MAGPIE'S TREASURE

IN all the years that she lived in West Newton, Mass., no one was ever sure just what Mrs. William J. Gunn was up to. Day after day she and her husband would go off on one of their mysterious drives. Even after he died, she carried on those expeditions alone. She seemed to have plenty of money, and the occasional visitor to her home, which she_ kept surrounded by two fences, could catch a glimpse of what she spent it on--Chinese bric-a-brac, 18th century books, and antique card cases that she had persuaded her amenable husband to adopt as a hobby. But what of the "pictures" she once maintained she was after? No one ever saw more than two or three.

It was not until after her death in 1958 that Mrs. Gunn's strange ways with pictures came to be known. An alert lady dealer, who had long been curious about the Gunns' collecting habits, decided to make a bid on their collection. But as soon as she found out the extent of what she had actually bought, she notified Art Patron Stephen Clark, chairman of the board of the New York State Historical Association. Mrs. Gunn's hidden hoard turned out to be a major historical windfall: more than 600 early American paintings that had been painstakingly collected over 25 years--only to be left to rot in an unheated barn.

For the Record. This month the association's graceful Fenimore House in Cooperstown, N.Y. will open an exhibition of 81 of the 175 paintings that Clark bought for the museum. Added to the museum's already extensive collection of Americana, this magpie's treasure gives a strangely touching glimpse into the often painful efforts of a young society to put itself on record. The show has its share of gentle snow scenes and of stiff little battles being fought by toylike soldiers.

But most of the paintings are portraits--the faces of scores of now nameless men and women who, in their way, wanted to be remembered.

The majority of the artists are nameless, too, but from those who can be identified, historians have put together a picture of an ingenious lot. Jolly "Aunt Ruth" Bascom of Gill, Mass, liked to produce portraits by standing a subject against the light, tracing out the silhouette, and then filling in the face later.

Back in 1831, William Matthew Prior of Bath, Me. offered bargains: "Persons wishing for a flat picture can have a likeness without shade or shadow at one quarter price." Joseph Whiting Stock of Springfield, Mass, spent most of his 40 years in a wheelchair, but managed to turn out more than 900 portraits by the time he died in 1855.

Crude or polished, professional or amateur, the artists all seemed to share a devastating honesty. They took their subjects as they came: no matter how sharp the features or flinty the disposition, nothing was hidden. Nor were the children spared. The pouts, the whining expressions are all there to see, even the great, bulging foreheads--the ugly mark of rickets.

The Thrill. Louis C. Jones, director of Fenimore House, is doing his best to unravel the mysteries of who might be who in his now enriched gallery. But one of the most intriguing mysteries of all is Mrs. William Gunn herself.

Throughout her years of buying, she carefully kept her name from dealers, but some still recall some odd things about her. She insisted on paying cash, and instead of allowing herself to be seen with a purchase, preferred to send a servant around to pick it up a day or two later. Though the prices of such early paintings can now go up into the thousands, Mrs. Gunn had no interest in making a profit. She kept no record of her acquisitions, but instantly consigned them to the barn, where they were soon covered with filth--splattered, torn and fouled by bats and birds. What, then, was Mrs.

Gunn after? "The thrill of the hunt," says Director Jones chivalrously. But a former neighbor has another theory: "She just wanted to keep anyone else from getting the paintings for themselves."

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