AUCTION-ROOM ROMANCE

King Country Chronicle, Volume III, Issue 186, 30 August 1909, Page 4

AUCTION-ROOM ROMANCE

"Dost thou love silence deep as that before the winds were made. Retire with me into a Quaker's meeting."

And the irony of contrast humorously asserts itself, as one retires into, not a Quaker's meeting, but a Melbourne auction-room.

The tumult and the shouting accompanying this system of exchange of property afford the mere spectator most amusing and free entertainment. The auctioneer mounts the rostrum, and as a preliminary, rallies off the terms of the sale—a veritable word storm of undistinguishablc sentences. No one, however, seems anxious to disentangle the speech, and soon some dessert knives and forks, "a pipe of peace," a silver backed brush and a rose bowl go at such fabulously low prices—the total is not ten shillings—one does not wonder that the auctioneer jocosely asks his audience how he can keep up Collins street and tram fares,on that. "Whoever will not bid for this cake-basket, well! for him there shall be no cakes," he says, and the assistant is genially called upon to hit anyone who is not bidding. Under this encouraging policy, meat safes, quilts, bedsteads, lawn mowers, and oil paintingi pass in rapid and remunerative succession under his hammer. The oil paintings, he affirms, are by a rising young artist; they improve in value every year, and when he is dead will be worth mines of gold.

"Those are the conditions under which I am selling," is the greeting sentence from the next rostum. A suit of clothes is passed round for inspection,"a costume equal to any made by B. and N." At last by the power of suggestion, it is made by B. and N , and is worth £5 ss, but realises eight shillings—"Wonder what the crowd has come for," shouts the irate auctioneer. Then nine and sixpence is the highest bid for something which would be a bargain at thirty shillings, and the crowd is anathematised as a loafing lot of people. There is really no

demand for revolvers, and a good one is knocked down at three shillings. "Why have you all.come?" fiercely demands a now very angry man, and the reply is a few boots and wild cat crie3.

| Perhaps for commercial romance the j wool sales take pride of place. < In the rotunda-like ball, with its 1 raised galleries and definite separation \ of buyers and -tpectators, nations —not | individuals—are competitors, and the ! contest sometimes rises to the finest ! babel over bales. An interim of talk, J a flutter and rustle of simultaneously ' turned catalogues, and again that , momentary storm of national conflict. j James Bonwick, in telling the story ! of the "Romance of the Woof Trade,'' I says that the twoparhent slocks of our ! colonial farms were allied with the i most ancient flocks of th • old world. i In 1797, Captain Macarthur procured ! eight sheep of the Spanish variety : from Cape Town. Eighty years after--1 wards there were 78,000,000 sheep in j Australia, and that year's exports I reached 325,366,8471b. And this is I only the beginning of the wonderful I wool story of this "Land of the Golden j Fleece," leading up to that vigorous I sale in the "Rialto" auction rooms. ' when over 60,000 bales were offered ' for sale, and Continental competition | especially was so keen. | Among the horses a strong element , of friendship and sympathy is experi- '. enced, as a beautiful quivering bay is i arraigned before the buyers, and her " points, temper, disposition—character in fact —dilated upon. An almost hu- "'■ man consciousness is evidenced by the i sensitive creature, as though she were I wondering whether, after all, she ; would be able to "play up" to this , hither-to unsuspected reputation. 1 Twenty-nine pounds is the final figure. 1 Then a gallant old draught horse is ; trotted up and down. "I care for noi body, no not I," is his motto, and he i is not in the least elated when tha ' bidding for him quickly rises to £3O. j A tiny piebald pony, that will delight ■ the heart of some little fairy, realises j£4 ss. At "Tattersall's," in London, ' prices often range in a few hours [ from £5 to £SOO, and many are sold to j the tune of "quiet—to—'ride an'- - drive, ride-an'-drive, ride-an'drive." s A rather meloncholy atmosphere is : usually associated with the sale of a : library. This almost always repre- • sents characteristic and personal glean- \ ings and selections, and the auction- ■ eer's hammer scatters the work of • years —perhaps to increase or complete j other libraries. Still it involves a distinct impression of destruction. A notable example occurred a few years ; ago in Melbourne. A private library ! of some three thousand volumes was, . upon the death of the owner, sold by i auction. In one particular section it was regarded as the most comprehen- ! sivc collection "south of the line," ! and the brain and heart of a lifetime I ; was scattered in a week. ■ The first account of an auction sale I in London was in 1766, when, strange- ! ly enough, a library was the subject jof experiment. "Though it hath been ■ unusual in England to make sales of

books by auction, yet it hath been practised in other countries to adavntage," so ran the introduction to the advertisement.

From the earliest times, King street became the haunt of auctioneers. The world famous Christie came here from Pall Mall, in 1823, and it was in their rooms, in 1874, that the then Lord Dudley gave £6OOO for a pair of Sevres vases. Their intrinsic value was probably far les •, but his rival was Lord Rothschild.

Another time a Rothschild deputed an agent to purchase a certain picture at Christie's, but was informed that the commission was not executed as the picture went so far beyond its value. "Sir," said Lord Rothschild, "I said nothing about value, and you should have gone on bidding until doomsday, if necessary." In 1792 at the time of the French Revolution, many refugees from France, Italy, and Holland went to London, and were often reduced to parting with pictures, curios and even family jewels and plate. A great proportion of these were entrusted to James Christie for sale. This was one avenue through which the British aristocracy became possessed of so many Revolutionary treasures. A large number of the pictures of Christie's great friends, Sir J. Reynolds and Thomas Gainsborough, were sold by him at auction, as also many of the effects of David Garrick.

Numberless real romances are associated with the sale 3at Christie's. Within recent years a kindly physician noticed, in the house of a very poor family, a picture which be suggested should be submitted to Christie. The owners were delighted with the result netted, £9OOO. The conduct of these sales is distinctly classic, pervaded by almost an element of that Quaker's meeting—"Lot one," the quiet-voiced gentleman announces. There is no particular laudation. Excellence is accepted as a matter of course. "£500?" he begins, £600? £700? £800? £900? £1000; There is no sound, the bidding being an affirmative nod, noted by the eagle-eyed man in the rostrum. The hammer falls almost noiselessly as a pearl necklace goes for £20,000; but there are also frequent sales of three or four guineas. Very occasionally, however, human nature triumph:;, ;u,d the aristocratic tone is drowned in a shout of applause, as some widely coveted treasure is knocked down at a fabulous sum.