g expenditure has rendered the rude hill which, covered chiefly
with evergreens, overlooks Spa, a succession of beautiful promenades.
Serpentine walks are led through its thickets, agreeable surprises are
prepared for the stranger, and all the better points of view are
ornamented by seats and summer-houses. One of these places was covered
by a permanent protection against the weather that had a name which
amused us, though it was appropriate enough, so far as the shape went.
It was called a "mushroom," it being, in fact, a sort of wooden
umbrella, not unlike those which the French market-women spread over
their heads in the streets of Paris, and which, more sentimental and
imaginative, they term a "_Robinson_" in honour of Robinson Crusoe.[22]
This mushroom was the scene of a remarkable occurrence, that it will
scarcely do to relate, but which, taking all together, furnishes a
ludicrous sample of national manners, to say nothing of miracles.

[Footnote 22: Pronounced Ro-ban-_sown_. The writer once went to return
the call of Mr. Robinson, at Paris. The porter denied that such a person
lived in the hotel. "But here is his card; Mr. Robinson, N----, Rue
----." "Bah," looking at the card, "ceci est Monsieur Ro-ban-_sown_;
c'est autre chose. Sans doute, Monsieur a entendu parler du celebre
Ro-ban-_sown?_"]

The waters and the air together proved to be so much a tonic, that we
determined to pass a week at Spa, A----, who was so weak on leaving
Paris, as scarcely to be able to enter the carriage, gaining strength in
a way to delight us all. The cholera and the quarantine together induce
a good many people to come this way, and though few remain as long as
ourselves, the constant arrivals serve to keep attention alive. Among
others, the Duke of Saxe-Cobourg passed a night here, on his way home.
He appeared in the public room, for a few minutes; but so few were
assembled, that he retired, it was said, disappointed. There is still
some playing in public, and occasionally the inhabitants of Verviers,
an affluent manufacturing town, near the Prussian frontier, come over in
sufficient numbers to make a tolerably brilliant evening. These meetings
take place in the Redoute, a building of moderate dimensions, erected in
the heart of the place according to a very general German custom;
Wauxhall, the ancient scene of revelry, standing aloof in the fields,
deserted and desolate, as does a rival edifice of more recent existence.
The dimen