 | Mosses from an old manse |  |
A VIRTUOSO'S COLLECTION.
The other day, having a leisure hour at my disposal, I stept into
a new museum, to which my notice was casually drawn by a
small and unobtrusive sign: “To be seen here, a Virtuoso's
Collection.” Such was the simple, yet not altogether unpromising
announcement, that turned my steps aside, for a little while,
from the sunny sidewalk of our principal thoroughfare. Mounting
a sombre stair-case, I pushed open a door at its summit, and
found myself in the presence of a person, who mentioned the
moderate sum that would entitle me to admittance:
“Three shillings, Massachusetts tenor,” said he; “no, I mean
half a dollar, as you reckon in these days.”
While searching my pocket for the coin, I glanced at the door-keeper,
the marked character and individuality of whose aspect
encouraged me to expect something not quite in the ordinary way.
He wore an old-fashioned great coat, much faded, within which
his meagre person was so completely enveloped that the rest of
his attire was undistinguishable. But his visage was remarkably
wind-flushed, sun-burnt, and weather-worn, and had a most unquiet,
nervous, and apprehensive expression. It seemed as if
this man had some all-important object in view, some point of
deepest interest to be decided, some momentous question to ask,
might he but hope for a reply. As it was evident, however, that
I could have nothing to do with his private affairs, I passed
through an open doorway, which admitted me into the extensive
hall of the Museum.
Directly in front of the portal was the bronze statue of a youth
with winged feet. He was represented in the act of flitting away
from earth, yet wore such a look of earnest invitation that it impressed
me like a summons to enter the hall.
“It is the original statue of Opportunity, by the ancient sculptor
Lysippus,” said a gentleman who now approached me; “I
place it at the entrance of my Museum, because it is not at all
times that one can gain admittance to such a collection.”
The speaker was a middle-aged person, of whom it was not
easy to determine whether he had spent his life as a scholar, or
as a man of action; in truth, all outward and obvious peculiarities
had been worn away by an extensive and promiscuous intercourse
with the world. There was no mark about him of
profession, individual habits, or scarcely of country; although
his dark complexion and high features made me conjecture that
he was a native of some southern clime of Europe. At all events,
he was evidently the Virtuoso in person.
“With your permission,” said he, “as we have no descriptive
catalogue, I will accompany you through the Museum, and point
out whatever may be most worthy of attention. In the first place,
here is a choice collection of stuffed animals.”
Nearest the door stood the outward semblance of a wolf, exquisitely
prepared, it is true, and showing a very wolfish fierceness
in the large glass eyes, which were inserted into its wild and
crafty head. Still it was merely the skin of a wolf, with nothing
to distinguish it from other individuals of that unlovely breed.
“How does this animal deserve a place in your collection?”
inquired I.
“It is the wolf that devoured Little Red Riding-Hood,” answered
the Virtuoso; “and by his side,—with a milder and
more matronly look, as you perceive,—stands the she-wolf that
suckled Romulus and Remus.”
“Ah, indeed!” exclaimed I. “And what lovely lamb is this,
texture as innocence itself?”
“Methinks you have but carelessly read Spenser,” replied my
guide, “or you would at once recognize the `milk-white lamb'
which Una led. But I set no great value upon the lamb. The
next specimen is better worth our notice.”
“What!” cried I, “this strange animal, with the black head of
an ox upon the body of a white horse? Were it possible to suppose
it, I should say that this was Alexander's steed Bucephalus.”
“The same,” said the Virtuoso. “And can you likewise
give a name to the famous charger that stands beside him?
Next to the renowned Bucephalus stood the mere skeleton of
a horse, with the white bones peeping through his ill-conditioned
hide. But, if my heart had not warmed towards that pitiful
anatomy, I might as well have quitted the Museum at once. Its
rarities had not been collected with pain and toil from the four
quarters of the earth, and from the depths of the sea, and from
the palaces and sepulchres of ages, for those who could mistake
this illustrious steed.
“It is Rosinante!” exclaimed I, with enthusiasm.
