CHAP. III. POSTHUMOUS AND HIS MUSEUM.

With considerable parade Oriel Porphyry and his companion were ushered through long passages containing a variety of monstrous antiquities, into a small room filled with books and curiosities, where, at a curiously shaped table covered with a number of strange things, sat the original of the bust over the door—a man much beyond the middle age, with a short body, long legs and arms, broad shoulders, a clumsy head, and a foolish face. He was dressed in a tawdry morning gown, and was examining some articles of rarity brought him by several dealers, who were waiting till he had made his purchases.

“You tell me that this is a very rare copy,” said Posthumous, appearing to regard with much attention a large book he held in his hand.

“The only copy in existence, sir, I assure you,” replied the bookseller. “It fetched thirty guineas at the sale of Bookworm’s library.”

“And you are quite convinced that it is the stupidest book that ever was published?” inquired the collector.

“I have abundant testimonials to prove it, sir,” rejoined the other. “The fact is, that the work, when published, which was as much as a thousand years ago, was so generally attacked by the reviewers for the incomprehensible nonsense with which it was filled, that the author, in a fit of shame, tried to buy up all the copies; and in this design he succeeded, with the exception of the one you have, which had fortunately fallen into the hands of a person celebrated for collecting works of a similar nature. All the rest were destroyed.”

“And how much do you want for it?” asked the buyer.

“As you are a particular customer, and as I am very desirous that it should enrich the Posthumous Library, for which it is admirably adapted, I shall only ask you twenty pounds,” said the seller.

“’Tis mine—and there’s the money!” exclaimed the former, as if delighted with his purchase. “And you are quite sure it is decidedly the stupidest book in existence?” he added.

“I am positive,” replied the other.

“Inestimable treasure!” cried the collector, clasping the volume in an ecstasy. “Now has the Posthumous Library a jewel which the whole world could not rival. Have you anything else?”

“Here is an unique copy of a very rare work, called ‘The Philosophy of Flea-catching,’ in sheets, clean and uncut. The learned Scribble-gossip says that this volume has now become so scarce that there is only one other copy extant, which is in the public library in India. This, however, has one important advantage over the other, which renders it of incalculably more value; for, if you notice, it has the Finis at the end printed backwards.”

“Wonderful!” muttered his patron, as he noticed the extraordinary feature. “And what shall I pay you for it?”

“Only ten guineas, sir.”

“There they are; and much reason will posterity have to congratulate itself that I am the fortunate possessor of ‘The Philosophy of Flea-catching,’ with the Finis printed backwards.”

“Exactly so, sir, exactly. Your observations are always full of meaning. I wish you good morning.”

“Good morning, Catalogue, good morning—and mind you show me everything rare that comes into your possession,” cried Posthumous.

“Depend upon it, sir, you shall always have the first refusal,” replied Catalogue; and he took his departure.

“And what have you brought me wrapt up in that green baize, Marble?” inquired the wealthy manufacturer, of a little shrivelled old man, who had been waiting for an opportunity to exhibit the article he had for sale.

“An antique—a real antique, sir!” said the little fellow, hastily taking off the covering. “The bust of a beautiful lady of rank, from the the chisel of the immortal Chantrey.”

“Why she hasn’t any nose!” exclaimed the virtuoso in a tone of disappointment. “Her face is battered to pieces, and she has lost half her shoulder.”

“All the more valuable for that, sir,” replied the man very coolly. “It shows its antiquity. I could have brought you many things more handsome to look upon, but so rare a piece of sculpture I have never yet had in my possession. Look how exquisitely that neck is formed! Charming, sir. Though not a feature is visible, the bust breathes an air of grace which it is impossible to look on without admiring. Sawdust, the great timber merchant, offered me fifty guineas for it to adorn his gallery, but I remembered that my generous and enlightened patron Posthumous was forming a museum, and, knowing that this was the very thing he required, refused the offer.”

“Very good of you, Marble. I detest that Sawdust; he has no taste,” remarked the collector. “But are you sure this is an antique?”

“Am I sure of my existence, sir?” replied the little man, looking as dignified as he could. “My judgment in these matters is infallible. But as you do not seem to appreciate the merit of this beautiful example of art, I shall take it to Sawdust.”

