IN the far west of London — preserving many traces of its original characteristics, amidst the wide expanse of architectural innovations which are continually springing up around it — there is a sober and antiquated, but withal respectable, locality, known to those travellers whose enterprise has led them thus far into the occidental suburbs, as Brompton. It is a district principally inhabited by theatricals, literati, and small annuitants; and is much esteemed on account of the salubrity of its climate, the mildness of its society, and the economy of its household arrangements. Its chief natural curiosities are tea-parties and old ladies; and its overland journey to London is performed in omnibuses, unless the route by water is preferred. But this is somewhat circuitous — Cadogan Pier, which is the nearest port, standing in the same relation to Brompton as Civita Vecchia does to Rome.

      Mr. Withers Grubbe, who was an old inhabitant of this pleasant village, resided in a modest tenement, situate at the edge of the great Fulham road. His establishment comprised himself and his housekeeper — a staid woman, of matronly appearance — from which circumstance it may be fairly presumed that he was either a widower or a bachelor; but the uncertainty as to which of these two orders of single life he came under will be quite removed, when we state that he was an antiquary, an entomologist, and a general natural philosopher, somewhat resembling a cocoa-nut — being shrivelled in external appearance, but possessing a good heart or kernel, and not entirely destitute of the milk of human kindness. As his favourite pursuits had been, from time immemorial, at variance with matrimony, he had never taken unto himself a wife. Once, and once only, did his friends speak of his falling in love. It was in the Park, one bright frosty morning, when he saw a lady whose cloak somewhat resembled the delicate tintings of the privet moth; but this lepidopterous attachment was very transient, and the next chrysalis of the Sphynx Atropos, or number of the "Gentleman's Magazine," that came to hand, immediately banished it from his mind. And he was an occasional correspondent to the afore-named humorous publication. He had sent them a drawing of the old key of his dust-bin, and a dissertation upon several worn-out brass button-tops he had from time to time picked up in his walks, believing them to be ancient coins; as well as a plan of the Roman encampment on the Birmingham Railway, and other interesting articles, the majority of which were "declined, with thanks," by the venerable and undying Mr. Urban. He belonged also to most of the learned and scientific bodies, to all of whom he read the rejected contributions, so that his time was pretty well occupied, and more especially in the spring; for then his larvæ and aureliæ broke forth into a new life, and there was such a buzzing, and fluttering, and pinning, and labelling all over the house, with intrusive butterflies getting into the bed-rooms, and strange caterpillars walking up and down stairs, that people of ordinary nerves and uninterested in insect architecture were afraid to go into the house. But he cherished all his living things with singular affection, even to the moths which had fattened upon his waistcoats, and the cockroaches which ran about his kitchen; although Mrs. Weston, the housekeeper, could never understand that the former insects only did any mischief in their first stage of existence, and that the latter were to be looked upon as sacred things, from the high veneration they were held in amongst the ancient Egyptians. The poor, ignorant woman, in the darkness of her intellect, classed them all as "warmint."

      The great aim of Mr. Grubbe's labours was to get up some paper that should produce a striking sensation in the learned world, by the novel facts that it might disclose — a consummation which had never yet arrived, for his most interesting discoveries had always been forestalled. To this great end did he consume his midnight patent stearine; for this did he burn holes in all his carpets with the contents of his galvanic battery, and get phosphorus under his nails, or take all the colour from his table-covers; in prosecuting. this endeavour, by rubbing his buffer of black lead over cartridge paper, laid upon engraved stones and brass tablets, to take the impression, was he three times apprehended for Swing, and once for sacrilege. But hitherto he had never produced any extraordinary impression beyond that which his appearance created with the rustics; and although he was a walking catalogue of the British Museum — far more copious and elaborate than those hired by country visitors at contiguous fishmongers and public-houses — he found every object therein had been so often and so minutely described, that nothing fresh was left to dilate upon. And this opinion for a time subdued his energy, until one evening he was present at the unrolling of a mummy. He listened with intense attention to the remarks of the lecturer, and envied him the proud position he was for the time placed in, as the descriptive link between the present and the long-past epochs. But when the ceremony was finished, and Mr. Grubbe found, upon reviewing the lecture, that our acquaintance with the ancient Egyptians extended just far enough to show that we knew nothing at all about them, a fresh chain of research presented: itself to his mind, and from that time every other pursuit was merged in the depths of the Great Pyramid, or perched upon the edge of Belzoni's sarcophagus. He made a mummy of his favourite cat; called his abode Sphynx-cottage; and allowed the kitchen to swarm with cockroaches — which he called scarabæi, and Mrs. Weston black beadles — more than ever.