And so it proved! My admiration for the noble and gallant
horse caused me to glance with less interest at the other animals,
although many of them might have deserved the notice of Cuvier
himself. There was the donkey which Peter Bell cudgelled so
soundly; and a brother of the same species, who had suffered a
similar infliction from the ancient prophet Balaam. Some doubts
were entertained, however, as to the authenticity of the latter
beast. My guide pointed out the venerable Argus, that faithful
dog of Ulysses, and also another dog (for so the skin bespoke it),
which, though imperfectly preserved, seemed once to have had
three heads. It was Cerberus. I was considerably amused at
detecting, in an obscure corner, the fox that became so famous
by the loss of his tail. There were several stuffed cats, which,
regards. One was Dr. Johnson's cat Hodge; and in the same
row stood the favorite cats of Mahomet, Gray, and Walter Scott,
together with Puss in Boots, and a cat of very noble aspect who
had once been a deity of ancient Egypt. Byron's tame bear
came next. I must not forget to mention the Erymanthean boar,
the skin of St. George's Dragon, and that of the serpent Python;
and another skin, with beautifully variegated hues, supposed to
have been the garment of the “spirited Sly Snake,” which
tempted Eve. Against the walls were suspended the horns of
a stag that Shakspeare shot; and on the floor lay the ponderous
shell of the tortoise which fell upon the head of Æschylus. In
one row, as natural as life, stood the sacred bull Apis, the “cow
with the crumpled horn,” and a very wild looking young heifer,
which I guessed to be the cow that jumped over the moon. She
was probably killed by the rapidity of her descent. As I turned
away, my eyes fell upon an indescribable monster, which proved
to be a griffin.
“I look in vain,” observed I, “for the skin of an animal which
might well deserve the closest study of a naturalist,—the winged
horse Pegasus.”
“He is not yet dead,” replied the Virtuoso, “but he is so hard
ridden by many young gentlemen of the day, that I hope soon to
add his skin and skeleton to my collection.”
We now passed to the next alcove of the hall, in which was
a multitude of stuffed birds. They were very prettily arranged,
some upon the branches of trees, others brooding upon nests, and
others suspended by wires so artificially that they seemed in the
very act of flight. Among them was a white dove, with a
withered branch of olive leaves in her mouth.
“Can this be the very dove,” inquired I, “that brought the
message of peace and hope to the tempest-beaten passengers of
the ark?”
“Even so,” said my companion.
“And this raven, I suppose,” continued I, “is the same that
fed Elijah in the wilderness.”
“The raven?—no,” said the Virtuoso, “it is a bird of modern
date. He belonged to one Barnaby Rudge; and many people
fancied that the devil himself was disguised under his sable
plumage. But poor Grip has drawn his last cork, and has been
forced to `say die' at last. This other raven, hardly less curious,
is that in which the soul of King George the First revisited his
lady love, the Duchess of Kendall.”
My guide next pointed out Minerva's owl, and the vulture that
preyed upon the liver of Prometheus. There was likewise the
sacred Ibis of Egypt, and one of the Stymphalides, which Hercules
shot in his sixth labor. Shelley's sky-lark, Bryant's water-fowl,
and a pigeon from the belfry of the Old South Church, preserved
by N. P. Willis, were placed on the same perch. I could not
but shudder on beholding Coleridge's albatross, transfixed with
the Ancient Mariner's crossbow shaft. Beside this bird of awful
poesy stood a grey goose of very ordinary aspect.
“Stuffed goose is no such rarity,” observed I. “Why do you
preserve such a specimen in your Museum?”
“It is one of the flock whose cackling saved the Roman Capitol,”
answered the Virtuoso. “Many geese have cackled and
hissed, both before and since; but none, like those, have clamored
themselves into immortality.”
There seemed to be little else that demanded notice in this
department of the Museum, unless we except Robinson Crusoe's
parrot, a live phœnix, a footless bird of Paradise, and a splendid
peacock, supposed to be the same that once contained the soul of
Pythagoras. I therefore passed to the next alcove, the shelves
of which were covered with a miscellaneous collection of curiosities,
such as are usually found in similar establishments. One
of the first things that took my eye was a strange looking cap,
cotton, nor linen.
