y. Roughnecks
enter eternally with fresh kegs; the thud of the mallet never ceases;
the rude clamour of the bung-starter is as the rattle of departing time
itself. Huge damsels in dirty aprons--retired _kellnerinen_, too bulky,
even, for that trade of human battleships--go among the tables rescuing
empty _maesse_. Each _mass_ returns to the shelf and begins another
circuit of faucet, counter and table. A dame so fat that she must remain
permanently at anchor--the venerable _Constitution_ of this
fleet!--bawls postcards and matches. A man in _pince-nez_, a decadent
doctor of philosophy, sells pale German cigars at three for ten
pfennigs. Here we are among the plain people. They believe in Karl Marx,
_blutwurst_ and the Hofbraeuhaus. They speak a German that is half speech
and half grunt. One passes them to windward and enters the yard.

A brighter scene. A cleaner, greener land. In the centre a circular
fountain; on four sides the mediaeval gables of the old beerhouse; here
and there a barrel on end, to serve as table. The yard is most gay on a
Sunday morning, when thousands stop on their way to church--not only
Socialists and servant girls, remember, but also solemn gentlemen in
plug hats and frock coats, students in their polychrome caps and in all
the glory of their astounding duelling scars, citizens' wives in holiday
finery. The fountain is a great place for gossip. One rests one's _mass_
on the stone coping and engages one's nearest neighbour. He has a cousin
who is brewmaster of the largest brewery in Zanesville, Ohio. Is it true
that all the policemen in America are convicts? That some of the
skyscrapers have more than twenty stories? What a country! And those
millionaire Socialists! Imagine a rich man denouncing riches! And then,
"_Gruess' Gott!_"--and the pots clink. A kindly, hospitable, tolerant
folk, these Bavarians! "_Gruess' Gott!_"--"the compliments of God." What
other land has such a greeting for strangers?

On May day all Munich goes to the Hofbraeuhaus to "prove" the new bock.
I was there last May in company with a Virginian weighing 190 pounds. He
wept with joy when he smelled that heavenly brew. It had the coppery
glint of old Falernian, the pungent bouquet of good port, the acrid grip
of English ale, and the bubble and bounce of good champagne. A beer to
drink reverently and silently, as if in the presence of something
transcendental, ineffable--but not too slowly, for the supply is
limited! One ye