brought into the most delicious harmony by
the glow of evening; the two white slender
towers of the Ludwig church rising solemnly
into the blue heavens, and surmounted each
with a golden cross, which ever seems to
catch the rays of the sun, and to gleam and
sparkle when all else is sombre and dark.
Then in the evening and twilight, how cool
and refreshing, and soothing, is the splash of
the two fountains which play in the open
space before the University and the Jesuits'
School! How I should love, were I a youth,
to study in the University! That pure,
solemn, calm, beautiful building, white as of
the purest marble, with its long rows of round-arched
windows; its long band of medallions
also, a medallion between each centre window,
and enclosing the head of a legislator, a
philosopher, or a poet! And as the western sky
is lit up by the setting sun, its light streams
through painted windows, and the contrast
between the cool building, seen in shadow,
and these gemmed, glowing windows, is
magical. There is a monastic calm about the
building, which, to a studious and poetical
nature, must be delicious. The Jesuits'
School is of a pale, warm, stone colour, of the
same style, but by no means so beautiful.
But the whole effect of this square is very
poetical and striking, as you can believe, and
when the Triumphal Arch at the end of it is
completed, will be something quite unique.
The gateway is to be surmounted by a figure
of Bavaria, drawn by lions, in a triumphal
car; on the front and sides of the gate are
very beautiful basso-rilievos, and statues of
white marble.

The road beyond the Triumphal Arch is
lined by poplars, and the entrance by this
road into Munich, most impressive. For
about half a mile on one side the road, are
scattered villas and cafés. The Queen has a
lovely little villa there, simple and elegant,
and built in the style of domestic architecture
peculiar to Munich, and which strikes one as
being singularly beautiful and appropriate.
I wonder what Ruskin would say to it?

      A CONCERT AND A PLAY.

But now for more personal matters; and
first, for a concert. As the tickets were sent
late, we had but very little time for preparation.
We dressed in a desperate hurry,
putting off with our working dresses, our
character of art-students, and with our tickets in
our hands, and our two keys–––the latch-key
and key of our rooms–––set off across the
Residenz Platz and the Odean Platz. It was
a rehearsal concert of the students of the
Conservatorium, and the large hall was
crowded to overflowing already.

At the first door we found such a crush of
officers and students, all blocking up the
entrance, that it was quite impossible to get
in; but the glimpse we caught of a painted
ceiling and crowds and crowds of people,
seated in long rows and filling the galleries,
was quite exciting. We thought that perhaps
in the gallery there might be room, so rushing
first down steps and then up steps again, we
came to what we supposed a gallery-door;
but no, it was a door just opposite to the one
we had tried to get in at, and close to the
orchestra, and a capital place. Of course, we
had to stand, and so had numbers of others;
but it was very amusing as well as interesting.

The performers were all pupils, and many
of them very young. There was one little
violinist, not more than twelve certainly, who
played splendidly, and with such beautiful
earnestness and composure, and with such a
world of feeling! The applause was immense,
and you felt how proud his mother and his
friends must be; but he was like a little
unmoved statue, with his white face shaded by
its dark brown hair. It was all a matter of
course to him.

The friends and relations of the pupils were
a marked feature of the scene; many of them
quite poor people. And such numbers of
little lads! we had a whole host of them just
before us, and very much amused we were.
One little lad leaned with all the air of a used-up
man of fashion, against the balustrade of
the orchestra, in the face of the whole
company, and yawning with the greatest disdain
of all present, whilst he crossed his little legs
and played with his little gloved hands.

It might strike you as strange that we
venture to concerts and theatres by ourselves;
but nothing is easier or more comfortable. We
walk quietly to the opera, in the pleasant
sunshine. The Theatre looking so beautiful with
its fresco-painted pediment, all the square
alive with a gay crowd streaming also theatre-wards.
We take our places quietly in the
reserved seats; and having thoroughly
enjoyed ourselves, at the cost of one shilling and
eight pence, equally quietly and comfortably
walk home again. There is no crashing of
carriages and cabs, no shouting of watermen
and hackney-coachmen. Two or three
carriages may be there, their lamps shining out
like huge glow-worms at the bottom of the
flight of steps; but people who have carriages
quietly get into them, and there is no stir and
bustle; and those who have none wend their
way home singly or in groups; and the moon
lights up that beautiful little square, with its
palace front, its theatre, its Pompeian-like
post-office, its quaint side of old shops; or
the stars look down out of a deep blue, calm
sky, and all is silence and poetry.

The other night we went with some
acquaintance to the theatre in the An–––the
people's theatre–––but not the one that you
and I went to, and where I behaved so ill
by laughing at a tragedy instead of crying.
No, this is quite a grand affair. It reminds
one of a handsome steam-boat cabin; just
about the same size, and gilt and decorated
in the same taste–––or rather want of taste.
All, however, was very bright and fresh, and
the acting very good. We laughed immensely.