“Not for the world, Marble!” exclaimed Posthumous, producing the money. “Here’s the price; but, I must say, I should have liked it all the better if it had possessed something like a human countenance.”

“Take my word for it, sir, that is not of the slightest consequence,” said the man, as he pocketed the money. “The spirit of a great artist is upon it, and that is all that a connoisseur should look to.”

“And what have you there?” inquired the purchaser, perceiving that the dealer was uncovering another specimen.

“A picture, sir—and such a picture!” responded the man emphatically, as he proceeded to place a small old oil painting in what he considered the most advantageous light. “A chef d’œuvre, sir; a work of one of the old masters. An undoubted original. Don’t you feel a sort of emotion overpower you as you stand before it?”

“Why, I do feel rather queer; but I thought it was indigestion,” replied the connoisseur, closely examining the picture.

“Psha!” exclaimed the little man rather contemptuously. “You ought to feel the all-pervading influence of superior genius. You are looking upon a master-piece. Do you remark the harmony with which the colours are blended in that wonderful production, the poetical treatment of the subject, and the sweet repose that pervades the picture?”

“To tell you the truth,” said the patron, looking a little puzzled, “I have been examining it very closely, and I can see nothing at all.”

“The effect of the great age of the picture, sir,” responded the dealer. “The influence of time has destroyed every vestige of colour on the canvass; and it is impossible to make out a single feature in the painting. But be assured, sir, it is a wonderful production—an invaluable work of art. Emperors would be glad of such an addition to their collections; and artists would travel over half the world to gaze upon an example so unique. I have had many handsome offers for it, sir. Sawdust bid very high. He knew its value, sir. But I resolved that it should enrich the invaluable Posthumous collection of paintings; and I therefore offer it to you at the low price of two hundred guineas.”

“Humph! I’m obliged to you, Marble,” remarked the manufacturer, still poking his foolish face as close to the canvass as he could, and apparently hesitating about making the purchase. “That fellow Sawdust has no soul for these things. But what is it about, Marble? I should like to know the subject. Tell me what it is about, Marble.”

“Why, sir, it is about—as far as I and all the best judges can ascertain—it is about the most ancient painting in the world,” replied the dealer.

“A very fine subject,” said the connoisseur; “and now I do begin to perceive a sort of a what’s-a-name. But do you think posterity would applaud my giving such a price for such a painting with such a subject?”

“They could not do otherwise than greatly applaud your fine discrimination and admirable liberality,” responded the little man with all the enthusiasm of a picture-dealer.

“Then I must have it,” remarked Posthumous, as he paid the money; “posterity will reward my exertions.”

“There is no doubt of it, sir. I wish you good morning,” cried the man, bustling out of the room with an air of peculiar satisfaction.

“Good morning to you, Marble,” exclaimed the collector, still closely examining the painting; “and if you have any thing rare, be sure to let me know. But, if it be in sculpture, I should prefer seeing something with a nose to it; and if it be a painting, although this is a capital subject, I should like it to be a little more easily made out.”

“I will endeavour to meet your wishes,” said the dealer; and he made his bow.

“Capital subject!” continued the connoisseur, still intently poring over his puzzling purchase: “capital subject—but I don’t see it very clearly yet. There is a something there, and there is a something here; but—hullo, gentlemen!” he exclaimed, noticing his visitors for the first time. “I beg pardon; but I really did not know you were in the room. Have you brought me any curiosities—any thing rare or antique?”

“This letter will explain to you our business,” replied Oriel Porphyry, handing a note across the table.

