“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 enveloped5 that the rest of his attire6 was undistinguishable. But his visage was remarkably7 wind-flushed, sunburnt, and weather-worn, and had a most, unquiet, nervous, and apprehensive8 expression. It seemed as if this man had some all-important object in view, some point of deepest interest to be decided9, some momentous10 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 doorway11, 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 sculptor12 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-aged13 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 peculiarities15 had been worn away by an extensive and promiscuous16 intercourse17 with the world. There was no mark about him of profession, individual habits, or scarcely of country; although his dark complexion18 and high features made me conjecture19 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 worthy20 of attention. In the first place, here is a choice collection of stuffed animals.”
Nearest the door stood the outward semblance21 of a wolf, exquisitely22 prepared, it is true, and showing a very wolfish fierceness in the large glass eyes which were inserted into its wild and crafty23 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 devoured25 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 texture26 as innocence27 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 specimen28 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 renowned29 Bucephalus stood the mere24 skeleton of a horse, with the white bones peeping through his ill-conditioned hide; but, if my heart had not warmed towards that pitiful anatomy30, I might as well have quitted the museum at once. Its rarities had not been collected with pain and toil31 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 admiration32 for the noble and gallant33 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 infliction34 from the ancient prophet Balaam. Some doubts were entertained, however, as to the authenticity36 of the latter beast. My guide pointed37 out the venerable Argus, that faithful dog of Ulysses, and also another dog (for so the skin bespoke38 it), which, though imperfectly preserved, seemed once to have had three heads. It was Cerberus. I was considerably40 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 deity41 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 variegated42 hues43, supposed to have been the garment of the “spirited sly snake,” which tempted44 Eve. Against the walls were suspended the horns of the stag that Shakespeare shot; and on the floor lay the ponderous45 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 crumpled46 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 naturalist47 — 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 alcove48 of the hall, in which was a multitude of stuffed birds. They were very prettily49 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 withered50 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 raven51, I suppose,” continued I, “is the same that fed Elijah in the wilderness52.”
“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 sable53 plumage. But poor Grip has drawn his last cork54, 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 owl55 and the vulture that preyed56 upon the liver of Prometheus. There was likewise the sacred ibis of Egypt, and one of the Stymphalides which Hercules shot in his sixth labor57. 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 perch58. I could not but shudder59 on beholding61 Coleridge’s albatross, transfixed with the Ancient Mariner’s crossbow shaft62. 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 hissed63 both before and since; but none, like those, have clamored themselves into immortality65.”
There seemed to be little else that demanded notice in this department of the museum, unless we except Robinson Crusoe’s parrot, a live phoenix67, 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 linen68.
“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 Providence69.”
“Then probably,” returned the virtuoso, “you will not be tempted to rub this lamp?”
While speaking, he took from the shelf an antique brass70 lamp, curiously71 wrought72 with embossed figures, but so covered with verdigris73 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 mighty74 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 delusions75 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 corroded76 with rust77; and my heart grew sick at the sight of this dreadful relic78, which had shut out a human being from sympathy with his race. There was nothing half so terrible in the axe79 that beheaded King Charles, nor in the dagger80 that slew81 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 derived82 their interest, such as it was, from having been formerly83 in the possession of royalty84. For instance, here was Charlemagne’s sheepskin cloak, the flowing wig85 of Louis Quatorze, the spinning-wheel of Sardanapalus, and King Stephen’s famous breeches which cost him but a crown. The heart of the Bloody86 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 relics87 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 monarch88. 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 smothered89 Agamemnon, Nero’s fiddle90, 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 skull91 of King Philip, the famous Indian chief, whose head the Puritans smote92 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 superseded93 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 rusted95 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 plunged96 into her own breast, in order to taste of death before her husband. The crooked97 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 militia98 generals was suspended between Don Quixote’s lance and the brown blade of Hudibras. My heart throbbed99 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 reverberated100 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 Robin66 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 thigh101 of Pythagoras, which had so divine a meaning; and, by one of the queer analogies to which the virtuoso seemed to be addicted102, this ancient emblem103 lay on the same shelf with Peter Stuyvesant’s wooden leg, that was fabled104 to be of silver. Here was a remnant of the Golden Fleece, and a sprig of yellow leaves that resembled the foliage105 of a frost-bitten elm, but was duly authenticated106 as a portion of the golden branch by which AEneas gained admittance to the realm of Pluto107. Atalanta’s golden apple and one of the apples of discord108 were wrapped in the napkin of gold which Rampsinitus brought from Hades; and the whole were deposited in the golden vase of Bias109, with its inscription110: “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 cultivation111, yet he seemed to lack sympathy with the spiritual, the sublime112, and the tender. Apart from the whim113 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 creed114 of a man whose soul, whose better and diviner part, has never been awakened115, 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 bestowed117.”
