ng of youth, the impression faded; the painful experience hovered
faintly in the background of the past; the romantic imp in my brain, a
little pale and emaciated from its long sojourn in the cellar, resumed
the throne. Once more I began to realize that I was human, and to cast
about for the mate that must surely be roaming in search of me. It was
then that I arrived in Munich.

"I saw him first in the Englischergarten. You remember it, that
wonderful imitation of a great stretch of open country, with fields
where they make hay, and bits of wild woods, and crooked pathways, and
bridges over a branch of the Isar, greenest and loveliest of rivers. And
then the little beer-gardens, where the people are always sitting and
listening to the band--and beyond the tree-tops, the spires and domes of
the beautiful city.

"I was standing by the lake watching the swans when he rode by, and I am
bound to say that he made no great impression. I hardly should have
noticed him had it not been for his excessively English appearance, and
a certain piercing quality in the glance with which he favored me. I
should never have given him another thought, but a week later I met him
formally. It came about oddly enough.

"That evening in looking through my trunk for a business paper I came
upon a letter of introduction given me by a friend I had made in Italy.
It was to a Baroness L., of Munich. I had quite forgotten it, and the
sight of it inspired me with no desire for the social curiosities. I was
infatuated with Munich, and its exteriors satisfied me. It has a large
courteous grandly-hospitable air, as if it were the private property of
a king, to which, however, all strangers are royally welcome. It is the
ideal king's city: life but no bustle; neither business, as we
understand the word, nor poverty; a city of infinite leisure and
infinite interest, a superb living picture-book, where one is ever
amused, interested, both stimulated and soothed. I had been in it three
weeks and had almost made up my mind to live there, and dream away the
rest of my life. Knote and Morena, Feinhals and Bender were singing at
the Hof Theatre. Mottl was conducting. Lili Marberg's Salome was
something to be seen again and again. You forgot the play itself. And
Bardou-Mueller's Mrs. Alving! I did not sleep for two nights.

"Well, I left the letter on my table, instead of returning it to the
portfolio of my trunk, and it exercised a certain insistence. What ar