Mosses from an old manse
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