“Is this a magician's cap?” I asked.
“No,” replied the Virtuoso, “it is merely Dr. Franklin's cap
of asbestos. But here is one which, perhaps, may suit you better.
It is the wishing-cap of Fortunatus. Will you try it on?”
“By no means,” answered I, putting it aside with my hand.
“The day of wild wishes is past with me. I desire nothing that
may not come in the ordinary course of Providence.”
“Then, probably,” returned the Virtuoso, “you will not be
tempted to rub this lamp?”
While speaking, he took from the shelf an antique brass lamp,
curiously wrought with embossed figures, but so covered with
verdigris that the sculpture was almost eaten away.
“It is a thousand years,” said he, “since the genius of this
lamp constructed Aladdin's palace in a single night. But he
still retains his power; and the man who rubs Aladdin's lamp,
has but to desire either a palace or a cottage.”
“I might desire a cottage,” replied I, “but I would have it
founded on sure and stable truth, not on dreams and fantasies.
I have learned to look for the real and the true.”
My guide next showed me Prospero's magic wand, broken into
three fragments by the hand of its mighty master. On the same
shelf lay the gold ring of ancient Gyges, which enabled the wearer
to walk invisible. On the other side of the alcove was a tall
looking-glass in a frame of ebony, but veiled with a curtain of
purple silk, through the rents of which the gleam of the mirror
was perceptible.
“This is Cornelius Agrippa's magic glass,” observed the Virtuoso.
“Draw aside the curtain, and picture any human form
within your mind, and it will be reflected in the mirror.”
“It is enough if I can picture it within my mind,” answered I.
“Why should I wish it to be repeated in the mirror? But,
There are so many greater wonders in the world, to those who
keep their eyes open, and their sight undimmed by custom, that
all the delusions of the old sorcerers seem flat and stale. Unless
you can show me something really curious, I care not to look
further into your Museum.”
“Ah, well, then,” said the Virtuoso, composedly, “perhaps
you may deem some of my antiquarian rarities deserving of a
glance.”
He pointed out the Iron Mask, now corroded with rust; and
my heart grew sick at the sight of this dreadful relic, which had
shut out a human being from sympathy with his race. There
was nothing half so terrible in the axe that beheaded King Charles,
nor in the dagger that slew Henry of Navarre, nor in the arrow
that pierced the heart of William Rufus,—all of which were
shown to me. Many of the articles derived their interest, such
as it was, from having been formerly in the possession of royalty.
For instance, here was Charlemagne's sheepskin cloak, the flowing
wig of Louis Quatorze, the spinning-wheel of Sardanapalus,
and King Stephen's famous breeches, which cost him but a
crown. The heart of the Bloody Mary, with the word “Calais”
worn into its diseased substance, was preserved in a bottle of
spirits; and near it lay the golden case in which the queen of
Gustavus Adolphus treasured up that hero's heart. Among these
relics and heirlooms of kings, I must not forget the long, hairy
ears of Midas, and a piece of bread, which had been changed to
gold by the touch of that unlucky monarch. And as Grecian
Helen was a queen, it may here be mentioned, that I was permitted
to take into my hand a lock of her golden hair, and the
bowl which a sculptor modelled from the curve of her perfect
breast. Here, likewise, was the robe that smothered Agamemnon,
Nero's fiddle, the Czar Peter's brandy-bottle, the crown of Semiramis,
and Canute's sceptre, which he extended over the sea.
that I was favored with a sight of the skull of King Philip, the
famous Indian chief, whose head the Puritans smote off and exhibited
upon a pole.
“Show me something else,” said I to the Virtuoso. “Kings
are in such an artificial position, that people in the ordinary walks
of life cannot feel an interest in their relics. If you could show
me the straw hat of sweet little Nell, I would far rather see it
than a king's golden crown.”
“There it is,” said my guide, pointing carelessly with his staff
to the straw hat in question. “But, indeed, you are hard to
please. Here are the seven-league boots. Will you try them
on?”
“Our modern railroads have superseded their use,” answered
I; “and as to these cow-hide boots, I could show you quite as
curious a pair at the transcendental community in Roxbury.”
