[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.