e supper of the inn, at the door
of which the diligence was drawn up. Around the long, and not
over-scrupulously clean table, sat the usual assemblage of a German
"Eilwagen"--smoking, dressing salad, knitting, and occasionally picking
their teeth with their forks, until the soup should make its appearance.
Taking my place amid this motley assemblage of mustachioed shopkeepers
and voluminously-petticoated frows, I sat calculating how long human
patience could endure such companionship, when my attention was aroused
by hearing a person near me narrate to his friend the circumstances of my
debut at Strasbourg, with certain marginal notes of his own that not a
little surprised me.

"And so it turned out not to be Meerberger, after all,": said the
listener.

"Of course not," replied the other. "Meerberger's passport was stolen
from him in the diligence by this English escroc, and the consequence
was, that our poor countryman was arrested, the other passport being
found upon him; while the Englishman, proceeding to Strasbourg, took his
benefit at the opera, and walked away with above twelve thousand florins.

"Sappermint" said the other, tossing off his beer. "He must have been a
clever fellow, though, to lead the orchestra in the Franc Macons."

"That is the most astonishing part of all; for they say in Strasbourg
that his performance upon the violin was far finer than Paganini's; but
there seems some secret in it, after all: for Madame Baptiste swears that
he is Meerberger; and in fact the matter is far from being cleared up
--nor can it be till he is apprehended."

"Which shall not be for some time to come," said I to myself, as,
slipping noiselessly from the room, I regained my "caleche," and in ten
minutes more was proceeding on my journey. So much for correct
information, thought I. One thing, however, is certain--to the chance
interchange of passports I owe my safety, with the additional
satisfaction that my little German acquaintance is reaping a pleasant
retribution for all his worry and annoyance of me in the coupe.

Only he who has toiled over the weary miles of a long journey
--exclusively occupied with one thought--one overpowering feeling--can
adequately commiserate my impatient anxiety as the days rolled slowly
over on the long tiresome road that leads from the Rhine to the south of
Germany.

The morning was breaking on the fourth day of my journey as the tall
spires of Munich rose to my view, amid