We next examined a collection of swords and other weapons,
belonging to different epochs, but thrown together without much
attempt at arrangement. Here was Arthur's sword Excalibar,
and that of the Cid Campeodor, and the sword of Brutus rusted
with Cæsar's blood and his own, and the sword of Joan of Arc,
and that of Horatius, and that with which Virginius slew his
daughter, and the one which Dionysius suspended over the head
of Damocles. Here, also, was Arria's sword, which she plunged
into her own breast, in order to taste of death before her husband.
The crooked blade of Saladin's scimetar next attracted my notice.
I know not by what chance, but so it happened, that the sword of
one of our own militia generals was suspended between Don
Quixote's lance and the brown blade of Hudibras. My heart
throbbed high at the sight of the helmet of Miltiades, and the
spear that was broken in the breast of Epaminondas. I recognized
the shield of Achilles by its resemblance to the admirable
cast in the possession of Professor Felton. Nothing in this apartment
of which, at Lexington, began the war of the revolution,
and was reverberated in thunder around the land for seven long
years. The bow of Ulysses, though unstrung for ages, was
placed against the wall, together with a sheaf of Robin Hood's
arrows, and the rifle of Daniel Boon.
“Enough of weapons,” said I, at length; “although I would
gladly have seen the sacred shield which fell from Heaven in the
time of Numa. And surely you should obtain the sword which
Washington unsheathed at Cambridge. But the collection does
you much credit. Let up pass on.”
In the next alcove we saw the golden thigh of Pythagoras,
which had so divine a meaning; and, by one of the queer analogies
to which the Virtuoso seemed to be addicted, this ancient emblem
lay on the same shelf with Peter Stuyvesant's wooden leg,
that was fabled to be of silver. Here was a remnant of the
Golden Fleece; and a sprig of yellow leaves that resembled the
foliage of a frost-bitten elm, but was duly authenticated as a portion
of the golden branch by which Æneas gained admittance to
the realm of Pluto. Atalanta's golden apple, and one of the
apples of discord, were wrapt in the napkin of gold which Rampsinitus
brought from Hades; and the whole were deposited in the
golden vase of Bias, with its inscription: “To the wisest.”
“And how did you obtain this vase?” said I to the Virtuoso
“It was given me long ago,” replied he, with a scornful expression
in his eye, “because I had learned to despise all things”
It had not escaped me that, though the Virtuoso was evidently
a man of high cultivation, yet he seemed to lack sympathy with
the spiritual, the sublime, and the tender. Apart from the whim
that had led him to devote so much time, pains, and expense to
the collection of this Museum, he impressed me as one of the
hardest and coldest men of the world whom I had ever met.
“To despise all things!” repeated I. “This, at best, is the
soul,—whose better and diviner part,—has never been awakened,
or has died out of him.”
“I did not think that you were still so young,” said the Virtuoso.
“Should you live to my years, you will acknowledge that
the vase of Bias was not ill bestowed.”
Without farther discussion of the point, he directed my attention
to other curiosities. I examined Cinderella's little glass
slipper, and compared it with one of Diana's sandals, and with
Fanny Elssler's shoe, which bore testimony to the muscular
character of her illustrious foot. On the same shelf were Thomas
the Rhymer's green velvet shoes, and the brazen shoe of Empedocles,
which was thrown out of Mount Ætna. Anacreon's
drinking-cup was placed in apt juxtaposition with one of Tom
Moore's wine-glasses and Circe's magic bowl. These were symbols
of luxury and riot; but near them stood the cup whence
Socrates drank his hemlock; and that which Sir Philip Sydney
put from his death-parched lips to bestow the draught upon a
dying soldier. Next appeared a cluster of tobacco pipes, consisting
of Sir Walter Raleigh's, the earliest on record, Dr. Parr's,
Charles Lamb's, and the first calumet of peace which was ever
smoked between a European and an Indian. Among other musical
instruments, I noticed the lyre of Orpheus, and those of Homer
and Sappho, Dr. Franklin's famous whistle, the trumpet of Anthony
Van Corlear, and the flute which Goldsmith played upon in
his rambles through the French provinces. The staff of Peter the
Hermit stood in a corner, with that of good old Bishop Jewel, and
one of ivory, which had belonged to Papirius, the Roman Senator.
