visitors, who for the trifling sum of twenty-two pfennigs (about five
cents) obtain a quart tankard of the most celebrated brew in all Bavaria.

"Munich is the greatest art-centre of the world, the true hub of the
artistic universe," Mr. Buscher enthusiastically assures me as we wander
together through the sleepy old streets, and he points out a bright bit
of old frescoing, which is already partly obliterated by the elements,
and compares it with the work of recent years; calls my attention to a
piece of statuary, and anon pilots me down into a restaurant and beer
hall in some ancient, underground vaults and bids me examine the
architecture and the frescoing. The very custom-house of Munich is a
glorious old church, that would be carefully preserved as a relic of no
small interest and importance in cities less abundantly blessed with
antiquities, but which is here piled with the cases and boxes and bags
of commerce. One other conspicuous feature of Munich life must not be
over-looked ere I leave it, viz., the hackmen. Unlike their Transatlantic
brethren, they appear supremely indifferent about whether they pick up
any fares or not. Whenever one comes to a hack-stand it is a pretty sure
thing to bet that nine drivers out of every ten are taking a quiet snooze,
reclining on their elevated boxes, entirely oblivious of their surroundings,
and a timid stranger would almost hesitate about disturbing their slumbers.
But the Munich cabby has long since got hardened to the disagreeable
process of being wakened up. Nor does this lethargy pervade the ranks
of hackdom only: at least two-thirds of the teamsters one meets on the
roads, hereabouts, are stretched out on their respective loads, contentedly
sleeping while the horses or oxen crawl leisurely along toward their
goal.

Munich is visited heavily with rain during the night, and for several
kilometres, next morning, the road is a horrible waste of loose flints