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Don Saltero had a poetic catalogue of his curiosities, of which one verse ran: "Monsters of all sorts here are seen, Strange things in nature as they grew so; Some relics of the Sheba Queen, And fragments of the famed Bob Crusoe."
Consigning our horses to the care of our grooms, we marched into the strangest-looking place I ever had the good fortune to behold. A long narrow coffee-room was furnished with all manner of things that, belonging neither to heaven, earth, nor the water under the earth, the redoubted Saltero might well worship without incurring the crime of idolatry.
Three sober-looking citizens, who had just sat themselves down to pipes and the journal, started to their feet like so many pieces of clockwork; but no sooner had Don Saltero, with a degage air of graceful melancholy, actually launched into what he was pleased to term a tune, than a universal irritation of nerves seized the whole company.
"O Lord!" groaned Don Saltero, "O Lord! my monsters my monsters the pagoda the mandarin, and the idol where are they? broken ruined annihilated!" "No, Sir; all safe, Sir," said the drawer, a smart, small, smug, pert man; "put 'em down in the bill, nevertheless, Sir. Is it Alderman Atkins, Sir, or Mr. Higgins?"
"No, Count, no," said Tarleton, haughtily; "we can drink not with the Don; but we'll have the wine, and he shall drink it. Meanwhile, Don, tell us what possible combination of circumstances made thee fiddler, barber, anatomist, and virtuoso!" Don Saltero loved fiddling better than anything in the world, but next to fiddling he loved talking.
"O Lord!" groaned Don Saltero, "O Lord! my monsters my monsters the pagoda the mandarin, and the idol where are they? broken ruined annihilated!" "No, Sir; all safe, Sir," said the drawer, a smart, small, smug, pert man; "put 'em down in the bill, nevertheless, Sir. Is it Alderman Atkins, Sir, or Mr. Higgins?"
"Let us go to him forthwith," said I, spurring my horse into a canter. "Quod petis hic est," cried Tarleton, "there is his house." And my companion pointed to a coffee-house. "What!" said I, "does he draw wine as well as teeth?" "To be sure: Don Saltero is a universal genius. Let us dismount."
Three sober-looking citizens, who had just sat themselves down to pipes and the journal, started to their feet like so many pieces of clockwork; but no sooner had Don Saltero, with a /degage/ air of graceful melancholy, actually launched into what he was pleased to term a tune, than a universal irritation of nerves seized the whole company.
Honour to Seba and Aldrovandus; to Pomet, with his "Historie of Drugges;" even to the ingenious Don Saltero, and his tavern-museum in Cheyne Walk. Where all was chaos, every man was useful who could contribute a single spot of organized standing ground in the shape of a fact or a specimen.
Consigning our horses to the care of our grooms, we marched into the strangest-looking place I ever had the good fortune to behold. A long narrow coffee-room was furnished with all manner of things that, belonging neither to heaven, earth, nor the water under the earth, the redoubted Saltero might well worship without incurring the crime of idolatry.
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