The ponderous club of Hercules was close at hand. The Virtuoso
showed me the chisel of Phidias, Claude's palette, and the brush
of Apelles, observing that he intended to bestow the former either
on Greenough, Crawford, or Powers, and the two latter upon
Washington Allston. There was a small vase of oracular gas
analysis of Professor Silliman. I was deeply moved on beholding
a phial of the tears into which Niobe was dissolved; nor less
so on learning that a shapeless fragment of salt was a relic of that
victim of despondency and sinful regrets, Lot's wife. My companion
appeared to set great value upon some Egyptian darkness
in a blacking jug. Several of the shelves were covered by a
collection of coins; among which, however, I remember none but
the Splendid Shilling, celebrated by Phillips, and a dollar's worth
of the iron money of Lycurgus, weighing about fifty pounds.
Walking carelessly onward, I had nearly fallen over a huge
bundle, like a pedlar's pack, done up in sackcloth, and very securely
strapped and corded.
“It is Christian's burthen of sin,” said the Virtuoso.
“Oh, pray let us open it!” cried I. “For many a year I
have longed to know its contents.”
“Look into your own consciousness and memory,” replied the
Virtuoso. “You will there find a list of whatever it contains.”
As this was an undeniable truth, I threw a melancholy look at
the burthen, and passed on. A collection of old garments, hanging
on pegs, was worthy of some attention, especially the shirt
of Nessus, Cæsar's mantle, Joseph's coat of many colors, the
Vicar of Bray's cassock, Goldsmith's peach-bloom suit, a pair of
President Jefferson's scarlet breeches, John Randolph's red baize
hunting-shirt, the drab small clothes of the Stout Gentleman, and
the rags of the “man all tattered and torn.” George Fox's hat
impressed me with deep reverence, as a relic of perhaps the truest
apostle that has appeared on earth for these eighteen hundred
years. My eye was next attracted by an old pair of shears,
which I should have taken for a memorial of some famous tailor,
only that the Virtuoso pledged his veracity that they were the
identical scissors of Atropos. He also showed me a broken hour-glass,
which had been thrown aside by Father Time, together
brooch. In the hour-glass was the handful of sand, the grains
of which had numbered the years of the Cumæan Sibyl. I think
it was in this alcove that I saw the inkstand which Luther threw
at the Devil, and the ring which Essex, while under sentence of
death, sent to Queen Elizabeth. And here was the blood-encrusted
pen of steel with which Faust signed away his salvation.
The Virtuoso now opened the door of a closet, and showed me
a lamp burning, while three others stood unlighted by its side.
One of the three was the lamp of Diogenes, another that of Guy
Faux, and the third that which Hero set forth to the midnight
breeze in the high tower of Abydos.
“See!” said the Virtuoso, blowing with all his force at the
lighted lamp.
The flame quivered and shrank away from his breath, but
clung to the wick, and resumed its brilliancy as soon as the blast
was exhausted.
“It is an undying lamp from the tomb of Charlemagne,” observed
my guide. “That flame was kindled a thousand years
ago.”
“How ridiculous, to kindle an unnatural light in tombs!” exclaimed
I. “We should seek to behold the dead in the light of
heaven. But what is the meaning of this chafing-dish of glowing
coals?”
“That,” answered the Virtuoso, “is the original fire which
Prometheus stole from Heaven. Look steadfastly into it, and you
will discern another curiosity.”
I gazed into that fire,—which, symbolically, was the origin of
all that was bright and glorious in the soul of man,—and in the
midst of it, behold! a little reptile, sporting with evident enjoyment
of the fervid heat. It was a salamander.
“What a sacrilege!” cried I, with inexpressible disgust.
“Can you find no better use for this ethereal fire than to cherish
sacred fire of their own souls to as foul and guilty a purpose.”
The Virtuoso made no answer, except by a dry laugh, and an
assurance that the salamander was the very same which Benvenuto
Cellini had seen in his father's household fire. He then
proceeded to show me other rarities; for this closet appeared to
be the receptacle of what he considered most valuable in his collection.
