riding through the solemn old pine-woods in
the dewy morning, and returning in the same
way by moonlight "Let us ride there; I
know you and Signor N. often ride; I know
you can get horses; I know of a capital lady's
horse in Munich, and it is not so very far. Let
us ride! let us ride!" But Mr. Grunen laughed
at my idea, as very expensive, and very
fatiguing to boot; so I was fain to content
myself with a ride in imagination. The other
evening, when I had given up the hope of
going to Starnberg at all— unless I would
walk the whole way— behold a note, with an
omnibus ticket enclosed.— "I have been
fortunate enough," ran Mr. Grunen's note, "to
obtain two stell-wagen tickets; but whether
we can return the same way in the evening, or
whether we can find accommodation at
Starnberg for the night, is another thing. But the
worst that can befal us is to dance all night
at the fête, and walk home, or part way
home, in the morning— Haben Sie courage?"
— I replied, certainly I had "courage" for any
such adventure; and consequently six o'clock
yesterday morning saw Mr. Grunen and myself
comfortably seated in the coupé of one of the
many stell-wagen departing from a certain inn,
called the Stackhus-Garten. Pleasant was the
morning— pleasant the road through the long
poplar avenues, and across the plain, and
through the long, long, monotonous, dreamy
pine-woods, which, in fact, are the Royal
Park, and where, said Mr. Grunen, you may
suddenly come upon a herd of very fine wild
boars!— and pleasant was the view of the
Alpine chain which we ever slowly approached.
But most pleasant was the first glimpse of the
quiet Starnberg lake, as it lay gleaming in
the morning sunshine, surrounded by softly
sloping banks, clothed in the tender May
verdure of young beech-woods and luxuriant
up-springing grass, with the white buildings
of little Stamberg, its church, its handsome
hotel of semi-Tyrolean architecture its—
Town-hall, I think they call it— looking very like a
convent perched commandingly upon a low
hill; its various pleasant villas, embosomed
in woods and gardens, and its sprinkling of
grey Tyrolean cottages, shining out brightly
close beneath us, as we descended a hilly road
into the little town. And other white villas,
and hamlets, and church-towers shone out
dazzlingly in the sunshine, at remoter
distances, round the green, sloping, wooded
shores of the lake.

The background of our picture was the
chain of Alps, whose snowy peaks pierced the
clouds, and to whose very feet the expanse of
water seemed to reach, though, in fact, thirty
miles of plain lie between the lake and
mountains; but the illusion is perfect— there is the
shadowy line of distant shore, then abruptly
rises the stern mountain chain. Imagine
this scene steeped in May sunshine, which
showered down even into the deepest recesses
of one's own human heart, filling one's whole
being with light and joy; then you can believe
how pleasant was the descent into little
Starnberg. All the houses were decorated
with flags, and green wreaths, and festooned
draperies; close to the shore lay the little
steamer, which had already been launched,
and round it swarmed a crowd of wondering
people— some in boats, others on the new pier,
others on the shore. Omnibuses and private
carriages, vehicles, in fact, of all descriptions,
had passed us on the road, but not in the
numbers we had been led to expect; and now
they were seen drawn up in array before the
different inns. Still, Starnberg did not appear,
some way, as animated and swarming with
gay crowds as we had hoped, or perhaps, more
correctly speaking, had feared to find it. But,
then it was so early yet— only half-past nine!
We walked down to look at the little steamer,
which men were busily decorating with
garlands. Having amused ourselves with this
bustling scene, we were bending our steps
once more across the flowery meadow which
lies between the lake and the little town, when
we perceived Mr. Grunen's friend, Signor N.,
in very summer-like costume of light coat and
broad-brimmed straw-hat, pacing up and down
among the flowers. A few moments more, he,
Mr. Grunen, and I were being rowed across
the lake towards the little hamlet of Lione. We
considered that our wisest plan was to enjoy
the lake till we learnt precisely what the fête
would offer us of enjoyment. One enjoyment
promised, certainly, was the embarkation of
Royalty; but for that we must wait an hour
or two. No, we would see Royalty and the
steamer touch at some point on the lake.
Before, however, we reached Lione, we began
to think of breakfast, or luncheon, or
whatever else you may choose to call it. It was
now eleven o'clock, and we were ready for a
most substantial meal; we could not even
wait till we reached the little hamlet, with its
romantic name; but landed at a group of
houses, where, our boatman said, we might
have as good a breakfast as at Lione itself.
What visions had we not been conjuring up,
of fish just caught out of the lake! of capital
beefsteaks, and delicious, smoking coffee!
The gentlemen went into the kitchen to
inspect the state of the larder, whilst I
wandered up into a pleasant garden, or, rather,
wilderness, round the little inn. Steep,
gravelly, winding paths led among deep grass
and flowers up the hill-side, and were shaded
by beech-trees, clothed with their tender,
young leaves; at every lovely spot
commanding a view of the siinny lake, was a bench
placed, and often a table before the bench.
I chose a particularly pleasant and shady seat,
where we could enjoy our breakfast, the view,
the song of the birds, and the odour of
flowers at the same time: and then— still
thinking, with agreeable anticipation, of our
fresh fish and hot coffee— began plucking
cowslips and grasses from the bank. But,
behold! there were flowers more beautiful by
far than cowslips, at least, from their novelty,