“Sit down, my good sir, sit down,” cried the antiquarian; and, on his visitors complying with his request, he proceeded slowly to read the letter; and, during the period he took in its perusal, Oriel amused himself with examining the extraordinary contents of the room in which he was sitting. The chamber was low and dark, and every corner in it was filled with books heaped up together, without the slightest attempt at arrangement; some glittering with handsome bindings, new and unsoiled; and others old and ragged, covered with dirt, and dark with age. With these were pictures, some leaning against the wall, some upon chairs, others one upon another upon the floor, surrounded by huge fragments of stone, broken pieces of statuary, bronzes, ancient weapons, specimens of pottery, and a variety of other antiquities. Here was a full-length statue deprived of a leg, there an antique bust with half a nose; in one place a vase gaping with a conspicuous fracture, in another a sepulchral urn chipped out of all resemblance to what it once was. Of all the varied contents of the room, there remained nothing that had not in some manner been rendered useless, if at any time it had been considered of value, or, if perfect, had the slightest pretensions to be considered antique. But the most amusing piece of antiquity in this collection was evidently the proprietor, whose face and head expressed a more perfect appearance of want of intellect than the most skilful sculptor could have produced. His nose was a bulging lump of flesh, that looked like any thing but the thing for which it was intended; his eyes were deep set in his head, and were continually gazing in a settled stare of foolish wonder and delight; and his mouth, which was more than usually large, when its possessor was not talking stood invitingly half open, as if to ensnare all the flies in its neighbourhood. And with these characteristics there was a pompous manner with which he said his foolish nothings, that rendered the man more highly ridiculous.

“So you have come to purchase, instead of to sell,” exclaimed he with much astonishment. “I had rather you had brought me some rare antiques to enrich my museum—the Posthumous Museum, as it is called. Do they talk of it in Columbia?”

“I cannot say I ever heard it mentioned,” said Oriel, endeavouring to conceal a smile.

“Ah! posterity will do me honour; and it is for posterity I labour,” added the manufacturer. “But I will give orders about what you require by and by. In the meantime, you must take up your abode with me, that you may be enabled to appreciate all the wonderful things I have collected in my museum for the benefit of posterity, that, when you return to your country, you may say how invaluable is the Posthumous Museum, and how enlightened and liberal is he who has spent a large fortune in collecting together its precious contents! I shall have a conversazione this evening, when you will meet with some of the most celebrated literati in this great empire; till then, I will endeavour to amuse you by making you aware of the value of this unrivalled collection of antiquities. In the first place, you behold this dagger,” said he, showing an ordinary weapon of that description. “Well, this is the identical dagger that Macbeth saw in the air when he exclaimed, ‘Is this a dagger that I see before me?’ and so on.”

“But Macbeth merely imagined that he beheld such a weapon,” observed Oriel, amused at the credulity of his host.

“Exactly so; and this is the very weapon Macbeth imagined he beheld,” replied the antiquarian. “It is undoubtedly genuine: I have documents to prove it. This is the very seal with which Magna Charta signed King John—no!—King John signed Runnemede—no, that’s not it either—Runnemede signed the Barons—I am not just sure I have it now, but it must be one or the other. And this is the very seal;” and he produced a seal about the size of a small lantern. “Here is an undoubted Jew’s harp—a great rarity. I don’t know what Jew it belonged to; but its genuineness is placed beyond suspicion.”

“It bears no resemblance to the harps in present use, either in size or appearance,” remarked Zabra.

“A proof of its great antiquity,” replied Posthumous. “You see it has but one string. Now, it is upon record that, at a remote age, there was a fiddler called Pagan Ninny. Whether he was called a pagan because he was a ninny, or a ninny because he was a pagan, it is impossible to prove; but certain it is that he played upon one string; and he played so well, that instruments upon one string came into fashion both among the Pagans and the Jews; and that is the reason why there is but one string to this Jew’s harp. You observe this cake of mineral substance,” he continued, pointing to a small bluish mass. “There is a deep interest attached to this specimen. I never look at it without feeling emotions of—that is to say, emotions of a what’s-a-name, with which every monied man must sympathise. It is the remains of a great man—of a very great man—of a man whose credit with the world was exceeded by none in his day. It is the ashes of Abraham Newland!”