“There,” said he, “is the great carbuncle of the White Mountains.”
I gazed with no little interest at this mighty gem, which it
had been one of the wild projects of my youth to discover. Possibly
it might have looked brighter to me in those days than now;
at all events, it had not such brilliancy as to detain me long from
the other articles of the Museum. The Virtuoso pointed to me a
crystalline stone, which hung by a gold chain against the wall.
“That is the Philosopher's Stone,” said he.
“And have you the Elixir Vitæ, which generally accompanies
it?” inquired I.
“Even so—this urn is filled with it,” he replied. “A draught
would refresh you. Here is Hebe's cup,—will you quaff a health
from it?”
My heart thrilled within me at the idea of such a reviving
draught; for methought I had great need of it, after travelling
so far on the dusty road of life. But I know not whether it were
a peculiar glance in the Virtuoso's eye, or the circumstance that
this most precious liquid was contained in an antique sepulchral
urn, that made me pause. Then came many a thought, with which,
in the calmer and better hours of life, I had strengthened myself
to feel that Death is the very friend whom, in his due season,
even the happiest mortal should be willing to embrace.
“No, I desire not an earthly immortality,” said I. “Were
man to live longer on the earth, the spiritual would die out of
the sensual. There is a celestial something within us that
requires, after a certain time, the atmosphere of Heaven to preserve
it from decay and ruin. I will have none of this liquid.
You do well to keep it in a sepulchral urn; for it would produce
death, while bestowing the shadow of life.”
“All this is unintelligible to me,” responded my guide, with
indifference. “Life,—earthly life,—is the only good. But you
refuse the draught? Well, it is not likely to be offered twice
within one man's experience. Probably you have griefs which
you seek to forget in death. I can enable you to forget them in
life. Will you take a draught of Lethe?”
As he spoke the Virtuoso took from the shelf a crystal vase
containing a sable liquor, which caught no reflected image from
the objects around.
“Not for the world!” exclaimed I, shrinking back. “I can
spare none of my recollections,—not even those of error or sorrow.
They are all alike the food of my spirit. As well never
to have lived, as to lose them now.”
Without further parley we passed to the next alcove, the shelves
of which were burthened with ancient volumes, and with those
rolls of papyrus, in which was treasured up the eldest wisdom of
the earth. Perhaps the most valuable work in the collection, to
a bibliomaniac, was the Book of Hermes. For my part, however,
I would have given a higher price for those six of the Sibyl's
books which Tarquin refused to purchase, and which the Virtuoso
informed me he had himself found in the cave of Trophonius.
Doubtless these old volumes contain prophecies of the
fate of Rome, both as respects the decline and fall of her temporal
empire, and the rise of her spiritual one. Not without
value, likewise, was the work of Anaxagoras on Nature, hitherto
supposed to be irrecoverably lost; and the missing treatises of
Longinus, by which modern criticism might profit; and those
without hope. Among these precious tomes I observed the
original manuscript of the Koran, and also that of the Mormon
Bible, in Joe Smith's authentic autograph. Alexander's copy of
the Iliad was also there, enclosed in the jewelled casket of Darius,
still fragrant of the perfumes which the Persian kept in it.
Opening an iron-clasped volume, bound in black leather, I discovered
it to be Cornelius Agrippa's book of magic; and it was
rendered still more interesting by the fact that many flowers,
ancient and modern, were pressed between its leaves. Here was
a rose from Eve's bridal bower, and all those red and white roses
which were plucked in the garden of the Temple, by the partizans
of York and Lancaster. Here was Halleck's Wild Rose of Alloway.
Cowper had contributed a Sensitive Plant, and Wordsworth
an Eglantine, and Burns a Mountain Daisy, and Kirke
White a Star of Bethlehem, and Longfellow a Sprig of Fennel,
with its yellow flowers. James Russell Lowell had given a
Pressed Flower, but fragrant still, which had been shadowed in
the Rhine. There was also a sprig from Southey's Holly-Tree.
