This was perhaps not very encouraging as a beginning, in a pecuniary
point of view. But I was to get five pounds more, if my Rembrandt sold
within a given time. It sold a week after it was in a fit state to be
trusted in the showroom. I got my money, and began enthusiastically on
another Rembrandt--"A Burgomaster's Wife Poking the Fire." Last time,
the chiar'oscuro of the master had been yellow and black, this time it
was to be red and black. I was just on the point of forcing my way into
Mr. Pickup's confidence, as I had resolved, when a catastrophe happened,
which shut up the shop and abruptly terminated my experience as a maker
of Old Masters.

"The Burgomaster's Breakfast" had been sold to a new customer, a
venerable connoisseur, blessed with a great fortune and a large
picture-gallery. The old gentleman was in raptures with the
picture--with its tone, with its breadth, with its grand feeling for
effect, with its simple treatment of detail. It wanted nothing, in his
opinion, but a little cleaning. Mr. Pickup knew the raw and ticklish
state of the surface, however, far too well, to allow of even an
attempt at performing this process, and solemnly asserted, that he was
acquainted with no cleansing preparation which could be used on the
Rembrandt without danger of "flaying off the last exquisite glazings of
the immortal master's brush." The old gentleman was quite satisfied with
this reason for not cleaning the Burgomaster, and took away his purchase
in his own carriage on the spot.