“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.”