darkness;
and, as did the angel that strove with Jacob, it leaves its stamp upon
them.

There is only one type of a gentleman. There are five hundred types of
men and women. That is why I always seek out and frequent the 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 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, wit