[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.