Before he reached the door, he heard Specht's shrill voice singing the celebrated song, "Here I sit on the green grass, with violets around;" and looking in, he saw the minstrel, in poetical attitude, so enjoying his own melody, that he stood without for a few moments, not to disturb the inspiration.

Specht's room was by no means large, and his invention had been exercised for years in giving it a special and distinguished character.

Indeed, he had succeeded by means of pictures, plaster of Paris casts, small ornaments of different kinds, useless pieces of furniture, and a great coat of arms over the bed, in making it unlike any other apartment ever seen.

But the most remarkable thing about it was in the very centre of the room.

There hung an immense ring suspended to a beam in the ceiling.