their abuse. No doubt our greatgrandfathers were right to put down the old practice of veils; but at the present day the thoughtful owner of a great house does not absolutely prohibit the domestic, whose services are put at the disposal of the guest unable to afford a valet of his own, from accepting a gratuity. It is known that for a trifle the guest may thus purchase the civility which the lord of the mansion cannot bestow on him when he bestows the services of his domestic.

In like manner a little remnant of the old discretional distribution of gratuities, over and above fixed rates, has some influence in sweetening travel. Economicus, to be sure, says it is mere waste; the service, whatever it may be, given without reference to it, is over before you tender it-you are departing; the chances are perhaps a hundred to one of your ever crossing the recipient again, and reaping your reward in his gratitude; you have no value for your money. But Economicus is wrong; there is value for the money-more than value; and that is just what makes the practice so seductive and liable to abuse. You buy, if not exactly a clear conscience, yet a pleasant, well-decorated conscience. What are a few shillings more or less in the pocket to the haunting reminiscence of so many acts of shabbiness perpetrated on people in humble condition, and thrown on your mercy? That ten-groschen piece which you had half a mind to drop into the hands of that Kellner, but didn't somehow-it comes up before you long long after every sense of disappointed expectation has departed from his memory.

There is a kindliness about the keepers and attendants in these humble inns that removes your relation to them entirely out of the category of the mercenary. One form of this kindliness is of a rather oppressive kind. You are a stranger and sojourner, who must never be for a moment forsaken;

therefore, at all your meals, a landlady or Kellnerinn sits beside you, presses victuals on you, and keeps you "in discoorse," as the Irish say. There is a good deal of questioning about personal history

for curiosity is not quite dead here; and if the catechumen's resources in the language be meagre, he retains a painful impression of having been at school for an hour or so, tugging at a difficult task. I have known such ways in secondary country-houses, where, protracted day after day, they wellnigh drive one mad; and many are the dangerous escapes by windows, and other frantic efforts, I have known made to escape from them.

But one cannot have the heart to be very severe on this little trouble, considering the goodness of its motive, and the many true kindnesses and courtesies with which it is entwined. Some of these have a startling character. One stately old lady, when I was bidding adieu, made a solemn curtsy, and kissed my hand. I was so taken by surprise that I fear I did not behave becomingly on the occasion, and have that unpleasant tinkling, when I reflect on it, which accompanies the remembrance of some terrible breach of etiquette at a presentation or any other solemn occasion. There is nothing in all this either of servility or sordidness-it comes of an overflowing feeling of kindliness peculiar to the people. It saddens one to think that it may soon be trodden out by a mob of tourists, with their bumptious unthinking ways, to which our own contribute a good share. Such gentle flowers of courtesy would wither at once in the hot air of the room "for commercial gentlemen only," where bullying and arbitrary talk culminate among us. To hear one of its inmates give his orders is a thing nearly as offensive as hearing a Prussian official address a nonofficial. I am aware that this is an extremely strong comparison, yet I never could understand how men, otherwise worthy and respect

able, could so far forget all social decorum, and all feeling that waiters have freeborn rights like themselves, when they enter their own castle-the commercial room. I wonder whether it is because the bulk of them have stood behind counters, and, having had to bear the insolence which some even of our gentry give to persons so placed, resolve to take vengeance on the world. There are matters, such as these, on which we may take good hints from the other side of the water.

It is not a sound policy to misuse the innkeeper class any more than many others. On the contrary, they are a body on whom we are all very dependent, not merely for honesty, but for courtesy and generosity. If we, as guests, give insolence and suspicion, we shall be sure to rear dissimulation and sordidness. He whom you have made the most servile while you have the power over him, will be the most uncivil and insolent when your strait comes and he has the power over you-a thing that may happen to any one. As a wayfarer, I have known many generous, kindly, considerate things done by innkeepers. If their lives were written as sedulously as those of poets and heroes, a magnificent group of acts of magnanimity and generosity would probably be brought out; and it would not invariably follow that the good deeds were well requited. A curious philosopher and brilliant writer, who has not long been numbered with the departed, used to stand up for the honesty and generosity of innkeepers, and to state cases in point. One of these referred to a young man of the highest breeding and education, but careless about pecuniary matters, who found himself in a fashionable tourist's hotel penniless at the conclusion of a long score. He had a conversation with the landlord, whom, with his silver tongue, he not only persuaded to forego the bill in the mean time, but even to accommodate him with a five-pound note, that he might the

more expeditiously reach his native home, and be in a position to meet his obligations. The conclusion of the tale generally was to the effect that the affair had happened thirty-five years ago, and that the narrator had the best possible means of knowing it as a fact, that during that long interval the trusting innkeeper had neither been paid his bill nor refunded his loan; and those who heard the statement, though they were in the habit, on some occasions, of treating its author's narrative with incredulity, did not venture on this occasion to doubt either his opportunities for knowing the facts, or his assurance that the innkeeper had never received a farthing of his debt.

