ich we now approach, is a massive
quadrangular building, and the warlike character of its architectural
decorations strikingly indicate the nature of its contents. We pass
through the open gate into an inner court, and looking round upon the
sombre walls which inclose us, see the fearful faces of dead and dying
men, cut in stone, which the taste or caprice of the architect has
considered their fittest ornament. There is something strangely original
and attractive in the grotesque hideousness of these heads, agonised with
pain, scowling in anger, or frightful with their upturned eyes in the
rigidity of death, all bleached and shadowed as they are by the
vicissitudes of the weather.

Within the arsenal we find walls of glistening steel, columns of lances,
architectural and other devices worked out in dagger blades and pistol
handles; while battered armour and faded draperies, in the shape of
pennons and standards, storm and battle-tattered, help to make up
trophies, and swing duskily in every corner.

After a rapid survey, we are about to leave this magazine of Bellona,
when we are struck by the sight of an object which reminds us so
completely of one of those "gorgeous processions" in Eastern "spectacles"
at home, that we wonder for a moment whether it be "part of the play," or
tangible, sober reality. Yes! placed upon a scarlet cushion lies an
enormous gilt key (such a one as clown in the pantomime might open his
writing-desk with, or such as hangs over a locksmith's door), and above
it glistens a golden legend to the effect that the treasure beneath was
presented to "William of Prussia by his loving cousin, Nicolas, Emperor
of all the Russias," and is no less a prize than the identical key of the
captured city of Adrianople! Has, then, the Russian Emperor so many such
trophies of Eastern spoliation that his own museums at Petersburg are
insufficient to contain them?

Up the steep way towards the residence of the Prince of Prussia, guarded
by its zealous sentries, we pursue our course, and reach the first bridge
we have yet seen, being one of the very many which span the Spree as it
meanders through the city. This river does not present an imposing
appearance in any part of Berlin. The Berliners may shake their heads,
and talk of the "Lange Brucke," but let them remember that in no part
does the Spree exceed two hundred feet in width. Moreover, the manner in
which it is jammed up between locks, like a mere cana