we have just passed," remarked Zabra. "That the general influence of the
clerical profession is beneficial has been denied by some narrow-minded
men, who, because there have been a few instances of unworthiness
obtaining distinction in the church, and of vicious propensities
disgracing a professed teacher of virtue, denounce the institution that
created them as unlikely to produce any real good to the community. But
who condemns a fruitful tree, because, while it bears a profitable crop,
a handful of blighted fruit may occasionally be found on its branches?
The clergy are but a section of the vast mass of the social fabric; and
it is as absurd for any one with a knowledge of human nature, to
expect that every individual member of its body should be led into the
profession by no other motive than the love of virtue, as to imagine
that every soldier should be brave and join the ranks only from a desire
for glory--or, that every lawyer should be honest, and embrace the law
exclusively to advocate the principles of justice. It is, certainly,
a natural expectation, that all who affect to show others the road
to heaven should travel that way themselves, and to satisfy this
expectation is the grand object of the institution of priesthood; but it
is as rare that the allurements of the world can be prevented producing
vicious effects upon those who are obliged to mingle in them, as it is
difficult to guard against the encroachments of a disease by those who
are forced to inhale an infectious atmosphere. The wonder should be, not
that any fall, but that so many escape. When we come to consider the
immense contributions to the general stock of intelligence afforded by
the clergy, which embrace every branch of human learning and scientific
acquirement--the active benevolence of at least a large majority--their
unceasing endeavours to instil into the hearts of the people the
refreshing influence of a pure system of morals--and the effect of their
individual respectability in commanding attention to the great object
for which they labour--illiberal indeed must he be who denies the
utility of an establishment productive of so much good. To despise a
sporting parson, a political priest, or a fashionable divine, is both
right and natural, and they must receive condemnation from all who know
how to appreciate the actions of a servant who serves any master but
his own; but while an acknowledgment must be regretfully made of the
existence of such hypocritical pretenders in the ranks of the church,
when we reflect upon the vast fund of real piety, of pure philanthropy,
and of sound learning it possesses, the influence of which cannot be
otherwise than beneficial in the highest degree, we should rejoice that
there is a class of men in existence that provides so liberally for the
moral wants of the people, which, both by the precept and example of
its worthiest members, affords such admirable means for counteracting
the evil effects likely to be produced by its inefficient or immoral
brethren. That the clergy produce good, it is impossible to deny; and
that they do not produce so much good as is desirable, arises more from
inaptitude in the community to be taught, than from want of ability in
the clergy to instruct."
"You deserve a rich benefice for your defence, Zabra," said Oriel
Porphyry, with a smile; "and I have no doubt if those sentiments
continue, and you embrace the profession, you will become one of the
highest dignitaries of the church. But what is this fellow talking about
so earnestly? More wonders, I suppose."
He was a man ill-clad and ill-looking, who carried a bundle of papers in
his hand, which he was trying to sell to the persons who were listening
attentively to some intelligence he was bawling in the street with all
the strength of his lungs.
"Extraordinary example of combustion!" shouted the fellow. "All the
materials of matter which made up the bodies of Cutandrun, the famous
inventor of infallible fire-escapes, and his family, have been placed in
a state of decomposition by the action of phlogiston upon his house and
stock. Here is a philosophical account, detailing the causes and effects
of the phenomena--giving a scientific analysis of the ashes found in
different situations--with an entirely new theory of the laws which
render combustion so destructive in its agency upon inflammable matter.
Only one penny."
"Well, that is certainly one way of describing a fire," observed Oriel
Porphyry. "But chemistry, I suppose, is as well understood here as other
branches of science appear to be. However, we must be proceeding, or we
shall never arrive at our destination. As I am very doubtful about the
right direction, I think we had better avail ourselves of one of these
vehicles."
The director of a small light carriage for two persons was then hailed;
and the two friends were about to enter it, when several boys, carrying
bundles of papers, ran up to them, and commenced vociferating with loud
voices entreaties to purchase their goods.
"Buy the Sydney Philosophical and Critical Quarterly Review. Only one
penny," cried one little urchin.
"Here's the Universal Encyclopædia of Useful Knowledge, only one
halfpenny," exclaimed a second.
"Neither are to be compared to these treatises by the Society for the
Diffusion of Science among the Insane, sir,--only one farthing!" bawled
a third.
"Away with you!" shouted Oriel Porphyry, as he sprang into the carriage,
followed by his companion.
"At what velocity shall I apply the power?" inquired the conductor very
civilly.
"Oh, moderate; and put me down at the house of Posthumous, in Botany
Square," said his customer.
"Yes, sir," replied the man.
"Here's an article on the ponderability of imponderable substances;
worth double the money for the whole review," cried one of the little
booksellers.
"Here's a treatise on----" but what it was on must remain unknown; for
both Zabra and his patron were far out of sight and hearing of their
tormentors before the last sentence was concluded; and, in a few
minutes, they found themselves opposite a stately mansion, which they
stopped some time to examine. It seemed an edifice of more modern date
than any near it on either side. A flight of broad steps led, under a
small portico supported by pillars which in thickness seemed to rival
their length, to an entrance by folding doors large enough to admit a
regiment of soldiers, over which was placed three draperied figures in
marble, sculptured as large as life, blowing trumpets towards three
points of the compass, and dropping each a wreath upon the bust of a man
with a foolish countenance, upon the base of which, in large letters,
was conspicuously placed the name "POSTHUMOUS." Small windows were on
each side, and above the door. Over the portico was placed a row of
caryatidæ, resembling opera dancers making a pirouette, that supported
an entablature, upon which a cumbrous attic was raised, forming an
elevation as heavy and incongruous as it is possible to conceive.
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'oeuvre_, 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.