The art galleries featured an equally heterogeneous collection of works, many of them painted by various members of the prodigiously gifted Peale family itself. These latter comprised over forty portraits of Revolutionary War heroes by Charles Willson Peale; historical and allegorical paintings by Rembrandt Peale, including The Roman Daughter, The Death of Viginius, and his colossal (if somewhat overly portentous) The Court of Death; Sarah Miriam Peale’s portraits of such Baltimore notables as Mayor John Montgomery and Mr. Hugh Birckhead; Raphaelle Peale’s Still-Life with Herring; and Rubens Peale’s depiction of his family’s original establishment in Philadelphia.

In spite of—or, perhaps, owing to—the exceptionally miscellaneous nature of its offerings (some of which were hardly distinguishable from the grotesque specimens of human malformation to be found in the tawdriest curiosity-shows), Peale’s Baltimore Museum rapidly became one of the city’s leading attractions. Its great success, along with its ever-multiplying acquisitions, eventually necessitated a move to larger quarters; and in 1830, the entire collection was relocated to a handsome building on the northwest corner of Calvert and Baltimore streets. In early 1833, however, disaster struck in the form of a terrible conflagration, which severely damaged the building and consumed many irreplaceable artifacts. It was yet another tribute to the prodigious energies of this remarkable clan that, a mere seven months later—on July 4, 1833—the museum was able to reopen its doors in a newly renovated, exceedingly handsome, marble-faced edifice.

It was to this vast repository of science, art, and novelty—this singular combination of painting gallery, natural history museum, live menagerie, and collection of human oddities—that Crodkett and I had now been summoned. After hurriedly unpacking the remaining newspapers from the chaise (a task greatly expedited by the assistance we received from my ever-dependable Muddy), we immediately set off for this destination.

That something of great urgency had occurred at the museum was an unavoidable supposition; and, as our vehicle rumbled through the darkening streets, I clung to the hope that we were not journeying to the site of still another gruesome murder. The instant our carriage turned the corner of Calvert Street, however, that hope was utterly dashed; for I immediately observed a sight that filled my soul with dread. Congregated outside the imposing, three-story building was one of those milling crowds of morbidly curious individuals who invariably materialize at the scene of any atrocity, and whose presence—like the slow, ominous circling of those avian scavengers denominated as buzzards—signifies the proximate occurrence of sudden, ghastly death.

Hurriedly dismounting from our vehicle, Crockett and I made for the entrance. Awed ejaculations arose from the crowd, as its members became cognizant of the frontiersman’s presence. Co-mingled with these exclamations were several audible expressions of perplexity as to my own identity. “See how melancholy he looks—and how drearily he is attired!” I heard one elderly woman loudly whisper to her companion. “Surely, he must be the undertaker!”