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.
CHAP. IV.
A CONVERSAZIONE.
It was evening, and every part of the Posthumous museum was brilliantly
lit up and filled with visitors. The manufacturer gave a conversazione,
and his rooms were filled with some of the most celebrated characters in
the world of wealth, fashion, and literature of Sydney. Some turned over
the leaves of books--others looked through portfolios of prints--some
examined the paintings--and others scrutinised the antiquities--a few
appeared intent upon studying the appearances of the different specimens
of natural history, and others seemed equally desirous of becoming
acquainted with the disposition of their companions. Some in little
circles were arguing upon various subjects, and in a room by themselves
were a more select party enjoying the performance of some excellent
music. Posthumous did not seem on terms of intimacy with many of his
guests, for they passed him with as much indifference as if he was some
one not worthy to be known; but he was remarkably attentive to Oriel and
his companion, describing, as they passed along, the different persons
that crowded his rooms, and only occasionally stopping in his remarks
to exchange a few words with some of his visitors with whom he knew he
might be familiar.
"You see that person before you in the brown and yellow thingembob, with
a long nose and a remarkable sort of a whatso'name in his appearance,"
said Posthumous. The two friends saw who was meant, but did not
recognise him by the description. "There, he's examining that Chinese
idol. He's a clever man--decidedly a clever man. He lived most part of
his life in China, because, he said, the country always suited him to a
T; and has written ever so many books about its geography and use of the
globes, habits, customs, laws, antiquities, and something else I don't
remember. He says their chronolo--chronology?--yes, chronology, that's
the word--he says their chronology is the most ancient in the world;
but I'll be bound to say that there's a more ancient chronology in my
museum, only I can't tell exactly where to lay my hands upon it. But a
very learned writer is Chopstick--very learned. It was he who discovered
that the tea-plant was originally cultivated in England, as he found
there a river called _Tees_, and ascertained that the ancient name of
the people was _Celtæ_, so called from their selling teas. That little
man in the snuff-coloured--you understand, knows more about antiquities
than any body in Australia. It was he who proved so clearly that our
city was originally built by Sir Philip Sydney, an architect who was
very partial to erecting arcades, so much so that he wrote a work about
them called Arcadia, and from him our metropolis has derived its name.
Talking of antiquities, do you know I met in a book the other day
something about a psychological--psychological? yes, that was the
word--something about a psychological curiosity; and although I have
offered any price for a psychological curiosity, I have not been able to
procure one. But let us hear what Dustofages is saying about that piece
of ancient brickwork. It has an inscription upon it which has puzzled me
completely."
Posthumous and his young visitors approached the table on which rested a
considerable piece of brickwork that had attracted the attention of the
little antiquarian.
"I am tolerably certain," said Dustofages with a grave face, to a few
anxious students of the art in which he was so famous, that thronged
near him, "I am tolerably certain that this inscription is in the
English language, and from its appearance I should pronounce it to be
cotemporaneous with the Georgian dynasty."
"Wonderful!" murmured Posthumous.
"The first three letters are evidently a T, an R, and a Y, which make
the word TRY," continued the antiquarian: "and the letters of the next
word, though nearly obliterated, taken together, form the name
WARRENS--and this ancient inscription, therefore, is 'Try Warrens'--but
what it means I am not so confident. Perhaps this Warrens was a
notorious offender whom the people wished to have tried and punished;
and therefore expressed their wishes in a conspicuous manner, that
the government might notice it, and _try Warrens_: this was a way the
populace then had of making their sentiments known to their rulers as
may be ascertained by an antique fragment in the Australian Museum, on
which is inscribed the words, 'Down with the Whigs!'"
"Extraordinary!" exclaimed Posthumous.
"But as in the whole course of my reading I have met with no allusion to
any notorious character of the name of Warrens," continued the little
man, "it is quite as probable that some obscure individual made the
inscription as a sort of memento to attract the attention of his
mistress, expressive of his love and fidelity--he wished her to _try
Warrens_. In the English anthology, from a very ancient poem, I met with
these lines, addressed by a lover to his mistress--
"Try me, try me,
Prove ere you deny me"--
which proves that lovers were desirous of being tried; and as so many
inscriptions exist in which the ancients showed their attachment to
their females by inscriptions on wood and stone, declaring their wishes,
there can be but little doubt that these words were placed here by some
enamoured youth who was desirous that a particular female, whose name
has not come down to us, should 'Try Warrens.'"
"Isn't it wonderful?" cried the delighted Posthumous, and without
waiting for an answer hurried his companions to another room. "How do
you do, Bluey?" he exclaimed, addressing a tall thin lady with a bilious
complexion, who appeared to be examining some minerals.
"Rather say, how does my will do," replied the lady, very gravely; "for
it is my will that does every thing. I must have the will to do, before
the action can be done. If you mean merely to inquire into the state of
the mere animal machine, I must reply, that of the chemical combinations
now in process, the acids overpower the alkalis, and produce an acetous
fermentation in the natural laboratory, that disturbs the sanatory
functions of my particular system, and tends to create new combinations
injurious in their action upon the animal fibre; but as I know that as
a sufficient proportion of the earthy salts, either in carbonates or
sulphates, held in solution, or in any other form that may be most
convenient, operating upon the acids, will counteract their unhealthy
tendency and render them inert, I do not care for the disorder of my
organic substances. It is not of sufficient importance to distract my
attention from the interesting study of chemical affinities."
"Well, I'm sorry you're so bad," remarked the inquirer, in a tone of
regret.
