tiny glasses. He proclaims the toast, "The
Health of the Wanderer!" The little crowd
are on their feet, and amid a pretty tinkling of
glasses, an irregular shout arises, a small
hurricane of voices, wishing him good speed.

What songs are sung, what healths are
drunk, what heartfelt wishes are expressed!
The German workmen are good friends to
one another— men who are already away
from friends and home, and whose tenderest
recollections are awakened in the farewell
expressed to a departing companion. Many
tears are shed, many hearty presses of the
hand are given, and not a few kisses impressed
upon the cheek. Little tokens of affection
are interchanged, and promises to write are
made, but seldom kept. With this mingling
and outpouring of full hearts, the stream of
punch still flows through tiny glasses; but,
since "Many a little makes a mickle," the
farewell thus taken ends sometimes as a
debauch.

Hans, in the morning, is, perhaps, a little
the worse for last night's punch. He is
attired in a clean white blouse, strapped round
the waist; a neat travelling-cap; low, stout
shoes; and, possibly, linen wrappers, instead
of socks. The knapsack, strapped to his back,
contains a sufficient change of linen, a coat
artistically packed, which is to be worn in
cities, and a few necessary tools; the whole
stock weighing, perhaps, twenty or thirty
pounds. On the sides of the knapsack are
little pouches, containing brushes, blacking,
and soap; and, in his breast-pocket is stowed
away a little flask of brandy-schnaps, to
revive his drooping spirits on the road. A
stout stick completes his equipment. A last
adieu from the one friend of his heart, who
will walk a few miles with him on the way—
and so he is launched fairly on his journey.

Hans finds the road much harder, and his
knapsack heavier than he had expected. Now
he is drenched with rain, and can get no
shelter; and, when he does, he will find straw
an inconvenient substitute for a bed. At last
he arrives at Berlin. He has picked up a
companion on the road; and, as it frequently
happens that several trades hold their
meetings in the same house, they both are
bound to the same Herberge. Through
strange, half-lighted streets, along narrow
edges of pavement, they proceed till they enter
a court, or wynd, with no footpath at all, and
they are in the Schuster Gasse, before the
door of the Herberge. The comrade of Hans
announces them as they pass the bar, and the
next moment they are in the travellers' room,
amid as motley a group as ever met within
four walls.

Tumult and hubbub. An indescribable
odour of tobacco, cummin (carraway), and
potato-salad. A variety of hustled blouses.
Sunburnt and haggard faces. Ragged beards
and unkempt locks. A strong pipe hanging
from every lip; beer, or kimmel (a spirit
prepared with cummin). Wild snatches of
song, and hurried bursts of dialogue. Some
are all violence and uproar; some are half
dead with sleep and fatigue, their arms sprawling
about the tables. Such is the inside of a
German trade traveller's room.

Hans and his companion hand over their
papers to the "father" as a security, and their
knapsacks to a sluttish-looking girl, who
deposits them in a cupboard in the corner of
the room, and locks the door upon them.
Our travellers order a measure of Berliner
Weiss Bier, to be in keeping with the rest,
and long for the hour of sleep. At length, a
stout young man enters, carrying a lighted
lantern, and in a loud voice of authority, he
summonses all to bed. And there is a
scrambling and hustling among some of the
travellers, a hasty guzzling of beer and
spirits, and a few low murmurs at being
disturbed, but none dare disobey.

A shambling troop of sixteen or eighteen,
they quit the room, and enter a small paved
yard, preceded by the young man with the
lantern. There is a rough building resembling
a stable, at the other end of the yard; and,
in one corner, a steep ladder, with a handrail ,
which leads to a chamber above. They
ascend, and enter a long, low loft, so
completely crowded with rough bedsteads that
there remains but a narrow alley between
them, just sufficient to allow a single person
to pass. Eight double beds, and the ceiling
so low that the companion of Hans can
scarcely stand upright with his hat on.

"New-comers this way," shouts the
conductor.

"What's the matter, now?" inquires Hans
of his comrade.

"Take off your coat," is the answer in a
whisper; "undo the wristbands, and throw
open the collar of your shirt."

"What for?"

"To be examined."

So they are examined; and, being
pronounced sound, are allowed to sleep with the
rest of the flock. In this loft, each bed with
at least two occupants, and the door locked—
without consideration for fire, accident, or
sudden indisposition, Hans passes the first
night in Berlin.

But there is no work in Berlin, and Hans
must pursue his journey. He waits for hours
at the Police-office, as play-goers wait at the
door of a London theatre. By and bye, he gets
into the small bureau with a desperate rush.
That business is settled, and he is off again .

Time runs on; and, after a further tramp
of good two hundred miles, Hans gets
settled at last in the free city of Hamburgh.
With the exception of a few factories, such
as the silk-works at Chemnitz, in Saxony, and
the colony of goldsmiths at Pfortzheim, in
Wurtemburg, there are few extensive
manufactories in Germany. Trade is split up into
little masterships of from one to five or six
men. This circumstance materially affects the
relation between the employer and employed.