The manufacturer turned away, but whether to conceal a tear or to produce another curiosity was doubtful; however he was only a few seconds before he again approached his visitors, bearing a large fragment of wood crumbling into decay. “But here, gentlemen,” said he, “here is an object that cannot fail to awaken—to awaken—that is to say, it cannot fail to awaken, but what it ought to awaken I do not exactly remember now; however, that is not of the slightest consequence. You have, no doubt, read of England, a very ancient island. Well, the inhabitants being very industrious did not like being disturbed by their neighbours, an idle dishonest set of rascals, who were continually coming upon their territory and doing a great deal of damage; so to keep out these troublesome marauders—marauders—marauders?—yes, that’s the word, and having very fine forests of timber in their country, they surrounded their island with wooden walls; and this specimen, gentlemen, is an unquestionable fragment of the wooden walls of old England, procured for me at great expense by a traveller, who being in that part of the world found it in the remains of a wall within a very short distance of the sea-coast. It is the only antiquity of the kind in existence. None but the Posthumous Museum can boast of such an invaluable relic of the ancient ages: for posterity I acquired it, and for having become its fortunate possessor posterity will not fail to do justice to my memory.”

Posthumous continued to give descriptions of a great variety of similar objects in the same fashion, till he approached some pictures, one of which he selected with great care, and placed in a favourable light.

“Look at this picture, gentlemen!” he exclaimed, as his foolish face endeavoured to express something like wonder and admiration. “Observe the chiaro-scuro—the chiaro-scuro?—yes, that’s the word, though I don’t exactly remember what it means. Admire the foreshortening—the harmony—the repose—the expression, and all that. Fine effect—admirable picture! The subject is Joshua commanding his son to stand still. Excellent subject! The son was a very restless boy, gentlemen, who required to be ruled with rather a high hand; so Mister Joshua, a good sort of father too, by all accounts, was obliged to teach him to be quiet in a manner boys don’t in general admire. It is painted by the immortal Snooks. Talk of Rubens, and Raphael, and Corregio, and Titian, and others of the ancients,—they were never to be compared to the immortal Snooks—the sublime, the incomparable, the illustrious Snooks. He had such a miraculous—such an extraordinary—such an unrivalled—I don’t know what it was; but he had something, at any rate, that was very fine, and gave a sort of wonderful incomprehensible—you understand me—to such a degree, that seven-and-twenty cities have carried on a most violent dispute about which had the honour of giving him birth, and each erected a stupendous monument, having nothing else upon it but this sublime inscription, ‘Here Snooks was Born!’ But when he died, gentlemen, there was a regular scramble for his remains, and one carried away an arm, another a leg, a third took possession of the head, a fourth of the body, and many rejoiced in being so fortunate as to be able to screw off a toe nail, or punch out one of his teeth; and on the strength of this some forty different towns and cities have raised most magnificent mausolea, bearing these excruciating words, ‘Here Snooks Died!’”

“He must have enjoyed a great degree of fame indeed,” remarked Oriel.

“Yes, sir,” replied the connoisseur; “and although he has shared the fate of many, who, though popular when living, get pulled to pieces immediately they are dead, his reputation has only increased by it. Now, gentlemen, let me show you this painting. It is a sea piece, you will observe, and possesses all that amazing freshness and transparency, and—and—what d’ye call ’em, which is considered so admirable by the best judges. You may actually feel the moisture of the water, gentlemen, if you stay long enough; and that is the reason I put my hat on whenever I look at it, to prevent catching cold. Poor Tipple! his was a different fate from that of the immortal Snooks. No one thought of disputing about the honour of his birth or burial. He enjoyed no post mortem—post mortem?—yes, that’s it—he enjoyed no post mortem gratifications. The nails were left upon his unhappy toes, and the teeth remained undisturbed in his miserable jaws. But he was a great artist,—who could paint water as he did? None! There was a sort of an indescribable, inimitable—and—and a whatso’name in his water, that nobody else’s water ever looked like. You could see your face in it, Sir. But somehow or other while he was—not a hewer of wood—but a drawer of water, whether the sight of such a pure, sweet, refreshing beverage made him continually thirsty, I’m not certain, but he drank, gentlemen, not his own water, even when he drew it ever so mild, but strong waters, till they overpowered his weak constitution, got into his upper story by an hydraulic—hydraulic? Yes, that’s the word—by an hydraulic power of their own, till he created a deluge in his own body, without the use of colours, which spoiled his palate, and made him obliged to brush. Ah! Tipple was a great artist. There was a sort of a truth, a nature, a thingembob about every thing he attempted, which gave to all his paintings a certain, a—you understand, which is perfectly delightful to look upon. He has not been appreciated by his cotempop—contompo—contempo—confound it, I forget the word, but however he was not appreciated by somebody. But perhaps, like me, he looked to posterity; and although he has not created a Posthumous museum, as some of his best productions form a portion of its invaluable contents, it is very possible that when posterity does me justice it will not forget the merits of Tipple.”

