A Virtuosos Collection | Page 7

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 treatises 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 authentic autograph.
Alexander's copy of the Iliad was also there, enclosed in the jewelled
casket of Darius, still fragrant 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 bower,
and all those red and white roses which were plucked in the garden of
the Temple by the partisans 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 Holly Tree. One of the most beautiful specimens
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, mildewed 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 waning, 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 roe'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 meddlesome
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
grasshopper, 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 descended 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
concealed 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 illusive 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 depicted 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 risibility.
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