A Virtuosos Collection | Page 4

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"Our modern railroads have superseded their use," answered I; "and as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 Viginius 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!"