of haziness that we associate with
Indian summer at home; so that through it the people in the gallery
appeared like glorified objects in a heathen Pantheon, and the
orchestra like men playing in a dream. Yet nobody seemed to mind it;
and there was, indeed, a general air of social enjoyment and good
feeling. Whether this good feeling was in process of being produced
by the twelve or twenty glasses of beer which it is not unusual for a
German to drink of an evening, I do not know. "I do not drink much
beer now," said a German acquaintance,--"not more than four or five
glasses in an evening." This is indeed moderation, when we remember
that sixteen glasses of beer is only two gallons. The orchestra
playing that night was Gungl's; and it performed, among other things,
the whole of the celebrated Third (or Scotch) Symphony of Mendelssohn
in a manner that would be greatly to the credit of orchestras that
play without the aid of either smoke or beer. Concerts of this sort,
generally with more popular music and a considerable dash of Wagner,
in whom the Munichers believe, take place every night in several
cafes; while comic singing, some of it exceedingly well done, can be
heard in others. Such amusements--and nothing can be more harmless
--are very cheap.

Speaking of Indian summer, the only approach to it I have seen was in
the hazy atmosphere at the West Ende Halle. October outdoors has
been an almost totally disagreeable month, with the exception of some
days, or rather parts of days, when we have seen the sun, and
experienced a mild atmosphere. At such times, I have liked to sit
down on one of the empty benches in the Hof Garden, where the leaves
already half cover the ground, and the dropping horse-chestnuts keep
up a pattering on them. Soon the fat woman who has a fruit-stand at
the gate is sure to come waddling along, her beaming face making a
sort of illumination in the autumn scenery, and sit down near me. As
soon as she comes, the little brown birds and the doves all fly that
way, and look up expectant at her. They all know her, and expect the
usual supply of bread-crumbs. Indeed, I have seen her on a still
Sunday morning, when I have been sitting there waiting for the
English ceremony of praying for Queen Victoria and Albert Edward to
begin in the Odeon, sit for an hour, and cut up bread for her little
brown flock. She sits now knitting a red stocking, the picture of
content; one after another her old gossips pass