This is all I can tell you. If at the time I had not been travelling _against_ time, and with a mind most fully and painfully occupied, I believe I should have been tempted to accompany my heroine to Deuxponts--at least I should have retained her narrative more accurately. Not having made any memoranda till many days afterwards, all the names have escaped my recollection; but if you have any doubts of the general truth of this story, I will at least give you the means of verifying it. Here is her name, in her own handwriting, on one of the leaves of my pocket-book--you can read the German character;
SKETCHES OF ART, LITERATURE, AND CHARACTER.
MEMORANDA AT MUNICH, NUREMBURG, AND DRESDEN.
SEPT. 28th.--A week at Munich! and nothing done! nothing seen! My first _excursions_ I made to-day--from my bed to the sofa--from the sofa to the window. Every one told me to be prepared against the caprices of the climate, but I did not imagine that it would take a week or a fortnight to be _acclimatée_.
What could induce the princes of Bavaria to plant their capital in the midst of these wide, marshy, bleak, barren plains, and upon this rough unmanageable torrent,--"the Isar rolling rapidly,"--when they might have seated themselves by the majestic Danube? The Tyrolean Alps stretching south and west, either form a barrier against the most genial airs of heaven, or if a stray zephyr find his way from Italy, his poor little wings are frozen to his back among the mountain snows, and he drops shivering among us, wrapt in a misty cloud. I never saw such fogs: they are as dense and as white as a fleece, and look, and feel too, like rarefied snow;--but as no one else complains, I think it must be indisposition which makes me so peevish and so chilly. Sitting at the window being my best amusement, I do not like to find the only objects which are to give me a foretaste of the splendour of Munich, quite veiled from sight, and shrouded in mist, even for a few morning hours.
I am lodged in the Max-Joseph's-Platz, opposite to the theatre: a situation at once airy, quiet, and cheerful.
The theatre is in itself a beautiful object; the portico, of the Corinthian order, is supported by eight pillars; the ascent is by a noble flight of steps, with four gigantic bronze candelabras at the corners; and nothing, at least to my unlearned eyes, could be more elegant--more purely classical and Greek, than the whole, were it not for the hideous roof _upon the roof_,--one pediment, as it were, riding on the back of the other. Some internal arrangement of the theatre may render this deformity necessary, but it _is_ a deformity, and one that annoys me whenever I look at it.