After Posthumous had detailed at sufficient length his description of the contents of his library, he led the two friends into a suite of several rooms, not at all suitable for the purpose for which they had been erected, in which objects in natural history were arranged, if arrangement it might be called, for here were animals, vegetables, minerals, and fossils, mingled together as if they belonged to the same family, but the specimens, like those in the library, were every one imperfect—they were all deficient in something or other, which rendered them comparatively useless to the student and valueless to the collector. This defect, however, was not observed by the owner, who imagined that there was not a collection in the world that could boast of so many unique specimens from the stores of nature and art, as the Posthumous museum.

“You see, gentlemen, before you, the wonders of nature, from a tadpole to an elephant!” exclaimed the manufacturer, in a tone of exultation. “I have collected these—I have collected them for the benefit of posterity, and not without considerable expense and labour, as you may believe. But when a man is excited into action—yes, excited into action—by an idea so comprehensive, so universal—so whatso’name, as forming a museum for the benefit of posterity, he thinks not of the trouble to which he may be put, or the money he may be out of pocket, when he is endeavouring to develope—yes, that’s it—endeavouring to develope his own philosophical conceptions. Well—this is an—this is a—this is an animal of some kind, but the name I do not at present remember. You can at once perceive how much it differs from all other animals: in the first place, it has four legs—two behind and two before—an extraordinary coincidence—coincidence? Yes, that’s the word—and it possesses a tail, which, marvellous as it may seem, is invariably placed upon the rump of the animal, and as nearly opposite to its head as head and tail can be. Now you will notice the head. It has, you see—two jaws, one above and the other below; and, though it may appear strange, the upper jaw never sinks below the under jaw even if the poor beast be ever so chap-fallen—and the under never rises above the upper jaw. Very curious that. That animal, you will observe by the teeth—I don’t know how though, is carnivorous—carnivorous? Yes, that’s the word, which means that it eats nothing but grass. It’s called by zoologists one of the roomy—roomy—roomy—one of the roomy something, but I’ll be hanged if I can remember what—and I suppose it is because it requires a sort of an expanse—an extensive, a—whatdyecallem, to move about in. Now this animal is a different species altogether. It is what they call a—you understand. It has the same number of legs, the same number of tails, and the same number of heads as the other animal, and yet their natures are entirely, absolutely, and something else which I’ve forgot, different. Isn’t it wonderful? This is a grani—yes, a granivorous quadruped, and consequently eats flesh, mutton chops, beef steaks, or anything else of the same sort. You see these hoofs, how admirably adapted they are for tearing their prey, much better than knives and forks, when they, under the influence of a certain impulse or instinct, or whatso’name, roam about the wilds looking after their eatables. Wonderful, isn’t it? Both these animals belong to the class mammalia; yes—mammalia—a word that signifies that their mothers are called mammies.”

“You quite enlighten me on the subject,” observed Oriel Porphyry, endeavouring to suppress a laugh.

“Ay, Sir, I’ve studied it for a very long length of time,” replied his host. “I know it thoroughly, you may depend upon it. Now, Sir, here is a fish. Fishes swim, you know, Sir.”

“I was aware of that,” remarked Oriel, as gravely as he could.

“But they don’t swim when they’re dead, Sir,” rejoined the manufacturer, as if desirous of making his auditors wonder at the extraordinary fact. “Curious phenomenon—phenomenon? Yes, that’s the word—curious phenomenon that. Well, this fish is dead, and were you to try ever so, you could not induce it to swim. You will observe that it has scales. Now the animals we have just examined have no scales. Singular, isn’t it? That peculiarity in its organiza—organi—organ something, which I have forgot, is a wise provision of nature—a sort of whatsoname to prevent the fish from getting wet through when exposed to the continual action of the watery element—yes, of the watery element. So these scales are very important in its animal economy—ay, animal economy—and you will remember, as a remarkable coincidence that completely proves the value of these things, that Justice is always represented with scales, Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Wonderful!” replied both the young men in a breath.

