The other day, having a leisure hour at my disposal, I stepped into a newmuseum, to which my notice was casually drawn by a small and unobtrusive sign:“TO BE SEEN HERE, A VIRTUOSO’SCOLLECTION.” Such was the simple yet not altogether unpromisingannouncement that turned my steps aside for a little while from the sunnysidewalk of our principal thoroughfare. Mounting a sombre staircase, I pushedopen a door at its summit, and found myself in the presence of a person, whomentioned the moderate sum that would entitle me to admittance.
“Three shillings, Massachusetts tenor,” said he. “No, I mean half a dollar, asyou reckon in these days.”
While searching my pocket for the coin I glanced at the doorkeeper, the markedcharacter and individuality of whose aspect encouraged me to expect somethingnot quite in the ordinary way. He wore an old-fashioned great-coat, much faded,within which his meagre person was so completely enveloped that the rest of hisattire was undistinguishable. But his visage was remarkably wind-flushed,sunburnt, and weather-worn, and had a most, unquiet, nervous, and apprehensiveexpression. It seemed as if this man had some all-important object in view,some point of deepest interest to be decided, some momentous question to ask,might he but hope for a reply. As it was evident, however, that I could havenothing to do with his private affairs, I passed through an open doorway, whichadmitted me into the extensive hall of the museum.
Directly in front of the portal was the bronze statue of a youth with wingedfeet. He was represented in the act of flitting away from earth, yet wore sucha look of earnest invitation that it impressed me like a summons to enter thehall.
“It is the original statue of Opportunity, by the ancient sculptor Lysippus,”said a gentleman who now approached me. “I place it at the entrance of mymuseum, because it is not at all times that one can gain admittance to such acollection.”
The speaker was a middle-aged person, of whom it was not easy to determinewhether he had spent his life as a scholar or as a man of action; in truth, alloutward and obvious peculiarities had been worn away by an extensive andpromiscuous intercourse with the world. There was no mark about him ofprofession, individual habits, or scarcely of country; although his darkcomplexion and high features made me conjecture that he was a native of somesouthern clime of Europe. At all events, he was evidently the virtuoso inperson.
“With your permission,” said he, “as we have no descriptive catalogue, I willaccompany you through the museum and point out whatever may be most worthy ofattention. In the first place, here is a choice collection of stuffed animals.”
Nearest the door stood the outward semblance of a wolf, exquisitely prepared,it is true, and showing a very wolfish fierceness in the large glass eyes whichwere inserted into its wild and crafty head. Still it was merely the skin of awolf, with nothing to distinguish it from other individuals of that unlovelybreed.
“How does this animal deserve a place in your collection?” inquired I.
“It is the wolf that devoured Little Red Riding Hood,” answered the virtuoso;“and by his side—with a milder and more matronly look, as youperceive—stands the she-wolf that suckled Romulus and Remus.”
“Ah, indeed!” exclaimed I. “And what lovely lamb is this with the snow-whitefleece, which seems to be of as delicate a texture as innocence itself?”
“Methinks you have but carelessly read Spenser,” replied my guide, “or youwould at once recognize the ‘milk-white lamb’ which Una led.