Here are the seven-league boots. Will you try them on?"

"Our modern railroads have superseded their use," answered I; "and
as to these cowhide boots, I could show you quite as curious a pair
at the Transcendental community in Roxbury."

We next examined a collection of swords and other weapons, belonging
to different epochs, but thrown together without much attempt at
arrangement. Here Was Arthur's sword Excalibar, and that of the Cid
Campeader, and the sword of Brutus rusted with Caesar's blood and
his own, and the sword of Joan of Arc, and that of Horatius, and
that with which Virginius slew his daughter, and the one which
Dionysius suspended over the head of Damocles. Here also was Arria's
sword, which she plunged into her own breast, in order to taste of
death before her husband. The crooked blade of Saladin's cimeter
next attracted my notice. I know not by what chance, but so it
happened, that the sword of one of our own militia generals was
suspended between Don Quixote's lance and the brown blade of
Hudibras. My heart throbbed high at the sight of the helmet of
Miltiades and the spear that was broken in the breast of
Epaminondas. I recognized the shield of Achilles by its resemblance
to the admirable cast in the possession of Professor Felton.
Nothing in this apartment interested me more than Major Pitcairn's
pistol, the discharge of which, at Lexington, began the war of the
Revolution, and was reverberated in thunder around the land for
seven long years. The bow of Ulysses, though unstrung for ages, was
placed against the wall, together with a sheaf of Robin Hood's
arrows and the rifle of Daniel Boone.

"Enough of weapons," said I, at length; "although I would gladly