"Bad is the antagonist of good," said the lady, sharply; "and I beg to
say that I am not bad. Bad is evil--I am not evil--therefore I am not
bad. Bad is base--I am not base--therefore I am not bad. In fact, bad is
a very unphilosophical term to apply upon such an occasion. You should
have said that you regretted that there should exist any chemical
combinations in my system of natural processes that support life, which
are not characteristic of a state of health."
"At any rate, I hope you will soon get better," responded her host.
"Better is worse than bad," replied his guest with additional severity.
"To be better, implies an antecedent state of badness, and I tell you
again I am not bad, I have not been bad, and I do not intend to be bad."
"Well, good bye--good bye," he exclaimed, attempting to hurry away.
"There is no sense in the phrase 'good bye;' it means nothing," said the
lady hastily: "it is an abbreviation of 'good be with you.' Now, if you
mean to say that I am good, I deny it. I deny that I am either good or
bad; good and bad being qualities not existing in the object, for what
appears good to one may seem bad to another; but they arise in the idea
of the individual."
Posthumous and his companions were glad when they were out of hearing of
the lady, whose metaphysics and chemistry they could not appreciate in
the way she desired.
"Ah, do you see that tall man behind his whiskers?" inquired the
manufacturer, pointing to a person who answered to such a description.
"He has got a very remarkable, stately sort of whatso'name, hasn't he?
He's a member of the government, a great patron of literature and
science, and--and something I forget. He's been known to spend as much
as sixpence a week in the cheap publications; and many a miserable
starving author, who has sent him his works, he has actually enriched
with his good wishes. Great patron, isn't he? The person he's talking to
in the beautiful head of hair, is a political writer on the ministerial
side, who has a wonderful, incomprehensible--a--you understand, that's
very delightful. He writes about the glorious constitution, our
admirable government, and--and something with a fine name I don't
remember, in a style that's absolutely, completely, and downright
thingembob. That lady, that seems to be looking after her youth and
beauty, is the authoress of a work which has been very popular, called,
'The whole Duty of Man,' which is filled with long chapters upon short
commons or fasting, praying, sneezing, the cultivation of carrots and
virtue, the bringing up children and mustard and cress, and directions
about paying bills and visits. The young man, trying to admire himself
in the glass, is a novelist famous for the splendour of his imaginative
conceptions--yes, of his imaginative conceptions. His books are like the
rooms of a dealer in fashionable furniture; or-molu and mother-of-pearl,
rosewood and ivory, buhl and something I forget, meet one in every page;
and he writes about gold, and silver, and precious stones, as if he had
been an apprentice to a jeweller. Then his stories are always celebrated
for a certain pathetic whatso'name, which is much admired. Now let us go
into the music room."
The three associates passed through the crowd which filled the rooms to
the great danger of the more breakable antiquities, Posthumous stopping
occasionally to talk to one or welcome another, till they arrived in
the music room, where they took some refreshments as they entered. A
beautiful girl was accompanying herself while singing the following
words, to which all seemed to listen with the greatest attention:--
The lunar tide began to flow,
The tidal wave moved to and fro,
Bright shone each constellation;
Except where in th' horizon's space
Some planets, with reluctant pace,
Commenced their declination.
Then Coma unto Stella came,
To show to her his ardent flame,
Apparent in aphelion;
As had been done for many years,
In their peculiar hemispheres,
While placed in perihelion.
"Ah, Stella!" said the glowing swain,
"My flame to thee I bring again,
In hopes thou wilt absorb it:
My course, eccentric though it be,
Moves near as it may come to thee
In my peculiar orbit."
"Away!" cried Stella, "come not here;
Go, shine within another sphere,
I feel not thy attraction;
I have beheld thy parallax,
And noticed thy erratic tracks,
Thy action and reaction."
A cloud on Coma's face appeared,
And when its atmosphere was cleared,
In rapid execution
Of Stella's dark command, he set,
And strove for ever to forget
Her radiant revolution.
"Beautiful!" cried a dozen voices in a breath, as soon as the song was
concluded.
"So exquisitely pathetic!" murmured one.
"So perfectly natural!" exclaimed another.
"It is admirable; is it not, sir?" said a young lady with a remarkable
pair of languishing eyes, as she directed their eloquent gaze full upon
the handsome face of Oriel Porphyry.
"No doubt it is, madam, if you think so," replied the merchant's son,
with more politeness than sincerity.
"Ah! our opinions are the same--the effect of a mutual sympathy. How
charming!" observed the young beauty languidly. "Do you believe in the
theory of mutual sympathies?"
"I must confess I know nothing about it," acknowledged Oriel.
"Innocence exemplified!" exclaimed his companion, regarding him with
more evident admiration. "I will explain it to you. There exists in
every human creature in one sex a decided inclination towards some human
creature in the other sex, which is never developed till those two meet
together, and then it immediately becomes manifest. Now suppose, for
example, I possess a certain amicable feeling, which remains perfectly
unknown until I meet with you for the first time, when an immediate
consciousness tells me that my sympathy is excited."
"Wonderful, isn't it?" said Posthumous.
Oriel was at a loss what to reply; but Zabra's dark eyes appeared
flashing with indignation.
"Now, these sympathies ought to be indulged; or why are they created?"
asked the fair sophist. "If we observe nature, which is always the best
guide, we shall find all her impulses followed out to their purpose, to
the great increase of the pleasures of the individual. Nature never can
be wrong; therefore, if we follow nature, we shall always be right."
"Exactly so!" responded the manufacturer. "I remember seeing a puppy
running after his own tail, and he was delighted at the fun. Yes, follow
nature, certainly."