Without further discussion of the point, he directed my attention to other curiosities. I examined Cinderella’s little glass slipper118, and compared it with one of Diana’s sandals, and with Fanny Elssler’s shoe, which bore testimony119 to the muscular character of her illustrious foot. On the same shelf were Thomas the Rhymer’s green velvet120 shoes, and the brazen121 shoe of Empedocles which was thrown out of Mount AEtna. Anacreon’s drinking-cup was placed in apt juxtaposition122 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 hemlock123, and that which Sir Philip Sidney put from his death-parched lips to bestow116 the draught124 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 trumpet125 of Anthony Van Corlear, and the flute126 which Goldsmith played upon in his rambles128 through the French provinces. The staff of Peter the Hermit129 stood in a corner with that of good old Bishop130 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 chisel131 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, celebrated132 by Phillips, and a dollar’s worth of the iron money of Lycurgus, weighing about fifty pounds.
Walking carelessly onward133, I had nearly fallen over a huge bundle, like a peddler’s pack, done up in sackcloth, and very securely strapped134 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 melancholy135 look at the burden and passed on. A collection of old garments, banging on pegs136, was worthy of some attention, especially the shirt of Nessus, Caesar’s mantle137, Joseph’s coat of many colors, the Vicar of Bray’s cassock, Goldsmith’s peach-bloom suit, a pair of President Jefferson’s scarlet138 breeches, John Randolph’s red baize hunting-shirt, the drab small-clothes of the Stout139 Gentleman, and the rags of the “man all tattered140 and torn.” George Fox’s hat impressed me with deep reverence141 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 shears142, which I should have taken for a memorial of some famous tailor, only that the virtuoso pledged his veracity143 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 salvation144.
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 forth145 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 exhausted146.
“It is an undying lamp from the tomb of Charlemagne,” observed my guide. “That flame was kindled147 a thousand years ago.”
“How ridiculous to kindle148 an unnatural149 light in tombs!” exclaimed I. “We should seek to behold60 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 steadfastly150 into it, and you will discern another curiosity.”
I gazed into that fire — which, symbolically151, was the origin of all that was bright and glorious in the soul of man — and in the midst of it, behold a little reptile152, sporting with evident enjoyment153 of the fervid154 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 loathsome155 reptile in it? Yet there are men who abuse the sacred fire of their own souls to as foul156 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 gem94, 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 elixir157 vita which generally accompanies it?” inquired I.
“Even so; this urn4 is filled with it,” he replied. “A draught would refresh you. Here is Hebe’s cup; will you quaff158 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 peculiar14 glance in the virtuoso’s eye, or the circumstance that this most precious liquid was contained in an antique sepulchral159 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 celestial160 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 bestowing161 the shadow of life.”
“All this is unintelligible162 to me,” responded my guide, with indifference163. “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 spoke39, 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 parley164 we passed to the next alcove, the shelves of which were burdened with ancient volumes and with those rolls of papyrus165 in which was treasured up the eldest166 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 treatises167 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 authentic35 autograph. Alexander’s copy of the Iliad was also there, enclosed in the jewelled casket of Darius, still fragrant168 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 bower169, and all those red and white roses which were plucked in the garden of the Temple by the partisans170 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 Holly171 Tree. One of the most beautiful specimens172 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, mildewed173 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 waning174, 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 meddlesome175 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 grasshopper176, 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 descended177 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 concealed178 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 illusive179 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 depicted180 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 risibility181. 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 indefatigable182 and fortunate virtuoso had dug out of the dust of fallen empires. Here was AEtion’s cedar183 statue of AEsculapius, much decayed, and Alcon’s iron statue of Hercules, lamentably184 rusted. Here was the statue of Victory, six feet high, which the Jupiter Olympus of Phidias had held in his hand. Here was a forefinger185 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 grandeur186, wrought by sculptors187 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 simplicity188 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 excellence189. 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 frigate190 Constitution.
We had now completed the circuit of the spacious191 hall, and found ourselves again near the door. Feeling somewhat wearied with the survey of so many novelties and antiquities192, 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 flickering193 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 antiquated194 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 beseech195 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 ramble127, 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 dart196, or javelin197, the rusty198 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 tomorrow. 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 mingled199 with his tone, as of one cut off from natural sympathies and blasted with a doom200 that had been inflicted201 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 calamity202, 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 astonishment203 and awe204 with which it affected205 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 entirely206 extinct under all this corrupted207 or frozen mass of earthly life. Perhaps the immortal64 spark may yet be rekindled208 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 habitual209 courtesy of a man of the world, but without a single heart-throb of human brotherhood210. The touch seemed like ice, yet I know not whether morally or physically211. As I departed, he bade me observe that the inner door of the hall was constructed with the ivory leaves of the gateway212 through which Aeneas and the Sibyl had been dismissed from Hades.
