When, on our return we reached the edge
of the English Garden, the sight of a
picturesque coffee-house, with its wooden
galleries running round the exterior in Tyrolian
fashion, over which, as it had been such a
bright sunny day, quantities of bedding were
hung to air, tempted us to indulge in a cup of
coffee, after our ramble. All looked beautiful,
but deserted, in the orchard, where a lanky
girl, in a very short green petticoat and
purple stockings, was sweeping away the
hosts of fallen leaves from tables and benches.
What a time we had to wait for coffee! We
should have grown quite cross had it not
been for the glorious sky which glowed before
us, and reflected itself in the rushing stream
at the bottom of the orchard. Behind us
rose the dark trees of the English Garden,
and before us, separated by the rapid stream,
and approached by a wooden bridge, lay the
quiet expanse of green meadows; while all
around us lay the brilliant masses of fallen
autumn leaves. We thought that this
probably was the last time we should take coffee
in the open air, as we had done so often
through the lovely summer, and we were
patient.

At length the coffee came; but it was quite
dark before we reached home.

Another day, taking our sketching
materials, we went to Schwalbing, a village with
two churches, just near the city, and to the
first of these we directed our steps. Unlike
most continental churches, it appeared to be
closed, as were the gates of the churchyard.
After peering about for a long time, I
discovered a door, leading into a court, which I
was convinced opened into the churchyard;
and so it proved. An old ruinous white
building, an old Spital, with the rudest of
faded frescoes upon its front, was united to
the church by a covered gallery, supported
upon arches. This gallery, with its tiled
roof, had quite an Italian character; just the
kind of architectural bit which Oberbeck
introduces into his pictures—a capital thing,
good in colour, and peculiar in composition,
yet so simple that we regretted it was not
summer, that we might have made a careful
study of it in oils.

Through these arches we went to behold
another capital bit of another character—a
covered way, leading tip to the porch,
supported on low grey marble pillars, very
quaint! It was fit for a back-ground in some
illustration of a ballad of Uhland's. We
were enchanted with our churchyard; there
was no need to go farther; but, first, we
would see the inside of the little church.

A fat, merry-looking woman, with a
handkerchief (in Munich fashion) tied tightly
across her forehead, and hanging down her
back in long ends, had seen us, as she looked
out of a house on one side of the court-yard,
and she now came out, with a key, and asked
if we would like to go into the church. That
was just what we wanted, we replied; and in
we went, through the low door-way. It was
like most village churches, very white from
white-wash, and very tawdry with gilding
and dressed-up Virgins, and hideous saints,
but very clean.

I asked her how it was that the church was
locked?—was there not mass there on
Sundays?—and could not people go in on
week-days to pray whenever they liked?

There was no mass, she said, on Sundays,
but on all saints' days; and when people
wanted to pray she was always ready to open
the door for them. But had not the Holy
Virgin had one of her best pocket-handkerchiefs
stolen, and had not a golden heart been
carried away from the altar? Ah, there were
very bad people in Munich, and it was necessary
to lock up the church!

She seemed an honest, good, simple soul
herself, for when I offered her some kreutzers
for her trouble, she would not take them,
saying that she was only too proud and too
happy to enter the church and show it to
strangers. From her we borrowed chairs,
and were soon comfortably sketching our
Oberbeck gallery. At twelve o'clock, the
woman and a little lad crossed the courtyard
to ring the bell, and soon after that
our usual dinner time arriving, we felt
very hungry, and were directed, by the
guardianess of the place, to the village inn
close by. A queer, dirty place it was, but we
were far too hungry to be particular. We sat
waiting for our portion of goose—everybody
seems to live on goose at this season, it appears
quite to take the place of veal in Munich—
in a long, dirty, billiard-room. All was
desolate and silent, saving that now and then
a slovenly girl, or hulking ostler, came in for
beer, which was brought to them from an
inner room. To amuse myself I read the
newspaper, which was just then full of
rumours of war.

At length we had our dinner, and then
went to the good woman's, in whose charge we
had left our sketching materials. What a
desolate place was her house! It was one
of those places which astonish by their total
want of every thing which one is accustomed
to consider a necessary of life. Yet, it would
have done anybody's heart good to have seen
the cheerful soul in her miserable room. She
was so merry, and her face bespoke such
habitual content; I think I never saw in any
human countenance such a pair of happy,
bright blue eyes.

To my astonishment, I found the room
filled with children, small children, a regular
swarm, between the ages of six months and
twelve years. Was it a school, or how was
it? I asked.

"Oh, they are all my own children," she
replied.

I looked round to see if she were not the
old woman who lived in the shoe, and who
knew not what to do with her many children.
But the house was not a shoe, as far as I