“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.