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along one of the most crowded thorough- fares of the city the other day, I was attracted by the arrangements made for the sale of a “respectable tradesman’s stock.“ Large placards pasted on the shop-windows announced that Mr. Ichabod had the hononr to announce to the nobility and public in general, that he was about to dispose of a valuable stock by order of the proprietors; and long slips of paper shooting diagonally across the whole shop-front, like a flight of rockets, inscribed with “This Bay,” in large letters, testified to the vehement desire of the proprietor to realise without more delay. The dishevelled state of the goods in the window well seconded these outward appearances. A plated coffee-pot, of rather florid design, with a deep smear of tarnish across its bulging sides; a candlestick, with resplendent glass pendules, ornamented with doubtful ormolu work; and a lady’s work-table of papier mftch§, varnished to within an inch of its life, and so deposited as to show the full glare of the flagrant rose wreath that ornamented its top; spoke of the rather mixed nature of the stock now in the agonies of dissolution within.

As I entered the shop the bidding was not very active, nor the company large. Indeed, the group of bidders looked almost as lifeless as the figures in a stereoscope, and the lots passed with panto- mimic silence. No one looked round, but it was evident my footstep over the threshhold gave a gentle electric shock of pleasure to the assembled company. The auctioneer seemed suddenly to find his voice, the bidding grew brisker, and the splendid china tea-service, as if by magic, seemed to become the object of keen contention; the whole company leapt at once into life, as though I were the fairy prince who had suddenly broken into the enchanted palace.

I ventured to ask a tall gentleman, who volunteered to assist me in my biddings, for a catalogue. They were not selling by catalogue that day, he said, as the trade were not there; and I should I therefore embrace the opportunity to get bargains. Taking a quiet but comprehensive glance around me, I certainly could neither see any signs, nor smell the proximity, of that lively race which is indigenous to ordinary sale-rooms. There was a tall man, dressed in a brown coat, that hung down to his feet; with a face long and lean, and of a most simple expression. His modest white neck- cloth, neatly folded beneath his old-fashioned waistcoat, and his rather large hands encased in black woollen gloves, gave me the idea that he was the respected deacon of some provincial Zion. As a contrast to this unsophisticated individual, there was a rough man in top boots and corduroys, with a huge comforter tied in a great bunch under his chin; whilst in his hand he held a cudgel, greatly exaggerated about the knots. He might have been a drover. The rest of the company were remarkably nosey and breast-pinny.

“Come, show the gentlemen the matchless Dresden service,” said the auctioneer.

Whereat the company instantly seemed to part down the middle, and I found myself raked by the piercing eye of the presiding functionary.

My friend the deacon appeared all of a sudden to take an amazing fancy to that splendid service, for he stretched out a nervous hand to examine a cup, when it slipped through his fingers, and broke upon the floor. My friend apologised for his awkwardness, and begged to be allowed to pay for his mishap; but the auctioneer would not hear of it — it was quite an accident — he was among gentlemen, who would treat him as such.

My heart began to soften; possibly it was I a genuine concern after all: I actually made a bid. It had been a bad day, I suppose, in con- sequence of the I ‘ absence of the trade.“ Be that as it may, the sight of a naked foot-mark did not more astonish Crusoe than did apparently the sound of my voice the assembled company. “One pound ten,” I cried.

“Why, you’re a making game,” said my tall friend. “Why it’s a hundred guinea set. — Two pound ten.”

“It’s only Stafford ware,” I retorted.

“Only Stafford, is it?” he remarked, with a faint laugh: “I should say they was Sayvres.” But the auctioneer held me with his “glittering eye.”

“Let the gentleman come forward,” he said: “they was made for the Grand Dook of Saxe Coburg, only they wasn’t finished in time.“

“Indeed,” said I: “that was a pity.”

I suppose there must have been some peculiarity in the tone of my voice, for I instantly: perceived that I had incurred the displeasure of the gentlemen around me, and my position was beginning to grow rather unpleasant, as all the noses and breast-pins converged upon me in rather a threatening attitude. The deacon alone looked mildly on.

At that moment I was aware of a fresh footstep on the floor, the same gentle electric shock as before seemed to pervade the bidders and the rather bloated gentleman in the rostrum gave a slightly perceptible start, just as a spider does when a bluebottle blunders into his web. And now I discovered how it was that the company could see so well what was going on behind them; for on the opposite wall hung a looking-glass, and in it I could see an unmistakable country clergyman timidly looking at a “genuine Raphael.“

“Jim,” said the auctioneer, sotto voce, “tip us the old master.”

In a moment the “Grand Dook” tea-service was knocked down to a sulky-looking bidder in a blue bird’s-eye cravat, and Jim staggered beneath the weight of a remarkably brown Virgin, encased in a resplendent frame.

“The pictures I have the honour to submit to your bidding this morning, gentlemen,” commenced the auctioneer, in the most impressive voice, “have been brought to the hammer under the most peculiar — I may say unprecedented — circumstances. The late proprietor — a nobleman — ransacked the stores of foreign collectors, and purchased, regardless of cost, the few, but priceless gems I now have the honour of submitting to your notice. Unfortunately, circumstances have compelled his representatives to realise, without a moment’s delay, — in short, they must be sold for what they will fetch. The first lot, gentlemen, is