and perhaps a quarter of that in width,—­a park of splendid old trees, grand, sweeping avenues, open glades of free-growing grass, with delicious, shady walks, charming drives and rivers of water.  For the Isar is trained to flow through it in two rapid streams, under bridges and over rapids, and by willow-hung banks.  There is not wanting even a lake; and there is, I am sorry to say, a temple on a mound, quite in the classic style, from which one can see the sun set behind the many spires of Munich.  At the Chinese Tower two military bands play every Saturday evening in the summer; and thither the carriages drive, and the promenaders assemble there, between five and six o’clock; and while the bands play, the Germans drink beer, and smoke cigars, and the fashionably attired young men walk round and round the, circle, and the smart young soldiers exhibit their handsome uniforms, and stride about with clanking swords.

We felicitated ourselves that we should have no lack of music when we came to Munich.  I think we have not; though the opera has only just begun, and it is the vacation of the Conservatoire.  There are first the military bands:  there is continually a parade somewhere, and the streets are full of military music, and finely executed too.  Then of beer-gardens there is literally no end, and there are nightly concerts in them.  There are two brothers Hunn, each with his band, who, like the ancient Huns, have taken the city; and its gardens are given over to their unending waltzes, polkas, and opera medleys.  Then there is the church music on Sundays and holidays, which is largely of a military character; at least, has the aid of drums and trumpets, and the whole band of brass.  For the first few days of our stay here we had rooms near the Maximilian Platz and the Karl’s Thor.  I think there was some sort of a yearly fair in progress, for the great platz was filled with temporary booths:  a circus had set itself up there, and there were innumerable side-shows and lottery-stands; and I believe that each little shanty and puppet-show had its band or fraction of a band, for there was never heard such a tooting and blowing and scraping, such a pounding and dinning and slang-whanging, since the day of stopping work on the Tower of Babel.  The circus band confined itself mostly to one tune; and as it went all day long, and late into the night, we got to know it quite well; at least, the bass notes of it, for the lighter tones came to us indistinctly.  You know that blurt, blurt, thump, thump, dissolute sort of caravan tune.  That was it.

The English Cafe was not far off, and there the Hunns and others also made night melodious.  The whole air was one throb and thrump.  The only refuge from it was to go into one of the gardens, and give yourself over to one band.  And so it was possible to have delightful music, and see the honest Germans drink beer, and gossip in friendly fellowship and with occasional hilarity.  But music we had, early