During the latter part of the autumn in Berlin there are usually some fine days. The cloudless sun shines pleasantly out and evaporates the moisture from the warm air which blows through the streets. Mingling together in motley groups, you may see a long row of fashionables, citizens with their wives, little children in Sunday clothes, priests, Jewesses, young counsellors, professors, milliners, dancers, officers, &c. walking among the lindens in the Park. All the seats in Klaus & Weber’s coffee-house are soon occupied; the coffee throws off its steam. The fashionables light their cigars; everywhere persons are talking; here an argument is going on about war and peace, there about Madame Bethman’s shoes, whether the last ones she wore were green or gray, or about the state of the market and the bad money, &c., until all is hushed by an Aria from “Tanchon,” with which an untuned harp, a pair of ill-tuned violins, a wheezing flute, and a spasmodic bassoon torment themselves and their audience. Upon the balustrade which separates Weber’s place from the high-way, several little round tables and garden chairs are placed; here one can breathe in the free air and observe the comers and goers, at a distance from the monotonous noises of the accursed orchestra. There I sat down, and, abandoning myself to the light play of my fancy, conversed with the imaginary forms of friends who came around me, upon science and art, and all that is dearest to man. The mass of promenaders passing by me grows more and more motley, but nothing disturbs me, nothing can drive away my imaginary company. Now the execrable Trio of an intolerable waltz draws me out of my world of dreams. The high, squeaking tones of the violins and flutes, and the growling ground bass of the bassoon are all that I can hear; they follow each other up and down in octaves, which tear the ear, until, at last, like one who is seized with a burning pain, I cry out involuntarily, “What mad music! Those detestable octaves!”—Near me some one mutters.