“Sixty dollars:  the painting is by Furini,” was the reply.

“I will take it,” said the gentleman, eagerly insisting upon paying for it on the spot; which was no sooner done, than he turned round to the amused artist and triumphantly exclaimed, “Do you know you have sold me a Murillo for nothing?”

Benvenuti, President of the Academy of Florence, was once asked to attest the originality of an Andrea brought to him by some speculators.  “I should be happy to gratify you, gentlemen,” he replied, “but unfortunately I saw the picture painted.”  Nevertheless, certificates were obtained from more facile authorities, and the painting officially baptized for a market.

Certificates and documents need to be received as cautiously as the pictures themselves; perhaps more so,—­for they are more easily forged.  When genuine, the former are valuable only as they are the opinions of honest and competent judges; and both are trustworthy only so far as they are attached to the pictures to which they legitimately belong.

Genuine pictures have been sold and their documentary evidence kept for skilful imitations.  We have even detected in certificates the fraudulent substitution of names.  And sometimes, when honestly given, their testimony is of no value.  One professional certificate in our possession, of the last century, ascribes the portrait in question to Masaccio or Sauti di Tito:  as sensible a decision as if an English critic had decided that a certain picture of his school was either by Hogarth or Sir Thomas Lawrence.  Cases are indeed rare, even in the public galleries, in which, outside of the picture itself, there is any trustworthy historical testimony as to its genealogy.

Counterfeits of the old masters of the later Italian schools, supported by false evidence, have at various times deceived good judges and obtained posts of honor in the galleries of Europe.  Even when detected, their owners do not always repudiate their spurious treasures.  They give their collections the benefit of doubts or of public ignorance.  The most noted imitator of this class was Micheli of Florence.  In view of his success and the use for a time made of his works, he must rank as a forger, though they are now in esteem solely for their intrinsic cleverness.  Some still linger in remote galleries, with the savor of authenticity about them.  A Raphael of his make long graced the Imperial Gallery of Russia.  He did not confine himself to literal repetitions, but concocted new “originals” by combining parts of several pictures in worm-eaten panels or time-stained canvases, with such variations of motive or design as their supposed authors would naturally have made in repeating their ideas in fresher combinations,—­sometimes leaving portions unfinished, ingeniously dirtying their surfaces, and giving to them that cracked-porcelain appearance common to the old masters.  One thus prepared was bought at his studio for one hundred dollars, consigned to a priest in the country, in due time discovered, and the rumor of a great master in an exceedingly dirty and somewhat dilapidated state, but believed to be intact beneath the varnishes and grime of centuries, brought to the ears of a Russian, who after a delicate and wearisome negotiation obtained it for eight hundred dollars, and perhaps paid half as much more to the manufacturer for cleaning and restoring it.