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1
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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3
virtuoso
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| n.精于某种艺术或乐器的专家，行家里手 | |
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urn
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| n.（有座脚的）瓮；坟墓；骨灰瓮 | |
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enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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6
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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7
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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8
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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10
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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12
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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13
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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14
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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15
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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16
promiscuous
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| adj.杂乱的，随便的 | |
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17
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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18
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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19
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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20
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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21
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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22
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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23
crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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24
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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25
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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26
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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27
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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28
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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29
renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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30
anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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31
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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32
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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33
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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34
infliction
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| n.（强加于人身的）痛苦，刑罚 | |
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35
authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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36
authenticity
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| n.真实性 | |
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37
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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38
bespoke
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| adj.（产品）订做的；专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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39
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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40
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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41
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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42
variegated
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| adj.斑驳的，杂色的 | |
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43
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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44
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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45
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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46
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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47
naturalist
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| n.博物学家(尤指直接观察动植物者) | |
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48
alcove
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| n.凹室 | |
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49
prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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50
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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51
raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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52
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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53
sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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54
cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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55
owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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56
preyed
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| v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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57
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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58
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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59
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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60
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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61
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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62
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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63
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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64
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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65
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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66
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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67
phoenix
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| n.凤凰，长生(不死)鸟；引申为重生 | |
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68
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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69
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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70
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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71
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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72
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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73
verdigris
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| n.铜锈；铜绿 | |
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74
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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75
delusions
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| n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 )；谬见；错觉；妄想 | |
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76
corroded
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| 已被腐蚀的 | |
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77
rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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78
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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79
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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80
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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81
slew
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| v.（使）旋转；n.大量，许多 | |
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82
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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83
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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84
royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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85
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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86
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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87
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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88
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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89
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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90
fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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91
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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92
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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93
superseded
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| [医]被代替的，废弃的 | |
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94
gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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95
rusted
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| v.（使）生锈( rust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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97
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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98
militia
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| n.民兵，民兵组织 | |
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99
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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100
reverberated
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| 回响，回荡( reverberate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使反响，使回荡，使反射 | |
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101
thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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102
addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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103
emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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104
fabled
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| adj.寓言中的，虚构的 | |
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105
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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106
authenticated
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| v.证明是真实的、可靠的或有效的( authenticate的过去式和过去分词 )；鉴定，使生效 | |
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107
Pluto
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| n.冥王星 | |
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108
discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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109
bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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110
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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111
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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112
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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113
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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114
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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115
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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116
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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117
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
slipper
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| n.拖鞋 | |
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119
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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120
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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121
brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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122
juxtaposition
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| n.毗邻，并置，并列 | |
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123
hemlock
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| n.毒胡萝卜，铁杉 | |
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124
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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125
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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126
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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127
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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128
rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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129
hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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130
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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131
chisel
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| n.凿子；v.用凿子刻，雕，凿 | |
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132
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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133
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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134
strapped
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| adj.用皮带捆住的，用皮带装饰的；身无分文的；缺钱；手头紧v.用皮带捆扎(strap的过去式和过去分词)；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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135
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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136
pegs
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| n.衣夹( peg的名词复数 )；挂钉；系帐篷的桩；弦钮v.用夹子或钉子固定( peg的第三人称单数 )；使固定在某水平 | |
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137
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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138
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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140
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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141
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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142
shears
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| n.大剪刀 | |
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143
veracity
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| n.诚实 | |
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144
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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145
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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146
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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147
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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148
kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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149
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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150
steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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151
symbolically
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| ad.象征地，象征性地 | |
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152
reptile
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| n.爬行动物；两栖动物 | |
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153
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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154
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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155
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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156
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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157
elixir
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| n.长生不老药，万能药 | |
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158
quaff
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| v.一饮而尽；痛饮 | |
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159
sepulchral
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| adj.坟墓的，阴深的 | |
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160
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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161
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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162
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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163
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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164
parley
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| n.谈判 | |
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165
papyrus
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| n.古以纸草制成之纸 | |
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166
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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167
treatises
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| n.专题著作，专题论文，专著( treatise的名词复数 ) | |
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168
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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169
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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170
partisans
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| 游击队员( partisan的名词复数 )； 党人； 党羽； 帮伙 | |
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171
holly
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| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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172
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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173
mildewed
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| adj.发了霉的，陈腐的，长了霉花的v.（使）发霉，（使）长霉( mildew的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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174
waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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175
meddlesome
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| adj.爱管闲事的 | |
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176
grasshopper
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| n.蚱蜢，蝗虫，蚂蚱 | |
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177
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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178
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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179
illusive
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| adj.迷惑人的，错觉的 | |
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180
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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181
risibility
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| n.爱笑，幽默感 | |
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182
indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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183
cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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184
lamentably
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| adv.哀伤地，拙劣地 | |
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185
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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186
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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187
sculptors
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| 雕刻家，雕塑家( sculptor的名词复数 )； [天]玉夫座 | |
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188
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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189
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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190
frigate
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| n.护航舰，大型驱逐舰 | |
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191
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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192
antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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193
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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194
antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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195
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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196
dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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197
javelin
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| n.标枪，投枪 | |
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198
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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199
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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200
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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201
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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202
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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203
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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204
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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205
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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206
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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207
corrupted
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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208
rekindled
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| v.使再燃( rekindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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209
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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210
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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211
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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212
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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