MR. GRUBBE IN THE DOCKS.

      Things stood thus, when, one sultry July: morning, a learned friend called to beg his company in a visit to the Docks, to view some wonderful organic remains, not yet landed, which a ship had brought from a distant country. Mr. Grubbe immediately prepared for the excursion; and, after having drawn an odd pair of boots upon the wrong legs in his absence of mind, as well as omitted to take off his duffel dressing-gown, he gave himself up to the care of Mrs. Weston, who finally pronounced him fit to appear in the public streets. He accordingly started with his friend, taking the omnibus to the Bank, whence they proceeded to the Docks on foot, saving the other sixpence; and beguiling the journey with many curious arguments and opinions upon ichthyosauri and the blue lias clay.

      The inspection of the fossils was most satisfactory, and they were pronounced highly interesting, the more so because several of them were perfectly incomprehensible; and notwithstanding the confined and heated places in which they were stowed, Mr. Grubbe poked about amongst the packing-cases, covered with dust and perspiration, and dragging his friend after him, until every available object had been investigated, and they emerged from the hold into the free air. A fresh treat now awaited him. His friend was attached to everything old equally with himself, and old wine possessed no insignificant share of his affections. With praiseworthy foresight he had provided a tasting-order as a crowning finish to their excursion; and having raised. Mr. Grubbe's curiosity by mysterious hints of pipes and casks that had long slumbered in cool excavations below the level of the Thames, and wine more generous, oily, and sparkling than ever came into the dealer's hands, they were not long in furnishing themselves with inches of candle in split laths, and following their guide — a priest of Bacchus in highlows and corduroys — into the bowels of the Docks. How long they lingered therein we are ashamed to state; nor will we tell the world too ruthlessly how many casks were broached by the relentless gimlet; how the wine leaped bright and creaming from the wood; how the glasses held twice the ordinary quantity, and how they were even rinced out with claret and madeira, which was thrown about amongst the sawdust like water. Neither will we betray the number of samples tasted by the visitors; nor do more than just hint at Mr. Grubbe's slapping the cellarman on the back for a good fellow, and endeavouring to strike up an ancient Bacchanalian melody, sung by Dignum in his young days. We only know that this subterranean sojourn was protracted to a period we blush to chronicle, delayed, no doubt, by a learned disquisition, poured forth by Mr. Grubbe, upon the home-made wines of Thebes, which ended just as they got to the top of the staircase, and stood once more, blinking and confused, in the glaring sunshine of a July afternoon. And terrible was the effect of the hot atmosphere upon their temperaments before a few minutes had passed. Whiz-z-z-z-z-z went their eyes and brains altogether; the ships flew round and round like the revolving-boats at Greenwich fair, and the warehouses heaved and rolled as the billows of the sea. It was with the greatest difficulty, amidst this general bouleversement of surrounding objects, that the two men of science staggered to the gate, and deposited themselves in the first omnibus that passed. They had not particularly inquired in what direction it was going; and, in consequence, after much travelling, Mr. Grubbe was somewhat surprised to find the vehicle stop in Tottenhamcourt-road, when he expected to be at the White Horse Cellar. But he was in the humour for treating any mishap that might have occurred with exceeding levity; and finding that the locality suited his friend just as well, even better, than Piccadilly, he wished him good-bye very affectionately, and took advantage of its proximity to pay a visit to his favourite British Museum, partly in the belief that its cool tranquillity would allay his cerebral excitement.

MR. GRUBBE ENTERING THE MUSEUM.

      He left his inseparable gingham umbrella — which answered the double purpose of keeping off the rain when open, and serving as a portmanteau of collected curiosities when shut — with the porter upon entering; and then turned his steps towards the Egyptian gallery, which was his usual lounge, still cherishing some vague notion that his skull had turned into a bag of hydrogen, so elastic and vivacious was his step. There were, as usual, a great many people gaping about and asking foolish questions of the attendant; some mixing up the sphynx with the fossils they had seen, and asking if it ever was alive; others feeling rather afraid of going too near the mummies by themselves; and others lost in mental arguments as to whether the colossal fist of red granite was a thunderbolt or the hand of a petrified giant; together with a great many ill-conducted little boys, with no veneration for antiquities, who laughed at the different objects as they would have done at any of Mr. W. Bradwell's wondrous creations in a pantomime. Heedless of the visiters, Mr. Grubbe was soon lost in mighty speculations upon the mysterious productions by which he was surrounded; and so continued until the constant shuffling of feet and increasing influx of strangers, whose inane remarks grated upon his learned ears, drove him from the block upon which he was sitting, to some more remote corner of the gallery. Ensconcing himself in a recess behind one of the enormous heads, and screened by a sarcophagus, he fell into a fresh train of intense thought upon hieroglyphics in general, and those of mummies in particular. To this succeeded a confused picture of wine-vaults, pyramids, docks, claret-casks, and megatheria: and finally, overcome by the influence of heat, fatigue, and the tasting-order, he fell fast asleep.

