“I saw it there myself, and in very suitable company, too, with a Snyders on one side and a Rubens on t' other, the Snyders being a Faltk, and the Rubens a Metziger; the whole three being positively dear at twenty pounds. Ay, here it is,” continued he, pointing to the hollow trunk of a decayed tree: “there's the initials. So much for your original by Both.” “I hope you'll allow that to be a Mieris?” said Crow, passing on to another. “If you hadn't opened the shutters, perhaps I might,” said Merl; “but with a good dash of light I see it is by Jansens,--and a clever copy, too.” “A copy!” exclaimed the other. “A good copy,” I said. “The King of Bavaria has the original. It is in the small collection at Hohen Schwangau.” “There, that's good!” cried he, turning to a small unfinished sketch in oils. “I often wondered who did it,” cried Crow. “That! Why, can you doubt, sir? That's a bit of Vandyke's own. It was one of the hundred and fifty rough things he threw off as studies for his great picture of St. Martin parting his cloak.” “I'm glad to hear you say so,” said Crow, in delight. “I felt, when I looked at it, that it was a great hand threw in them colors.” “You call this a Salvator Rosa, don't you?” said Merl, as he stood before a large piece representing a bandit's bivouac in a forest, with a pale moonlight stealing through the trees. “Yes, that we do,” said Crow, stoutly. “Of course, it's quite sufficient to have blended lights, rugged foregrounds, and plenty of action to make a Salvator; but let me tell you, sir, that it's not even a copy of him. It is a bad--ay, and a very bad--Haemlens,--an Antwerp fellow that lived by poor facsimiles.” “Oh dear, oh dear!” cried Crow, despairingly. “Did I ever hear the like of this!” “Are these your best things, Mr. Crow?” said Merl, surveying the room with an air of consummate depreciation. “There are others. There are some portraits and a number of small cabinet pictures.” “Gerard Dows, and Jansens, and such like?” resumed Merl; “I understand: a mellow brown tint makes them, just as a glossy white satin petticoat makes a Terburg. Mr. Crow, you 've caught a Tartar,” said he, with a grin. “There's not a man in Europe can detect a copy from the original sooner than him before you. Now seven out of every eight of these here are veritable 'croûtes,'--what we call 'croûtes,' sir,--things sold at Christie's, and sent off to the Continent to be hung up in old châteaux in Flanders, or dilapidated villas in Italy, where your exploring Englishman discovers them by rare good luck, and brings them home with him as Cuyps or Claudes or Vandykes. I'll undertake,” said he, looking around him,--“I'll undertake to furnish you with a gallery, in every respect the duplicate of this, for--let me see--say three hundred pounds. Now, Mr. Crow,” said Merl, taking a chair, and spreading out his legs before the fire, “will you candidly answer me one question?” “Tell me what it is,” said Crow, cautiously.