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