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+The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Virtuoso’s Collection, by Nathaniel Hawthorne
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
+whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
+of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
+www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
+will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
+using this eBook.
+
+Title: A Virtuoso’s Collection
+
+Author: Nathaniel Hawthorne
+
+Release Date: September 6, 2003 [eBook #9235]
+[Most recently updated: November 9, 2022]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+Produced by: David Widger and Al Haines
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A VIRTUOSO’S COLLECTION ***
+
+
+
+
+A Virtuoso’s Collection
+
+by Nathaniel Hawthorne
+
+
+
+
+The other day, having a leisure hour at my disposal, I stepped 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 staircase, 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 doorkeeper, 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,
+sunburnt, 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 with the
+snow-white fleece, which seems to be of as delicate a 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, as a dear lover of that
+comfortable beast, attracted my affectionate 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
+Eryruanthean 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 the stag
+that Shakespeare shot; and on the floor lay the ponderous shell of the
+tortoise which fell upon the head of Aeschylus. 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 I.
+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 skylark, 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 gray 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
+phoenix, 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, woven of some substance that appeared to be
+neither woollen, 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, indeed, these works
+of magic have grown wearisome to me. 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 my own land may
+not deem itself neglected, let me add 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 cowhide 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
+Campeader, and the sword of Brutus rusted with Caesar’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 cimeter 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 interested me more than Major
+Pitcairn’s pistol, the discharge 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 Boone.
+
+“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 us 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 AEneas gained
+admittance to the realm of Pluto. Atalanta’s golden apple and one of
+the apples of discord were wrapped 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 wisdom of
+the understanding. It is the creed of a man whose 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 further 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 AEtna.
+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 Sidney 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 from Delphos, which I trust will be submitted to the scientific
+analysis of Professor Silliman. I was deeply moved on beholding a vial
+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 peddler’s pack, done up in sackcloth, and very securely strapped and
+corded.
+
+“It is Christian’s burden of sin,” said the virtuoso.
+
+“O, 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 all undeniable truth, I threw a melancholy look at the
+burden and passed on. A collection of old garments, banging on pegs,
+was worthy of some attention, especially the shirt of Nessus, Caesar’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 hourglass
+which had been thrown aside by Father Time, together with the old
+gentleman’s gray forelock, tastefully braided into a brooch. In the
+hour-glass was the handful of sand, the grains of which had numbered
+the years of the Cumeean 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-incrusted 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 Fawkes, and the
+third that which Hero set forth to the midnight breeze in the high
+tower of Ahydos.
+
+“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 a loathsome
+reptile in it? Yet there are men who abuse the 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 out 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 vita 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
+him. The spark of ethereal fire would be choked by the material, 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 burdened 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 books of Livy for which the
+classic student has so long sorrowed 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 partisans 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 caldron, and Psyche’s vase of beauty were placed one within
+another. Pandora’s box, without the lid, stood next, containing 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 know 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 a bumblebee 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 horse painted by Apelles which living
+horses neighed at; his 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 Pamplulus, 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 AEtion’s cedar statue of
+AEsculapius, 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
+forefinger 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 appeared 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 frigate
+Constitution.
+
+We had now completed the circuit of the spacious hall, and found
+ourselves again near the door. Feeling somewhat wearied 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 easychair.
+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 doorkeeper 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 doorkeeper. 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, or
+javelin, the rusty steel head of winch seemed to have been blunted, as
+if it had encountered the resistance of a tempered shield, or
+breastplate.
+
+“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
+hold 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 may yet be permitted to die before it is
+too late to live eternally. 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 Aeneas
+and the Sibyl had been dismissed from Hades.
+
+
+
+
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