Oh, might he hope that 'twould be given,
Either in this world, or in heaven,
To hear such songs as those again!

–––But life is deep and words are vain.
Mark yonder hedgerow, here and there
Sprinkled with Spring, but mainly bare;
The wither'd bank beneath, where blows,
In yellow crowds, the fresh primrose:
What skill of colour thus could smite
The troubled heart-strings thro' the sight:
What magic of sweet speech express
Their primeveral tenderness?
Can these not utter'd be, and can
The day-spring of immortal man?

        BITS OF LIFE IN MUNICH.

   THE following traits of life in Munich are
traced by a young lady who is studying painting
in that city, under a master, and in company
with a female friend. This little preface is
necessary for the reader, to understand, better
than he would without it, several of the fair
writer's allusions, and to acquaint him with
the independent kind of life two young ladies
can lead, with perfect propriety and security
in "the capital of Art ":–––

           PILGRIM BROTHERS.

This is August, and the nights are now and
then so hot and close, that after our tea, spite
of its being twilight, we sometimes feel bound
to take a walk. The other evening, for
example, we betook ourselves, therefore, along
one of the old streets of Munich–––a street
very long, and very ill-paved, and with the
house-fronts handsome with old carving and
stucco-work; a street where in the evening
all the inhabitants gossip at their open
windows and doors; a street much infested with
bakers' shops; and where, through quaint,
old window panes, you catch glimpses of
queer, old witch-like women, or young girls
like Faust's Margaret, sitting spinning; a
street which, if one could write graphically,
one would revel in describing. I always
vastly enjoy going up this street, and wanted
to see it, as well as to see the effect of the
sunset behind the tall tower and building
which surrounds the Bavaria when once you
pass through the Sendliger Gate and get out
on the plain.

Just about the middle of this queer old
street we met a crowd, heard a hum of voices,
saw banners waving, crucifixes borne aloft.
It was the return of a pilgrimage. Hot,
weary, dusty, foot-sore, on they came. First
walked priests, with their dusty banners and
crucifixes; white-robed children followed,
carrying faded wreaths and garlands, their
poor little heads drooping with fatigue. Now
a band of men, a Bruderschaft, dressed in their
pilgrim garb, large blue cloaks with heavy
capes, on which conspicuously showed the
pilgrim cockleshell; then a group of young
girls, many carrying bulrushes in their hands
instead of palm-branches, and relics from
the holy spot they had pilgrimed to; next
trooped on men, men, men, their shoes covered
with white dust, their heads bare, their hands
folded; old men, middle-aged men, lads; here
and there a picturesque, fanatical-looking
head, with lank locks and hollow cheeks, and
sunken eyes; or brooding and morose-looking,
with wild, bushy hair, and huge growth of
beard; a strange assembly!–––but nevertheless,
the greater number were of the quiet,
respectable, citizen class; and one felt how
strange it was to see such jolly-looking, everyday
sort of good shopkeepers joining in a
pilgrimage; they seemed so opposed to
everything like sentiment and enthusiasm. And
all the men muttered prayers, every now and
then their hoarse voices rising into a
monotonous chant of the word, Heilige! Heilige!
Heilige! And on they came, and on! like a
stream of phantoms in a bewildering dream.
They rushed past in the twilight, walking so
fast with their dusty feet, and muttering their
monotonous words, till one felt almost
delirious. And now in the distance the
young girls' voices, and the voices of the
little children swelled into a solemn strain,
and on came women, and women, and women,
old and young, and middle-aged, and dusty,
also, and praying and muttering also! All,
with the exception of one lady in a bonnet,
who walked in the middle of the procession–––
a singular, gaunt, fanatical-looking woman–––
all, with this exception, appeared to be of the
humble class–––worn, hard-featured, suffering
women. Yet on they streamed, till one felt
breathless! It was a striking, and, some
way, to me an unusually thrilling sight!

     A GROUP OF BUILDINGS.

And now we were out on the quiet plain,
which stretched away into an horizon of deep
blue mountain-like clouds; a pale amber
sunset-streak fading away by the most delicate
of gradations into a lovely azure, athwart
which stretched a fantastic mass of dark
indigo clouds; the moon trembling above the
sunset light, and here and there a dainty star
twinkling in the amber and azure; whilst
behind the dark mass of the Bavaria tower
flashed ever and anon rose-tinted summer
lightning, turning the mass of blue clouds
into a range of lilac mountains, and the
Bavaria building into an enchanted castle.

We were so charmed with our walk, that
we determined, whenever we could, to make
a point of going out to see these effects, and
then trying to remember them, and put them
down on our return home. The next evening
we took our walk out through the Triumphal
Arch at the end of the Ludwig Strasse. I
must certainly have mentioned how
inexpressibly beautiful the Ludwig Strasse looks
in the evening, the uniformity of the Byzantine
architecture broken, yet not destroyed
by the pale and harmonious tints employed in
the various masses of building; delicate reds,
and stone colours, and greys, with here and
there a mass of pure dazzling white, all