One of the most beautiful specimens was a Fringed Gentian,
which had been plucked and preserved for immortality by Bryant.
From Jones Very,—a poet whose voice is scarcely heard among
us, by reason of its depth,—there was a Wind Flower and a
Columbine.
As I closed Cornelius Agrippa's magic volume, an old, mildewed
letter fell upon the floor; it proved to be an autograph from
the Flying Dutchman to his wife. I could linger no longer
among books, for the afternoon was waning, and there was yet
much to see. The bare mention of a few more curiosities must
suffice. The immense skull of Polyphemus was recognizable
by the cavernous hollow in the centre of the forehead, where
once had blazed the giant's single eye. The tub of Diogenes,
Medea's cauldron, and Psyché's vase of beauty, were placed one
nothing but the girdle of Venus, which had been carelessly
flung into it. A bundle of birch rods, which had been
used by Shenstone's schoolmistress, were tied up with the Countess
of Salisbury's garter. I knew not which to value most, a
Roc's egg, as big as an ordinary hogshead, or the shell of the
egg which Columbus set upon its end. Perhaps the most delicate
article in the whole Museum was Queen Mab's chariot, which,
to guard it from the touch of meddlesome fingers, was placed
under a glass tumbler.
Several of the shelves were occupied by specimens of entomology.
Feeling but little interest in the science, I noticed only
Anacreon's Grasshopper, and an Humble-Bee, which had been
presented to the Virtuoso by Ralph Waldo Emerson.
In the part of the hall which we had now reached, I observed
a curtain that descended from the ceiling to the floor in voluminous
folds, of a depth, richness, and magnificence which I had
never seen equalled. It was not to be doubted that this splendid,
though dark and solemn veil, concealed a portion of the Museum
even richer in wonders than that through which I had already
passed. But, on my attempting to grasp the edge of the curtain
and draw it aside, it proved to be an illusive picture.
“You need not blush,” remarked the Virtuoso, “for that same
curtain deceived Zeuxis. It is the celebrated painting of Parrhasius.”
In a range with the curtain, there were a number of other
choice pictures, by artists of ancient days. Here was the famous
Cluster of Grapes by Zeuxis, so admirably depicted that it seemed
as if the ripe juice were bursting forth. As to the picture of the
Old Woman, by the same illustrious painter, and which was so
ludicrous that he himself died with laughing at it, I cannot say
that it particularly moved my risibility. Ancient humor seems
to have little power over modern muscles. Here, also, was the
first portrait of Alexander the Great, and his last unfinished picture
of Venus Asleep. Each of these works of art, together with
others by Parrhasius, Timanthes, Polygnotus, Apollodorus, Pausias,
and Pamphilus, required more time and study than I could
bestow, for the adequate perception of their merits. I shall therefore
leave them undescribed and uncriticised, nor attempt to settle
the question of superiority between ancient and modern art.
For the same reason I shall pass lightly over the specimens of
antique sculpture, which this indefatigable and fortunate Virtuoso
had dug out of the dust of fallen empires. Here was Æ\tion's
cedar statue of Æsculapius, much decayed, and Alcon's iron
statue of Hercules, lamentably rusted. Here was the statue of
Victory, six feet high, which the Jupiter Olympus of Phidias had
held in his hand. Here was a fore-finger of the Colossus of
Rhodes, seven feet in length. Here was the Venus Urania of
Phidias, and other images of male and female beauty or grandeur,
wrought by sculptors who appear never to have debased their
souls by the sight of any meaner forms than those of gods, or
godlike mortals. But the deep simplicity of these great works
was not to be comprehended by a mind excited and disturbed, as
mine was, by the various objects that had recently been presented
to it. I therefore turned away, with merely a passing glance,
resolving, on some future occasion, to brood over each individual
statue and picture, until my inmost spirit should feel their excellence.
In this department, again, I noticed the tendency to whimsical
combinations and ludicrous analogies, which seemed to influence
many of the arrangements of the Museum. The wooden
statue, so well known as the Palladium of Troy, was placed in
close apposition with the wooden head of General Jackson, which
was stolen a few years since from the bows of the Constitution.