      How long he slumbered remains to this day a mystery, and probably ever will do so. But when he awoke all was still and quiet as the interior of the Theban tombs; the gallery was entirely deserted, and the moon was pouring a flood of light through the windows, which fell upon the statues and remains, rendering them still more cold and ghastly. In an instant the truth broke upon the unhappy antiquary; he had been overlooked when the Museum was cleared at seven o'clock, and was locked in — bolted, barred, almost hermetically shut up in the gallery, in the most remote part of the building, with nothing but stony monsters and crumbling mortality for his associates! Chilled to the heart with terror, despair, and the reaction of his previous excitement, he started from his corner with the intention of trying the doors, when his movement was arrested by the chime of a clock. He knew the sound well: it was the bell of St. George's, Bloomsbury, and it proclaimed the hour of twelve. And he was there alone — alone, at midnight, in the Egyptian chamber of the British Museum!

EGYPTIAN CATCHING BEETLE.

      In a frenzy of terror he rushed towards the large doors, in the hope of finding them open; but they were fast closed, and he rattled the handles until the whole building rang again with the echoes. Hark! what was that sound? The echo had died away, and was now renewed, although he had desisted from his impotent attempts to gain some mode of egress. It sounded from above, and now came nearer and nearer, louder and louder, like the deadened and regular beat of muffled drums. There were footsteps too — he could plainly distinguish them, in audible progression, coming down stairs. And now a fearful spectacle met his horrified gaze. The immense marble scarabæus on the floor of the gallery vibrated with incipient animation; then it stretched forth its huge feelers and opened its massy wings, like a newly-born insect trying the properties of its novel limbs; and next, with the heavy cumbrous motion of a tortoise, it crept across the floor, throwing back the moonbeams from its polished surface, towards the principal entrance of the gallery. Tramp, tramp, tramp — onward came the noise, as of a great assembly, the drums still keeping up their monotonous accompaniment, and at last they approached close to the door, which quivered immediately afterwards with three loud knocks upon its panels from without. As the hapless Mr. Grubbe shrank still further into the recess, the large beetle scuffled nearer to the door, and then, raising one of its hideous feelers, it turned the handle. The gigantic granite fist moved by itself towards the entrance, and repeated the signal on the panels; and, at the last blow, a sound like the low rumbling of thunder echoed through the edifice, and the doors flew open, admitting a glare of purple light, that for a few moments blinded the terrified intruder, whilst on either side the Memnon and the Sphynx retreated back against the wall, to allow room for the dismal cortège that approached.

MR. GRUBBE DANCING.

      The whole collection of mummy-cases in the rooms. above had given up their inmates, who now glided down the staircase, one after another, to join their ancient compatriots of the gallery below, lifting up the covers of their painted tombs, and stretching forth their pitched and blackened arms to welcome them. And next, the curious monsters with the birds' heads, who, up to this moment, had remained patiently sitting against the side of the room with their hands upon their knees, rose courteously to salute their visitors. The light which filled the apartment, although proceeding from no visible point, grew brighter and brighter until it assumed the brilliancy of oxy-hydrogen, and when the last of the dusty and bandaged guests had arrived, the doors closed violently, and the orgies began. The figures in the pictures became animated and descended from the tablets, being by far the most attractive portion of the company, either male or female, as they were semblances of life, bearing amphoræ of the choicest wine from the vineyards of Memphis: strange birds in long striped tunics, and stranger creations, whose shapes inherited an attribute of every class of the animal kingdom, acted as attendants, and obsequiously waited upon the superior deities; whilst the greatest feature of the gallery — the mystic, awe-inspiring Memnon, moved in stately progress to the end of the room, and commenced pouring forth that wondrous harmony with which at sunrise and twilight he welcomed his early worshippers. Then commenced an unearthly galopade — a dreary carnival of the dead, to the music of their master, accompanied by the strange sounds of instruments brought by the mummies most inclined to conviviality, from the glass-cases up stairs. But the strangest sight in the whole spectacle was the curious way in which Mr. Grubbe, despite his fears, perceived that they mingled ancient with modern manners, when the dance came to an end. Some of the animated Egyptians betook themselves to pipes and beer; others brought large aerolites from the different rooms and began to play at ninepins with the inferior household gods of blue glazed clay; one young Memphian even went so far as to thrust an enormous hook, as big as an anchor, through the body of the scarabæus, and then spin him at the end of a rope about the room; and, finally, they wheeled a sarcophagus into the centre of the gallery, and filled it with what Mr. Grubbe's nose told him was excellent mixed punch, which they tippled until the eyes of Memnon twinkled with conviviality, as he snuffed up the goodly aroma; and at length, forgetting his dignity altogether, volunteered to play the Aurora waltzes (in compliment of course to his mother) out of his head. The monumental punch-bowl was directly pushed on one side, and they began to dance again, Mr. Grubbe getting gradually more and more excited by the music, until, unable to contain himself any longer, he rushed from his recess, and seizing a fair young daughter of the Nile round the waist, was in an instant whirling round in the throng of deities, mummies, hieroglyphics, ibises, and anomalous creations who composed the assembly.