“Now this is a reptile, you will observe,” said Posthumous, pointing to a small snake in a glass case. “This has scales, and yet it is not a fish. Strange, isn’t it? Here’s the name. It is the Bipède cannelé. The first word signifies that it’s a biped, like man, though it’s got no legs; and the other word denotes that it’s found in canals. Here are some shells: this one is called Coriocella nigra, because it always frequents the cellars of the blacks; and this is the Velutina capulöidea, the first word of which means that it was discovered by Veluti, a chonchologist—a chonchologist?—yes, a chonchologist, celebrated in his day for the ardour with which he investigated—I mean the spirit with which he penetrated—no, that’s not it; but, at any rate, it was a peculiar whatso’name with which he made his researches; and what the other word implies I am not quite certain; but it appears by the last syllables to mean some low idea which it isn’t worth inquiring into.”

“And what are these things?” inquired Zabra, looking at a confused mass of insects lying together in a case.

“Those are the Chalcididæ,” replied the manufacturer, reading from a paper affixed to it; “a family of hymenopterous insects, which the heathens made sacred to their god Hymen, because they were very much given to the marriage state; and this belongs to the section Pupivora, because they are always found upon puppies. You will observe that they have wings, and these wings are used for flying. But all insects have not got wings, consequently some of them cannot fly. Wonderful, isn’t it? As I said before, it is a wise provision of nature to give them a sort of a facility—a convenience—a thingembob, for the purpose of more easily transporting them from place to place. Isn’t it strange?”

“What bird is this?” asked Oriel, pointing to a stuffed specimen.

“Ha! now you will observe another extraordinary thing,” exclaimed his host. “This creature also possesses wings, and yet it is not an insect. Marvellous coincidence! This is one of the Agami, so called because it is considered excellent game; and has the scientific name of Psophia crepitans, from its fondness of creeping upon sofas. You observe that this animal has but two legs: the first animals we noticed had four, and the fish had none; yet all of them, by that sort of natural a—you understand, are enabled to go about wherever they like, and indulge themselves in every kind of—something I don’t remember, according to their individual capacities—their individual capacities?—yes, their individual capacities. Isn’t it wonderful?”

“And pray what stones are these?” inquired Zabra, directing attention to two or three large fragments of stone leaning against the wall.

“They are not stones, but fossils,” replied Posthumous, trying to look amazingly sagacious; “and the difference between a stone and a fossil is a—the difference between a fossil and a stone. Isn’t it strange?”

“Wonderful!” exclaimed his visitors.

“You see it is very hard,” continued their companion, “and has the skeleton of an animal long since extinct—extinct? yes, extinct—long since extinct, plainly marked upon it. It is said that, once upon a time, long before I can remember, there was a shower of rain came down, that not only wetted every one to the skin, in spite of their umbrellas, but actually drowned all the animals in the world, except those—yes, except those who were not drowned. Well, the poor things when they were dead couldn’t move in the least; and, in course of time, by the continual deposit of—of whatso’name upon their bodies, they became squeezed into the earth round about them, and that becoming hard, they became hard also. Now these are minerals. The earth, you know, is made like a bread and butter pudding; a layer of bread and butter, then a layer of currants, and so on; in what are called strata—yes, strata, because they’re always straight;—and sometimes they find coal, and sometimes stone, and sometimes clay, and sometimes something I don’t remember, and sometimes something I have forgot; and all these things are kept together in their proper places by a sort of—you understand—which holds the world firmly together, so that people may walk upon it without fear of its tumbling to pieces. Wonderful, isn’t it?”

In this way Posthumous proceeded describing to his visitors the contents of his museum. Every object was noticed, and all relating to it he knew, which appeared at all times more novel than authentic, was minutely detailed, with a look and a manner marked by self-approbation and stupidity, that were exceedingly amusing, till the hour arrived for dinner; when he seemed, with considerable reluctance, to leave its many attractions, and led the way into a dining-room, which was also crammed with every species of antiquity he had considered sufficiently valuable for his collection, where, with a mummy at his feet, and a statue without a head at his elbow, he did the honours of hospitality, mingling them with liberal allusions to the benefit he was intent upon doing posterity.