_Oct. 15th._--After dinner we drove through the beautiful English garden--a public promenade--which is larger and more diversified than Kensington Gardens; but the trees are not so fine, being of younger growth. A branch of the Isar rolls through this garden, sometimes an absolute torrent, deep and rapid, foaming and leaping along, between its precipitous banks,--sometimes a strong but gentle stream, flowing "at its own sweet will" among smooth lawns. Several pretty bridges cross it with "airy span;" there are seats for repose, and cafés and houses where refreshment may be had, and where, in the summer-time, the artisans and citizens of Munich assemble to dance on the Sunday evenings;--altogether it was a beautiful day, and a delightful drive. In the evening at the opera with the ambassadress and a large party. It was the queen's fête, and the whole court was present. The theatre was brilliantly illuminated--crowded in every part: in short, it was all very gay and very magnificent; as to hearing a single note of the opera, (the Figaro,) that was impossible; so I resigned myself to the conversation around me. "Are you fond of music?" said I, innocently, to a lady whose volubility had ceased not from the moment we entered the box. "Moi! si je l'aime!--mais avec passion!" And then without pause or mercy continued the same incessant flow of _spirituel_ small-talk while Scheckner-Wagen and Meric, now brought for the first time into competition, and emulous of each other,--one pouring forth her full _sostenuto_ warble, like a wood-lark,--the other trilling and running divisions, like a nightingale--were uniting their powers in the "Sull' Aria;" but though I could not hear I could see. I was struck to-night more than ever by the singular dignity of the demeanour of Madame Scheckner-Wagen. She is not remarkable for beauty, nor is there any thing of the common made-up theatrical grace in her deportment--still less does she remind us of queen Medea--queen Pasta, I should say--the imperial syren who drowned her own identity and ours together in her "cup of enchanted sounds;"--no--but Scheckner-Wagen treads the stage with the air of a high-bred lady, to whom applause or censure are things indifferent--and yet with an exceeding modesty. In short, I never saw an actress who inspired such an immediate and irresistible feeling of respect and interest for the individual _woman_. I do not say that this is the _ne plus ultra_ of good acting--on the contrary; though it is a mistake to imagine that the moral character of an actress or a singer goes for nothing with an audience--but of this more at some future time. Madame Scheckner's style of singing has the same characteristic simplicity and dignity: her voice is of a fine full quality, well cultivated, well managed. I have known her a little indolent and careless at times, but never forced or affected; and I am told that in some of the grand classical German operas, Gluck's Iphigenia, for instance, her