      The hours flew along like joyous minutes, and still the unearthy waltz was continued with persisting energy, until Mr. Grubbe's brain became giddy and bewildered. His strength also began to fail in spite of the attractions of his young Memphienne, whose soft downy cheeks, roguish kissable lips, and supernaturally-sparkling eyes, had for a time made him forget his age. He requested her to stop in their wild gyrations, but she heeded him not — breathless and exhausted, he was pulled round and round, whilst the Memnonian orchestra played itself louder and louder, until at length, losing all power, he fell down in the midst of the dancers. Twenty others, who had been twirling onwards, not perceiving their prostrate companion, immediately lost their footing; and, finally, the whole assembly, like so many bent cards, giddy with wine and excitement, bundled one over the other, the unfortunate antiquary being the undermost of the party. In vain he struggled to be free — each moment the pressure of the superincumbent Egyptians increased; until in a last extremity — unable to breathe, bruised by their legs and arms, and half suffocated with mummy-dust — he gave a few fruitless gasps for air, and then became insensible.

      It was broad daylight when he once more opened his eyes; and the motes were dancing in the bright morning sunbeams that darted into the gallery. There were sounds of life and motion too, on every side (although no one had as yet entered the apartment), and the rumble of distant vehicles in the streets. It was some little time before Mr. Grubbe could collect his ideas, for his brain was still slightly clouded — his lips also were parched, and his eyeballs smarting with the revelry of the night. But there he still was, in the room, surrounded by his late company, although they had now resumed their usual situations: the Memnon and Sphynx were vis-à-vis, and the scarabæus in his customary place, as cold and inanimate as ever; whilst the gigantic fist had once more taken possession of its pedestal, and the gentlemen with the curious heads were sitting with their hands upon their knees in their wonted gravity. But, notwithstanding all this chill reality, the antiquary's mind was in a tumult of excitement. The dim undying magic of ancient Egypt was still in force, unconquered by time or distance. He had been admitted to the orgies of Memnon; he had watched the revelries and manners of the hitherto mysterious race; above all, he had gleaned information for a paper that would bring the Society of Antiquaries at his feet in wondrous veneration!

      The doors were, ere long, thrown open, and Mr. Grubbe left. the gallery unnoticed. On arriving at Brompton, he found Mrs. Weston in a state of extreme terror and exhaustion, having watched the whole night for her master's return, that worthy gentleman never having passed so long a period from home. He retired immediately to his study, and laboured until dusk with unceasing industry; and from that period Egypt alone occupied his thoughts. He thought of nothing else by day, and dreamed of that subject only by night. The subject grew beneath his hands and ideas, and what with the circumstances he imagined, and those he dreamed about — for in his labours he ever confounded them together — the work is still unfinished; and he will not give it to the world in an imperfect condition, although his most intimate friends already fear that his application is affecting his brain. But, when his task is concluded, great will be his triumph: he will have furnished — at least such is his expectation — a key to all the mystic customs of the early Nile; the hidden lore of Memphis will be unravelled to the million: he will walk abroad a thing for men to gaze at and reverence; and his name will go down to posterity in company with Memnon and the Great Pyramid.

      These are his own anticipations: his intimate friends have only one hope that he will be spared from Bedlam sufficiently long to perfect his colossal undertaking; and that on no account will he be induced any more to venture, with a tasting-order, to the Docks.