attention by its mere noise; it dominates your whole being by its sheer
strength. Your mind has to follow it as the feet of the little children
followed the playing of the Pied Piper. Whatever you do, you have to do
in unison with the band. All through our meal we had to keep time with
the music.

We ate our soup to slow waltz time, with the result that every spoonful
was cold before we got it up to our mouth. Just as the fish came, the
band started a quick polka, and the consequence of that was that we had
not time to pick out the bones. We gulped down white wine to the
"Blacksmith's Galop," and if the tune had lasted much longer we should
both have been blind drunk. With the advent of our steaks, the band
struck up a selection from Wagner.

I know of no modern European composer so difficult to eat beefsteak to as
Wagner. That we did not choke ourselves is a miracle. Wagner's
orchestration is most trying to follow. We had to give up all idea of
mustard. B. tried to eat a bit of bread with his steak, and got most
hopelessly out of tune. I am afraid I was a little flat myself during
the "Valkyries' Ride." My steak was rather underdone, and I could not
work it quickly enough.

After getting outside hard beefsteak to Wagner, putting away potato salad
to the garden music out of _Faust_ was comparatively simple. Once or
twice a slice of potato stuck in our throat during a very high note, but,
on the whole, our rendering was fairly artistic.

We rattled off a sweet omelette to a symphony in G--or F, or else K; I
won't be positive as to the precise letter; but it was something in the
alphabet, I know--and bolted our cheese to the ballet music from
_Carmen_. After which we rolled about in agonies to all the national
airs of Europe.

If ever you visit a German beer-hall or garden--to study character or
anything of that kind--be careful, when you have finished drinking your
beer, to shut the cover of the mug down tight. If you leave it with the
cover standing open, that is taken as a sign that you want more beer, and
the girl snatches it away and brings it back refilled.

B. and I very nearly had an accident one warm night, owing to our
ignorance of this custom. Each time after we had swallowed the quart, we
left the pot, standing before us with the cover up, and each time it was,
in consequence, taken away, and brought back to us, brimming full again.
After about the sixth time, we gently remonstrated.