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diff --git a/9235-0.txt b/9235-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..63d2f88 --- /dev/null +++ b/9235-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1067 @@ +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. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A VIRTUOSO’S COLLECTION *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. 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