success.
But as soon as his walls were covered, the delusion was at an end; and he sold more wisely than he bought, turning his romances to realities, or, in other words, exchanging the showy for the substantial. It was by dint of extraordinary assiduity, unceasing research, the toil of years, the direction of every faculty of the mind to one darling object, that Ferret became the phenomenon we now behold him—a picture-hunter who never cheats, and is never to be cheated—who spends nothing, yet buys much—who picks up a ragged Humphrey Clinker, and finds him a smart young gentleman, in wig and ruffles. It is true that he will even now insist upon a case of legitimacy, when facts will not always bear him out. Slow to decide, he is proof against doubt when the decision has once been given. He will insist upon the Correggiosity of his Correggios—all of them. One or two of his foreigners have rather an English look; his Murillo was certainly painted in Dublin. But to tell him that his Annibal Carracci is not an Annibal Carracci—you might as well tell me that Pope was no poet. Ferret's catalogue is rich in great names; but if the sums paid for his various pictures were placed opposite to them in the list, it would be still more remarkable for small figures. It would be ludicrous, if it were not so very absurd, to hear him tell the truth about his prices and purchases. His boast is, that he has not, for ten years, expended five pounds upon a painting. His maxim being, that all fine pictures sell either for very large or for very small sums, he has watched the market at the latter turn; and then, profiting by his dexterous system of exchanges in other instances, he is enabled fairly to estimate his expenditure upon every separate gem.
"For that bit of Parmegiano I gave three shillings; the Guido cost me, however, fifteen, but then I luckily secured that fine Gaspar for ninepence. There's a Michael!—it's disputed, I know; but it ought not to be, for it cost me, altogether, four pounds twelve, lining and all. Why, that Salvator took upwards of three pounds out of my pocket!—Ah! I was extravagant then! But some of these I got cheaper. I exchanged some supposed Rembrandts, and a sham Watteau, for this fine Both. That's good, the Wouvermans; that and the Ruysdael I got for nothing—that is, I gave a big West for them. Here—you wouldn't think, now, that this Hobbima cost me but eleven and sixpence, with discount for ready money! But come this way—there's a true Correggio! for which I swapped—receiving fifteen pounds to buy a frame—two villanous things, one called 'Game,' and the other 'Fruit,' which had been thrown into a lot I bought at an auction!"
My friend Ferret thus walks and talks amidst his treasures; while of mankind he knows nothing whatever, save of the few who buy and sell pictures. To him, the ideal is the actual—the forms of things are the substances. If the soul, as some wise philosophers have suspected, ever returns to the earth it has once quitted, Ferret's will assuredly be be found somewhere, looking complacently out of a gold frame, sixteen inches by eleven.