



Produced by David Widger.  HTML version by Al Haines.









                     MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE

                      By Nathaniel Hawthorne

                      A VIRTUOSO'S COLLECTION



The other day, having a leisure hour at my disposal, I stepped into
a new museum, to which my notice was casually drawn by a small and
unobtrusive sign: "TO BE SEEN HERE, A VIRTUOSO'S COLLECTION."  Such
was the simple yet not altogether unpromising announcement that
turned my steps aside for a little while from the sunny sidewalk of
our principal thoroughfare.  Mounting a sombre staircase, I pushed
open a door at its summit, and found myself in the presence of a
person, who mentioned the moderate sum that would entitle me to
admittance.

"Three shillings, Massachusetts tenor," said he.  "No, I mean half a
dollar, as you reckon in these days."

While searching my pocket for the coin I glanced at the doorkeeper,
the marked character and individuality of whose aspect encouraged me
to expect something not 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 his attire was
undistinguishable.  But his visage was remarkably wind-flushed,
sunburnt, and weather-worn, and had a most, unquiet, nervous, and
apprehensive expression.  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 have nothing to do
with his private affairs, I passed through an open doorway, which
admitted me into the extensive hall of the museum.

Directly in front of the portal was the bronze statue of a youth
with winged feet.  He was represented in the act of flitting away
from earth, yet wore such a look of earnest invitation that it
impressed me like a summons to enter the hall.

"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 my museum, because it is not at all times that one
can gain admittance to such a collection."

The speaker was a middle-aged person, of whom it was not easy to
determine whether he had spent his life as a scholar or as a man of
action; in truth, all outward and obvious peculiarities had been
worn away by an extensive and promiscuous intercourse with the
world.  There was no mark about him of profession, individual
habits, or scarcely of country; although his dark complexion and
high features made me conjecture that he was a native of some
southern clime of Europe. At all events, he was evidently the
virtuoso in person.

"With your permission," said he, "as we have no descriptive
catalogue, I will accompany you through the museum and point out
whatever may be most worthy of attention.  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 which were inserted into its wild and crafty head.
Still it was merely the skin of a wolf, with nothing to distinguish
it from other individuals of that unlovely breed.

"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
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