feeds him with sausage at the end of a fork, regarding him all the
while with an aspect of such concentrated dislike, that one wonders
it does not interfere with his digestion. In a corner, a stout old
woman talks incessantly to a solemn-looking man, who sits silent and
drinks steadily. It is evident that he can stand her conversation
just so long as he has a mug of beer in front of him. He has
brought her in here to give her a treat. He will let her have her
talk out while he drinks. Heavens! how she does talk! She talks
without movement, without expression; her voice never varies, it
flows on, and on, and on, like a great resistless river. Four young
artisans come clamping along in their hob-nailed boots, and seating
themselves at one of the rude wooden tables, call for beer. With
their arms round the waist of the utterly indifferent Fraulein, they
shout and laugh and sing. Nearly all the young folks here are
laughing--looking forward to life. All the old folks are talking,
remembering it.

What grand pictures some of these old, seared faces round us would
make, if a man could only paint them--paint all that is in them, all
the tragedy--and comedy that the great playwright, Life, has written
upon the withered skins! Joys and sorrows, sordid hopes and fears,
child-like strivings to be good, mean selfishness and grand
unselfishness, have helped to fashion these old wrinkled faces. The
curves of cunning and kindliness lurk round these fading eyes. The
lines of greed hover about these bloodless lips, that have so often
been tight-pressed in patient heroism.



SUNDAY, 25TH--CONTINUED