ROUGH ON THE U.S.

New Zealand Times, Volume XXXI, Issue 4916, 23 December 1876, Page 2 (Supplement)

ROUGH ON THE U.S.

The following satire is clipped from the pages of a Feuilleton entitled " The Golden Butterfly," now publishing in the World. The scene is a picture dealer's store ; the hero, an American JFortunatus —■ egotistical, ignorant, but fabulously rich—named Beck. Mr. Burls, the proprietor of the pictures, represents a clas3 of men who fit out nouveaux riches with pictures of their ancestors at so much a square foot,.and the only other dramatis persona is a Mr. Jack Dunquerque, who is as ignorant of pictures as his friend and patron, the wealthy Mr. Beck:— They stood amid a mass of pictures, the like of which Gilead Beck had never before conceived. ... Mr. Beck looked around him, stroked his chin, and addressed the guardian of the treasure house : 'I am going to buy pictures,' he began comprehensively. 'You are the Boss?' 'This gentleman means,' Jack explained, ' that he wants to look at your pictures with a view of buying some if he approves of them. The man in the shop was used to people who would buy one picture after a whole morning's haggling, but he was not accustomed to people ;who wanted to buy pictures generally. He looked astonished, and thon, with a circular sweep of his right hand, indicated that here were pictures, and all Mr. Beck had to do was to go in and buy them. ... One large composition immediately caught Mr. Beck's eye. A noble picture; a grand picture; a picture whose greatness of conception was equalled by its boldness of treatment. It occupied the whole of one side of the walj, and might have measured twenty feet in length by fourteen in height. The subject was scriptural—the slaying of Sisera by Jael, Heber, the Kenite's wife. The defeated general lay stretched on a couch, ocupying a good ten feet of the available space. Beside him stood the woman, a majestic figure, with a tent-peg and a mallet, about to commit that famous breach of hospitality. The handle of the mallet was rendered moat conscientiously, and had evidently been copied from a model. Through tho open hangings of the tent were visible portion's of' the army chasing the fugitives and lopping off their heads. 'That seems a striking picture,'said Mr. Beck. 'I take that picture,'sir, to represent George Washington after the news of the sur- s render at Saratogo, or General Jackson after the battle of New. Orleans. 'Grant'after Gettysburg,' suggested Jack,

' No, sir. I was at Gettysburg myself ; and the hero asleep on the bad, making every allowance for his fancy dress, which I take to be allegorical, is not at all like General Ulysses Grant, nor is it like General Sherman. The young female, I s'pose, is Liberty, with a hammer iu one hand and a dagger in the other. Too much leg for an American gell, and the flesh is redder than one could wish. But on the hull a striking picture. What may be the value of this composition, mister V ' I beg your pardon, sir. Not Washington, sir, nor General Jackson, though we can procure you in a very short time fine portraits of both these 'eroes. This, gentlemen, is a biblical subject. ,Cicero, overtaken by sleep while in gaol, about to be slain by Heber, the wife of the Kenite. That is 'Eber with the 'eavy 'aramer in 'er 'and. The Kenite belonged, as I have always understood—for I don't remember the incident myself—to the opposition faction. That splendid masterpiece, gentlemen, has been valued at five 'undred. For a town 'all or for an altar-piece it would be priceless. To let it go at anything under five 'undred would be a sin i and a Bhame, besides a-throwing away of money. Look at the light and shade. Look at 'Eber's arm and Cicero's leg. That leg has been judged by connisseers, worth all the money.' Mr. Beck was greatly disappointed in the subject and in the price ; even had it been the allegorical picture he thought, he was not yet sufficiently educated with the prices of pictures to offer five hundred for it; and when Mr. Burls' assistant spoke of pounds, Mr. Beck thought of dollars. So he replied : ' Five hundred dollars ? I will give you five-and-twenty.' 'That,' interposed Jack Dunquerque, 'is a five-pound note.' 'Then, by gad, sir,' said the man with alacrity, ' it's yours ! It's been hangin' there for ten years, and never an offer yet. It's yours !' . v . • ; After selecting some twenty pictures, with option of purchase, Mr. Beck and his friend leave the store. The scene that follows is too good to omit: — The seller, who had a small interest or commission oh sales, as soon as their steps were fairly out of the shop, executed a short dance indicative of joy. Then he called up the stairs, and a man came slowly down. A red-nosed bibulous person, by name Crichett. He was manufacturer of old masters in ordinary to Bartholomew Burls and Co.; cleaned and restored pictures when other orders were slack, and was excellent at ' multiplication.' He had worked for Burls for a quarter of a century, save a few weeks, when one Frank Melliship, a young gentleman then down on his luck, worked in his Btead. A trustworthy and faithful creature, though given to drink ; he could lie like an echo ; was as incapable of blushing as the rock on which the echo plays ; and bore cross-examination like a Claimant. ' Come down, Critchett—come down. We've sold Cicero and Heber.' * Sisera and Jael.'

' Well, it don't matter—and I said; " Cicero in Jail." They're gone for five pounds. The governor he always said I could take whatever was offered, and keep it for myself. Five pound in my pocket! Your last Teniers—that old bagpipe party—T tried him but it was no go. Bat I've sold the only one left of your Groozes, and you'd better make a few more, out of hand. Look here, Critchett: it isn't right to drink in hours, and the guv'nor out and all; but this is an occasion. This ain't a common day, because I've sold the Cicero. I won't ask you to torse nor yet to pay; but I says, " Critchett, come across the way, my hoy, and put your lips to what you like best." Lord, Lord! only give me an American, and inve him to me green! Never mind your hat, Critchett. " It's limp in the brim and it's gone in the rim," as the poet says; and you look more respectable without it, Critchett.' "