of the mine, with a rich gnome-like splendour,
rnore mysterious than, if not so exquisitely
lovely as. the "flying flower."

While we are inspecting the several classes,
ascertaining, and forgetting as rapidly, the
names of the various birds and species, and,
as the conversation warms, the magic
capacities of the rooms begin to develope
themselves. Nothing is mentioned casually, of any
kind, but instantly from some unexpected
height, hole, or corner, it is exhibited to us.
Where it is possible to stow the things away,
neither of us perceives; but they come as
prompt as genii, when named. As for
instance, the Doctor, in the innocence of his
heart, is boasting of a splendid "Cremona"
he has lately purchased. At the word, about
half-a-dozen violin cases present themselves,
which reveal precious instruments of the
colour of the stuffed squirrels, and likely to
remain as mute. Nevertheless, they are the
work of first-rate makers, and our friend
regards them with a look in which love and
reverence are strongly blended. There, do
these

Unravish'd brides of quietness"

repose at concert pitch. And there will they
repose, like enchanted princesses, until

"A touch, a kiss, shall snap the charm."

Again, speaking of a recent murder—at
that time a general topic—the Doctor's
phrenological qualifications are remembered, and,
quicker than thought, a file of murderous-looking
murderers' heads are ranged before
him to manipulate upon. All grim, bloody,
and looking as if they had their victims
before their faces.

"Ah!" sighs the Doctor, leaving the
impression of five philosophical fingers on the
dust Time has scattered on. their heads like
infant hair; "ah! Robyns, I see that, with
all your faith in phrenology, you are just as
much opposed as ever to be operated upon."

Thereupon, M. Robyns summons a little
book from its secrecy; and we, casting a
glance at it, read its title, "The Netherlands,"
wherein, opening of its own accord at a
particular and well-thumbed part, the gossiping
author, with no very great regard to good
faith and the courtesies of civilised society,
informs us, that, "having visited M. Robyns'
private Museum, the author is astonished,"
&c., &c.; "and there is no doubt whatever that,
so great is M. Robyns' passion for collecting
all articles within or without his reach, had he
not been a millionnaire, and a man of property,
he would undoubtedly have been a robber
and a bandit. So strongly in him is developed"
(Phrenology, at the date of the publication of
"The Netherlands," was in its youth, and the
rage) "the organ of appropriation." I give
the context, if not the exact words.

So, this is the explanation of the undoffing
of hats, and the suspicion of English visitors!
With reason. Let me here state, M. Robyns'
natural urbanity is such that, I am
convinced, he would, on proper application from
those of our countrymen who may feel an
interest in his Museum, give a cordial
permission to inspect it. I say this, firmly
believing that he will not receive insult
in return, but gratitude. English people
travelling, should be conscious of the debt
they owe to their foreign hosts, and their
duty to their own country. Money is not
everything, they will learn, when all but the
hotel doors are shut against them.

It would take days thoroughly to investigate
M. Robyns' collection; so, having but
a few hours more to spare before quitting
Brussels, we proceeded at once to the most
eccentric division, contained in the two
out-houses; for to the latter of these
Mademoiselle's labours have contributed largely.
In the first, we are greeted by an odor, by
no means genial, and start aghast on beholding
several hundred rooks and daws and
crows, all nailed up with spread wings
and feet against a whitewashed wall, in all
manner of figures, rounds, crosses, and
devices. The Doctor informs us, no bird is
admitted here that has not been shot from the
garden. So that, to anything on wings, to
pass over this particular spot must be as
terrible and deadly as to pass over the pestiferous
volcanic lakes that never take the shadow of
a flying creature without presently receiving
its body. Our observations here are quickly
accomplished. On our way to the second
out-house, the Doctor, at our earnest solicitation,
lingers behind, and continues his recital
of Mademoiselle's "plan," previous to our
beholding the results.

"Well, as I said, Mademoiselle, on coming
into office, bethought herself of the following
plan. She paid a visit to every corner of
the house and the adjoining out-houses, and
like a fisherman the day before throwing the
line, baited them with common cheese. You
may be sure the hereditary tribes of rats, of
mice, soon got notice of this extraordinary
gratuitous feast. Rats and mice do not
know that a gratuitous feast is the most
expensive one can be invited to. Well, these
poor devils, who, no doubt, have a tradition
among them of some day when the heavens
will rain cheeses, and the moon herself fulfil
the popular notion as to her nature and
origin, and come down for their benefit,—
began to think their legendary prophecy at
hand, and thronged the house from all
quarters. Meantime, Mademoiselle disturbed
not their feeling of security. But, at length,
the day arrived when she thought she might
begin to do execution upon them; armed, I
may correctly say, cap à pié; that is to say,
with her usual cap on her head, and a long
projecting, sharp, heel-shaped instrument affixed
to her heel."

"Her heel?"

"To which," continues our philosopher,
gravely, "was attached a piece of toasted