Arrival across the river at the
other depot, wo were in Germany.—
I knew that to be thu fact for sever
al reasons. Ono was a brief conver
sation between two big, broadly con
structed fellows, with beards and
moustaches which may have dated
from the Revolution of 1848. “Wash
ish better," asked one of the other,
than “ein seidel lager ?” The other
pondered long, but at last said firmly
but sorrowfully, as if regretting the
limit to bliss in this world of vanity
and vexation, —“Nein, Wilhelm, ach,
niehts better dan ein seidel lager—
unless”—and here a gleam of light
flashed over his broad face—“unless,
it be. zwie seidel lager." “Das ish it!”
replied the other ; “room along ; we
will try him.” Another reason was
that a tall and good looking officer
at the depot asked us, in German, if
we had anything contraband in our
trunks and when I shrugged my
shoulders, not knowing what was
contraband in Germany, but handed
him the keys, he politely gave them
back to me, chalked the baggage as
passed, and lifted his bat as 1 retired
from the inspection room. It is the
second frontier I have yet crossed
on the Continent where the officers
did not lift the trunk covers ; the
other was at Culoz, in France, on
our way to Mont Cenis- And so we
are in Germany. After our long so
journ in Southern Europe, hearing
all the dialects from Naples to the
Alps, and from the Mediterranean to
the Rhine, it is not unlike reaching
home again. No more' sour wine,
but great tankards of foaming ale;
no more bad smelling cheroots, but
the stupendous meerschaums of fra
grant tobacco; no more eels, chick
en’s combs, tortillas and maccaroni ;
but bread of the dimensions of a
stick of cordwood, cabbage and
sauercrout, watles from Kiesingen,
and cheese from Limburg. Here we
a o indeed at home. Here aro even
the signboards from our own Stale
of Wisconsin; the Braueries, the
Gasihofs, tue likeinischerhojs, and all.
