A Virtuosos Collection | Page 6

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 ill 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