A good deal is already in print about the economy of travelling in Bavaria; but the tourist must not expect to find the simple ways of the Alpine taverns or the Rosenheim scale of charges if he frequent the English hotel at Munich, with its magnificence, its comforts, and its high cookery. I affect not in general such establishments; for it seems to me that in adopting the journeys and the places of entertainment specially adapted to his countrymen, the British tourist loses just so much of the interest and excitement of being abroad.

He incases himself in a conventional crust of homelife which excludes foreign impressions and sensations. It is those who have the briefest opportunities of seeing the foreign world that cling closest to these home influences, and yet it is they that should make the best use of their short time by shunning all conventional arrangements for the reception of the English tourist, and throwing themselves among the natives of the countries they traverse. Why, then, you may say, should a person with such a creed have gone to the English hotel? Well, I had some business to do in Munich at the Embassy and elsewhere, and I wished to make myself a gentleman for the occasion. Here our stout friend (who will be recog

nised when I say that he is doubly a W.S. and renowned as a Celtic scholar), with the dry sarcasm habitual to him, says, "And did you succeed?" The answer was rather potent, for it happened that I had there met two old friends of his own kin and name. When the usual police book came to me I observed their names as the last entries-old friends whom I had scarce seen for a long lapse of years. Such meetings are among the most delightful of the incidents that cross the varied lot of people in the active world. Didn't we talk over old stories of the north country and the fate of old friends, and of this which happened before, and that after, the flood meaning our own special flood of 1829.

We went to the opera together. I do not profess myself sufficiently advanced in refinement and civilisation generally to enjoy this kind of performance. I cannot get over what De Quincey would have called "the illogicality of the conditions" -as when the hero, intimating his determination not to delay the fatal stroke an instant, expresses the intensity of his haste in a tedious ditty, and the heroine takes the same method of informing us that she is rapidly fleeing before her pursuer and instant death. But there was a considerable inducement on this occasion. The performance was that aged favourite Figaro, and it was interesting to see how, with its old historic memories, it bore its transplantation to this strange soil. By one of the odd hallucinations that overtake some people, I could not, for the life of me, remember during the performance the name of the author, though it was not long since I had handled his works on my own shelves. I went to sleep annoyed by this, and had a dream which, with a faint odour of Russia leather, called up a familiar corner among the book-shelves, whence issued a tall thin figure in a brown velvet singlebreasted coat, powdered hair, cocked hat, and small-clothes. He came

forward with bland courtesy, raised his hat, made a bow, and asked if it was a reason why Monsieur should forget old friends of the shelf that he had fallen in with old friends of the social circle; he had flattered himself, indeed, with the notion that he was a favoured friend of Monsieur's-he was Pierre Augustin Carron de Beaumarchais, at my service.

It required all these little pleasantries to remove from my memories of that English hotel a trick played on me there. I found that I was the bearer of a large placard or advertisement cemented on my portmanteau. It bore, printed in large red letters, "Hotel d'Angleterre." It is an odd compliment, by the way, to a nation to speak of it in a language which is neither its own nor that of the speaker— the Germans have an unaccountable custom of resorting to the French language when they speak of things English. It is about as perverse as the inveterate custom on our stage of making Frenchmen, when they encounter each other on the streets of Paris, converse in broken English.

It was clear that I was made “an advertising medium;" that advantage was taken of the opportunity to employ me as one of those who bear on our streets, after the fashion of a herald's tabard, the proclamation of some disinterested firm's sacrifices to the public,-and without any tender of the moderate remuneration which the class who bear such advertisements both behind and before obtain for submitting to the infliction. The placard was so cleverly adjusted that it appeared as if the portmanteau-of which it nearly covered one end-had been especially constructed to accommodate it. The intention was evident. Wherever that receptacle of clothing should in future accompany its owner in his wanderings over this restless world, there would the fact of the existence of the Hotel d'Angleterre become known,—and known to this probable result that, taking its place in the memory, the traveller, on his arrival at Munich

half asleep, or confused with various cares, when asked where he desired to go, would give forth the name of the house of entertainment which had so found a place in his memory. I did the best that a humble individual could to baffle this grand design by the removal of the offensive announcement from my own property; but this was no easy task -the placard had been glued on with so cunning a cement that it would not come away without taking the surface of the leather with it. When I went back to Munich I avoided the place where such a trick had been played on me. In general, when returning to a town, one goes to the hotel of his previous sojourn. It is pleasant, as Byron says, to feel "an eye look bright at one's approach," even though the brightness should be of that moderate kind which the recollection of past and the prospect of future kreutzers may call up in the features of a Kellner. But, in the recollection of that unhandsome trick, I went elsewhere-even to the Rheinischer hof, selected on the principle of close vicinity to the railway station. Here I found a Wirth, who, in amazing contrast to his lazy tribe, bustled about as rapidly and effectively as any landlord at Covent Garden or Charing Cross-and spoke as good English too. I have a grateful recollection of his performing for me that most trying and afflicting of a landlord's functions --speeding the parting guest; and how, with a zeal and interest which he could not have exceeded had the object been as much his own as it was mine, he got me, although I had arrived latish, rigged, victualled, and cleared outwards by four o'clock in the morning.