We had now completed the circuit of the spacious hall, and
with the survey of so many novelties and antiquities, I sat down
upon Cowper's sofa, while the Virtuoso threw himself carelessly
into Rabelais's easy-chair. Casting my eyes upon the opposite
wall, I was surprised to perceive the shadow of a man, flickering
unsteadily across the wainscot, and looking as if it were stirred
by some breath of air that found its way through the door or windows.
No substantial figure was visible, from which this shadow
might be thrown; nor, had there been such, was there any sunshine
that would have caused it to darken upon the wall.
“It is Peter Schlemihl's shadow,” observed the Virtuoso, “and
one of the most valuable articles in my collection.”
“Methinks a shadow would have made a fitting door-keeper to
such a Museum,” said I, “although, indeed, yonder figure has
something strange and fantastic about him, which suits well
enough with many of the impressions which I have received here.
Pray, who is he?”
While speaking, I gazed more scrutinizingly than before at the
antiquated presence of the person who had admitted me, and who
still sat on his bench, with the same restless aspect, and dim, confused,
questioning anxiety, that I had noticed on my first entrance.
At this moment he looked eagerly towards us, and half-starting
from his seat, addressed me.
“I beseech you, kind sir,” said he, in a cracked, melancholy
tone, “have pity on the most unfortunate man in the world! For
heaven's sake answer me a single question! Is this the town of
Boston?”
“You have recognized him now,” said the Virtuoso. “It is
Peter Rugg, the Missing Man. I chanced to meet him, the other
day, still in search of Boston, and conducted him hither; and, as
he could not succeed in finding his friends, I have taken him into
my service as door-keeper. He is somewhat too apt to ramble,
but otherwise a man of trust and integrity.”
“And—might I venture to ask,” continued I, “to whom am I
indebted for this afternoon's gratification?”
The Virtuoso, before replying, laid his hand upon an antique
dart of juvelin, the rusty steel head of which seemed to have been
blunted, as if it had encountered the resistance of a tempered
shield or breast-plate.
“My name has not been without its distinction in the world,
for a longer period than that of any other man alive,” answered
he. “Yet many doubt of my existence,—perhaps you will do
so, to-morrow. This dart, which I had in my hand, was once
grim Death's own weapon. It served him well for the space of
four thousand years. But it fell blunted, as you see, when he
directed it against my breast.”
These words were spoken with the calm and cold courtesy of
manner that had characterized this singular personage throughout
our interview. I fancied, it is true, that there was a bitterness
indefinably mingled with his tone, as of one cut off from natural
sympathies, and blasted with a doom that had been inflicted on no
other human being, and by the results of which he had ceased to
be human. Yet, withal, it seemed one of the most terrible consequences
of that doom, that the victim no longer regarded it as a
calamity, but had finally accepted it as the greatest good that
could have befallen him.
“You are the Wandering Jew!” exclaimed I.
The Virtuoso bowed, without emotion of any kind; for, by
centuries of custom, he had almost lost the sense of strangeness
in his fate, and was but imperfectly conscious of the astonishment
and awe with which it affected such as are capable of death.
“Your doom is indeed a fearful one” said I. with irrepressible
feeling, and a frankness that afterwards startled me; “yet
perhaps the ethereal spirit is not entirely extinct, under all this
corrupted or frozen mass of earthly life. Perhaps the immortal
spark may yet be rekindled by a breath of heaven. Perhaps you
You have my prayers for such a consummation. Farewell.”
“Your prayers will be in vain,” replied he, with a smile of
cold triumph. “My destiny is linked with the realities of earth.
You are welcome to your visions and shadows of a future state;
but give me what I can see, and touch, and understand, and I ask
no more.”
“It is indeed too late,” thought I. “The soul is dead within
him!”
Struggling between pity and horror, I extended my hand, to
which the Virtuoso gave his own, still with the habitual courtesy
of a man of the world, but without a single heart-throb of human
brotherhood. The touch seemed like ice, yet I know not whether
morally or physically. As I departed, he bade me observe that
the inner door of the hall was constructed with the ivory leaves
of the gateway through which Æneas and the Sibyl had been dismissed
from Hades.
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