A Virtuosos Collection | Page 2

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 wildlooking 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,