enclosed have kept on the offensive; but are
haunted by the account of Mademoiselle
whom we expect, every instant, to behold.
What can, possibly, be the skill in furnishing
materials for the Museum, that so fascinates
this extraordinary gentleman? How does
she develope her genius?

"Mademoiselle owes her position entirely
to her wonderful aptitude in decoying and
entrapping rats and mice," continues our
friend.

"Rats and mice? And for the Museum?"

"You will see the use to which those small
deer are put, presently."

While we are ruminating, more and more
perplexed, Mademoiselle joins us. Our salute
is profound. The Doctor, as we have said, a
great phrenologist, and the discoverer of a
particular organ—but whether this of
rat-catching I cannot say—observes her with
interest. Mademoiselle is buxom, blithe,
and appears to possess constant animal spirits
(a thing imperative to her profession, of
course). She informs us that M. Robyns has
returned, and will be with us immediately.
After which, Mademoiselle, with the air of
one who has perpetual business on hand, trips
away. She does really trip; a thing only
possible to a neatly-turned ankle and an
elastic heel.

"And now," says the Doctor, observing us
to be, like the Homeric hero, vulnerable in
the heel, "I will explain to you Mademoiselle's
system before Robyns joins us.

"In the first place, you must understand,
M. Robyns receives no rat or mouse into his
collection that has not been caught or killed
within the precincts you have just inspected;
—on the premises, in short. Why, you will
understand when you see the purpose to
which he devotes the tails of those worthies.
Consequently, the necessity of an expert hand
is obvious. Mademoiselle, therefore, in
accordance with that deep genius for expedients
which her organs indicate, immediately on
coming into office bethought herself of the
following plan——But, here is Robyns!"

We are introduced to a tall dark gentleman,
with a hat very much over his brows,
who, after saluting, without more ado leads
into the house, silently wondering at the
genius that can, within so narrow a compass
and absolute a limit, furnish rats' tails and
mice tails in any quantity; and regretting
that the interesting details of her "plan"
are thus suddenly cut short.

We enter the first room bare-headed.

"Hats on, messieurs; hats on! We do
not uncover ourselves here," says M. Robyns.

"And thereby hangs a tale, which, I dare
say, he will, presently, revert to," whispers
the Doctor.

In the first room, besides an old tattered
tapestry, so hidden by book-cases, and
disfigured by neglect, that the subject of it is
imperceptible—clearly showing that the
proprietor's taste and passion do not lie in that
direction—there is a group of eleven squirrels
under a glass cupola, all earnestly engaged in
performing a particular thema of one of the
great composers. The leader of the band
holds the bâton erect, with an authoritative
air, and an imperious lift of the head worthy
of Costa, when, with his wizard flourish, he is
about to dictate one of the most impressive
passages in the Stabat Mater. Nothing can
exceed the intentness of the orchestra on their
several part pieces, piping

"To the spirit ditties of no tone."

with a zeal that would have done an old
band-master's heart good to see. Here, a
little fellow with a flageolet, holding it down
low, with that quaint pomposity the mellow
blowing in the instrument requires; here, a
horn and cornet, martial and important;
here, a trombone, insisting on the sound;
here, a fife, lively and alert. All, as in their
natural state, with their tails cocked up
behind them, like a very critical audience
indeed. This animal grouping is of the same
kind as that which has met with so much
attention in the Great Exhibition, only it
does not represent any Reinecke Fuchs, or
story whatever. Leaving these—to a lover
of the woodlands—melancholy little mutes,
we proceed into the next room. M. Robyns
has, there is little doubt, the rarest private
beetle and butterfly collection in the world.
The butterflies are a wonder to behold. All
quarters—America, Australia, the Brazils,
South Europe, the Tyrol, Germany—are
here levied under contribution. Moths, rich
as when from their "dark cocoons;" the
swallow-tail species of butterfly in great
perfection; the great dark-winged, sombre, lurid,
mysterious-looking Death's-head (Todtenkopf),
with the lines and traceries that give
him his name, hideously distinct; the little
swift-winged pigeon; the butterfly, with the
shimmering blue on either of the wings,
looking sideways, called by the Germans,
Schiller-vogel; and many others, known
either to England, or the European Continent,
and of the rarest description, far too
multitudinous to enumerate. Nay, the number
of their cases, even, would challenge
computation, as they stand about in rows from
floor to ceiling of the little cabined and
confined room. Nor would it be too confident to
assert that the contents of this room would
furnish ample materials for a tolerably large
house. I must not omit to mention some
extraordinary specimens of cockchafers, from
the Brazils, which M. Robyns informed us
were not to be found either in the national
Museums of Brussels or Paris. For a pair of
these lustrous insects, with their smooth,
bright-burnished backs, he assured us he paid
four hundred francs—a sum worthy of the
passion that impels him to make the collection.
The beetle-cases may fairly challenge
the butterfly-cases for beauty. Moreover, they
stand time better. They glow like creatures