places where the common people congregate, in preference to the
haunts of respectability. I have to be continually explaining all
this to my friends, to account to them for what they call my love of
low life.

With a mug of beer before me, and a pipe in my mouth, I could sit
for hours contentedly, and watch the life that ebbs and flows into
and out of these old ale-kitchens.

The brawny peasant lads bring in their lasses to treat them to the
beloved nectar of Munich, together with a huge onion. How they
enjoy themselves! What splendid jokes they have! How they laugh
and roar and sing! At one table sit four old fellows, playing
cards. How full of character is each gnarled face. One is eager,
quick, vehement. How his eyes dance! You can read his every
thought upon his face. You know when he is going to dash down the
king with a shout of triumph on the queen. His neighbour looks
calm, slow, and dogged, but wears a confident expression. The game
proceeds, and you watch and wait for him to play the winning cards
that you feel sure he holds. He must intend to win. Victory is
written in his face. No! he loses. A seven was the highest card in
his hand. Everyone turns to him, surprised. He laughs--A difficult
man to deal with, that, in other matters besides cards. A man whose
thoughts lie a good deal below his skin.

Opposite, a cross-looking old woman clamours for sausages, gets
them, and seems crosser than ever. She scowls round on everyone,
with a malignant expression that is quite terrifying. A small dog
comes and sits down in front of her, and grins at her. Still, with
the same savage expression of hatred towards all living things, she