flecked with snow, such a lapis lazuli heaven,
that I forthwith put away my work, and
some twenty minutes afterwards rushed into
our little sitting-room, startling my companion,
Mary, with my exclamation of—" On with
your cloak! Quick! quick! We will go in
a sledge to Nymphenbourg! Hurrah for
Hamilton and Hildegrande! We will honour
their memories by the self-same drive!"

Mary, my companion, was as much pleased
with the scheme as myself; for, though we
are invited to join a grand sledging party
"some day," yet we would not wait for that;
we would have a little pleasure, by anticipation,
on our own account. Fraülein Sänschen,
therefore, was despatched to bring us the
handsomest sledge she could find on the
stand, with two capital horses. We made a
hasty dinner, while the good old soul bustled
off; wrapped ourselves in all our warm things,
and were ready by the time that the musical
and significant jingling of bells was heard
beneath our windows.

Our sledge was a magnificent one, which I
had already greatly admired on the Odean
Platz; a large white sledge, lined with scarlet,
and with an immense apron of leopard-skin.
Two tall golden ornaments rose up in the
front, crowned each with a golden bunch of
grapes. But the supreme grandeur of the
whole were plumes of white and blue feathers,
which nodded upon the horses' heads, while
the bells were of silver; a gradation of bells,
and consequently of sound, hung within a
bright steel bow, which arched over each
horse's neck, and producing, as may be
imagined, a most gay and pleasant sound. The
driver was a large, handsome, rosy-faced man,
literally buried in his dark-blue cloak, edged
with brown fur at the cuffs, and deep cape.
Our horses were coal-black and very wild,
with trappings of a brilliant scarlet. We
ourselves you may picture in our smart new
bonnets, our furs and black-hooded cloaks,
nestled down like birds among the scarlet
cushions, which make part of the sledge
furniture.

Away we start; the long whip is cracked
again and again in artistic flourishes over our
heads; its echoes sound through the silent
Amalien Strasse, and altogether, with the
sweet ringing of the horses' bells, we make
a tremendous riot. Mary is quite alarmed,
because everybody stops and looks after us.

The sun shines upon the long lines of
delicately-tinted houses, pale pinks, stones, greens,
and salmon colours; the roofs are dazzling
with snow; the sledges we pass—for we go
at a tremendous rate—and the groups of
people in the streets look brilliant patches of
colour, contrasted against the whiteness of the
road, and shone upon by the bright sun.

We drive out towards the vast plain; the
sun is beginning to sink slowly into an abyss
of molten gold, which reveals itself behind a
gigantic range of mountain-like cloud of lilac
and amber; the tall obelisk burns in the rays
of the setting sun, till it appears like a mighty
tongue of fire leaping up into the azure
heavens; the sunbeams lie upon the broad
doors of the beautiful pure Glyptothek, gleaming
like flame; the statues, the columns, and
pediment, both of the Glyptothek and the
Corinthian Temple facing it, are tinted with
the warm light, and rise from the expanse of
snow beyond in sharp outline, and of the
most exquisite creamy hue; and before us
lies the plain, dreamy, dazzlingly white, with
long shadows falling across it of delicate azure,
with trees and villages in the middle distance
of etherial greys and blues, so tender, so unreal
in their colouring, yet at the same time so
distinct in their contour, that one is
transported with delight and wonder.

We pass beneath one of those huge beams
suspended across the roads, painted with
winding stripes of the Bavarian colours, which
stand here in place of turnpike-gates; enter a
road lined with trees on either hand; ascend
a slight hill, breweries, and wayside beer and
coffee-houses, and small villas skirting the
road; and having again reached the level
ground, are in Nymphenbourg Allée, as it is
called. But, only see! A mist, dense, blue,
cold, approaches us. We cannot see a
hundred, not fifty, not twenty yards, before us;
yet behind us lies Munich in the sunshine.
Mist rises rapidly, stealthily, from the snowy
plain to the right hand, and to the left, mist
blocks up the avenue! How very strange!

We must return immediately; no
Nymphenbourg for us to-day! Pedestrians, and
horses, and drivers, and riders of various
degrees approach us, and pass us, or are
passed by us, all on their way to Munich, out
of the mist. The beards, the hair of the men,
the fur of their dress, the manes, and tails, and
long hair of the horses, all covered with a
white rime; they seemed suddenly all to have
gone grey.

We drive back to the city at full speed;
there all is still so pleasant, that we continue
our drive. We drive past the Basilica, and
across the Dult Platz, and through the most
frequented streets, till we enter the Ludwig
Strasse, which, at this season, is in the afternoon
the great parade of Munich. People
were as usual promenading up and down the
long beautiful street, whilst other sledges
were rapidly driving to and fro. As we glide
along past the palace of the Duke Max, where
the colossal statues of Aristotle, Hippocrates,
Homer, and Thucydides, throned aloft, look
more than usually solemn and venerable, from
the snow hoods and draperies fallen upon
them; past the Ludwig Church, the white,
slender towers of which cut boldly against the
pure, rosy, evening sky; past the Damen Stift,
the University, the Jesuits' College, the now
silent fountains, and, emerging from beneath
the triumphal arch, find ourselves in the
long poplar avenue leading to Schwalbing,—
we declare that the Ludwig Strasse has quite
exceeded itself in beautiful effects to-day.