’Now, I still think that for this box of matches to have escaped the wear of time for immemorial years was a most strange, as for me it was a most fortunate thing.  Yet, oddly enough, I found a far unlikelier substance, and that was camphor.  I found it in a sealed jar, that by chance, I suppose, had been really hermetically sealed.  I fancied at first that it was paraffin wax, and smashed the glass accordingly.  But the odour of camphor was unmistakable.  In the universal decay this volatile substance had chanced to survive, perhaps through many thousands of centuries.  It reminded me of a sepia painting I had once seen done from the ink of a fossil Belemnite that must have perished and become fossilized millions of years ago.  I was about to throw it away, but I remembered that it was inflammable and burned with a good bright flame—­was, in fact, an excellent candle—­and I put it in my pocket.  I found no explosives, however, nor any means of breaking down the bronze doors.  As yet my iron crowbar was the most helpful thing I had chanced upon.  Nevertheless I left that gallery greatly elated.

’I cannot tell you all the story of that long afternoon.  It would require a great effort of memory to recall my explorations in at all the proper order.  I remember a long gallery of rusting stands of arms, and how I hesitated between my crowbar and a hatchet or a sword.  I could not carry both, however, and my bar of iron promised best against the bronze gates.  There were numbers of guns, pistols, and rifles.  The most were masses of rust, but many were of some new metal, and still fairly sound.  But any cartridges or powder there may once have been had rotted into dust.  One corner I saw was charred and shattered; perhaps, I thought, by an explosion among the specimens.  In another place was a vast array of idols—­Polynesian, Mexican, Grecian, Phoenician, every country on earth I should think.  And here, yielding to an irresistible impulse, I wrote my name upon the nose of a steatite monster from South America that particularly took my fancy.

’As the evening drew on, my interest waned.  I went through gallery after gallery, dusty, silent, often ruinous, the exhibits sometimes mere heaps of rust and lignite, sometimes fresher.  In one place I suddenly found myself near the model of a tin-mine, and then by the merest accident I discovered, in an air-tight case, two dynamite cartridges!  I shouted “Eureka!” and smashed the case with joy.  Then came a doubt.  I hesitated.  Then, selecting a little side gallery, I made my essay.  I never felt such a disappointment as I did in waiting five, ten, fifteen minutes for an explosion that never came.  Of course the things were dummies, as I might have guessed from their presence.  I really believe that had they not been so, I should have rushed off incontinently and blown Sphinx, bronze doors, and (as it proved) my chances of finding the Time Machine, all together into non-existence.