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Munich is "a nice town," "a pretty town," "a fine town," "a handsome town," a splendid town." I would have no objection to go a good way further up in such a scale of laudatory epithets if any one were to take the trouble to lead me on, yet I can't help saying it is not the kind of place I enjoy when on the tramp. It has its

picture gallery, second only to that of Dresden on this side of the Alps, and its collection of ancient statuary. Both are possessions to be proud of --both are sources of the keenest and brightest enjoyment. But, alas! this is not for the wayfarer. Spending a season in such a place, you may luxuriate in its treasures of art; but, to the holiday tourist spending a day or two there, they are a mere temptation and mortification. Where there are scenery and architecture it is otherwisethey communicate a sensation to the hours you have to spend among them, be they few or many. You may leave them behind with regret, but not with the sense of an unsatisfied appetite.

Of course there are some who, in Oriental phrase, will open the eyes of amazement at one who speaks of Munich as not having architecture. Is it not crowded with fine buildings, too much so, perhaps,-having the effect of a house over-richly furnished? Has it not been so amply devoted to the colonnades and porticos of great public buildings, that whereas in other German towns of the same size you are brought in eternal contact with the population, and their filth and sordidness and evil smells, here you wander through a succession of broad streets and squares, where clean, bright, stone buildings of costly architecture, and decorated public grounds, feast your eye, while human beings are almost as scarce as at Pæstum and Palmyra? True enough; nor, if my voice carried influence, would I utter a word not importing praise about the æsthetic services of poor King Ludvic, who found Munich a city of brick, and left it of marble. For his ethics and his politics, poor fellow, nobody can venture to stand up, and he adds another to the list of artistically inclined kings who have become unlucky dogs. I suspect that in kingdoms it is as in households,-well that common things and the organisation of a decorous daily life should be settled before Paterfamilias buys pictures and sta

tues. One would say how good a thing it is to spend money on the galleries of art, the frescoes, and the colonnades, instead of war and oppression; and yet the prince who thus not only created artistic enthusiasm in his own country, but spread it over others, did somehow more harm than good to his people, and came consequently to grief.

One cannot but feel a sympathy in his efforts for the promotion of art. I cannot but admit that his buildings are in good taste, that there is none of the paltriness we call " gingerbread " about them,

and that they speak alike of refined art and liberal expenditure. Yet I confess I don't enjoy them much. I believe the reason is, that they are almost all repetitions, more or less exact, of the great edifices that have received the stamp of fame. They all remind you of those models which are fixed in the mind as classical. When better cannot be, it is of course a good thing to multiply these models. Accustom the people by all means to the contemplation of the shapes developed in the great triumphs of Greek, Roman, and Gothic architecture. But models are mere models after all, and never to be put in the rank of originals, though they may do service in their own humble way. They do not carry the historical legend that every piece of native architecture, standing in its own place, is invested with. A remnant of a Roman wall, a fragment of a Norman moulding showing how far into the desert the influence of that race had penetrated, has more true interest in it than all the Egyptian sphinxes and medieval tombs of painted plaster-work in the Crystal Palace at Sydenham.

Elsewhere, Bavaria is rich in those monuments which bring the beholder into close communion with the real past. Bamberg is not a household name among tourists-a place that must be "done" under pain of loss of caste; yet I found it crowded with noble specimens of architecture, from the earliest to the latest of Christian types.

The cathedral, in the first stage of Norman and merging into the second, gave me totally new ideas about the capacity and resources of that style-the one which links the purely Gothic or pointed architecture with the actual Roman. As we have it in its greatest examples in this country-in Durham Cathedral and the Temple Church, for instance-we see its great capacity for massiveness, and the dignity that accompanies the external attributes of great strength and solidity. Looking on these ponderous masses of masonry, one has no conception that the Norman could have been available for the light airy expansiveness of the later Gothic,but so it is in this cathedral of Bamberg. There is a feeling through the architecture as if it were of the fifteenth century, and contemporary with Milan; but the actual details mark their belonging to the end of the eleventh and the beginning of the twelfth century. In reality, the building is not less massive and strong than its contemporaries; the effect of lightness is produced by an artistic device one is not accustomed to the presence of in buildings so early. It consists in the deep fluting or moulding of the broad pillars, which gives them the aspect of light limber shafts clustered together, while they are in reality heavy stone piers, all the heavier and stronger by the addition of that external encrustation of mouldings or pilasterings, which confers on them the aspect of lightness.

The city of two names-Ratisbon and Regensburg-is extremely rich in historic memorials. In the marketplace is a basement storey of chamfered courses, that looks as if it had been built yesterday, and subjected to rough usage. It might be a slice taken from one of the new classical buildings in Munich, which had suffered damage in the transference to another site. The upper portion of the building is of the very oldest Norman. The anachronism is explained by the lowest floor being actual Roman work, such as architects, mimicking the