say, “It will break poor Whinyate’s heart to lose his rockets.” “D--n his heart, sir; let my order be obeyed,” was the answer thundered in his ear by the Duke, as he turned on the worthy Sir George. Let me return to the country and its charms. With me one of the most delightful occupations is the exploring a new country; so that, whilst others could not exist except in Brussels, I found abundant occupation for my leisure riding about the neighbourhood of Strytem. One of my first rides was, as in duty bound, to Ninove. Instead of taking the main road from Brussels thither, which runs through Meerbeke, I took a by one to Liederkerke, and, turning to the left a short distance from this place, crossed the gently-flowing Dender, opposite the little village of Okegem, by a rustic bridge supported on posts, so narrow and fragile that it was not without demur, and at last leading my horse, that I ventured over. I found the officers of the troop here very humbly lodged--in mere cottages, and that of a poor description. Nothing here comparable to our lordly tapestried saloons at Strytem--to the which, by the way, we were becoming attached, more particularly since the fine weather had set in, and taught us to appreciate their coolness and refreshing _demi-jour_. The country, after passing the river, was not interesting, as I have mentioned elsewhere, but the scenery improved somewhat on drawing near Ninove, which place, with the immense monastery of white stone built on the higher part of the ground, had a somewhat imposing appearance: drawing still nearer, some fragments of old walls begin to make their appearance amongst the trees, which now became more numerous, and we enter the place under a dark-browed picturesque arch, flanked by two circular towers, partly in ruins and overgrown with ivy, the whole half concealed, until one turns short upon it, by the clustering foliage of some handsome elms and the thick shrubbery of bushes growing out of the old walls. As my horse’s feet resounded under the archway, a flash of romance came across me, and I thought of the counts of Burgundy and their romantic court, and pictured in my mind’s eye some lordly pageant streaming from out the archway in all its glittering array. Sober reality soon banished romance. A short street brought me from the gate to the head of the principal one--long, broad, clean; houses low, and of rather a humble description; on the whole, looking more like the street of an English country town than anything I had seen in the Pays Bas here; and standing across it was the monastery which had formed so conspicuous a feature in the aspect of the town from without. This, instead of representing the sort of ecclesiastical building one would expect a monastery to be, was a magnificent modern-built house of three storeys, pierced with numerous large sashed windows, looking airy and cheerful--anything rather than the house of sorrow, repentance, and abstinence.