The practice of Americans in Bavaria, even of those who never drink a drop of beer at home, is, so far as I know, to drink a little while in the country, acting from a supposed necessity in that climate, or impelled by the want of other beverages.  Physicians advise it, and I suppose that American physicians would do the same in the case of their countrymen temporarily residing there.  In my own family, it was taken every day at dinner as a kind of prescription, and the children were disciplined to drink their little glass daily with rather less urging than would have been necessary, had the dose been castor-oil; and they always felt that they deserved an expression of approbation as being “good children,” if they drank their entire portion.  Our taste for beer never increased, but rather the contrary; and should I again reside in that country, notwithstanding the general impression that its use is a kind of necessity, as a security against the fevers incident to the climate, I should feel just as secure without a drop.  My little boy, born in Bavaria, and but four years old when we left the kingdom, liked the beer better than the other children, and so gave some support to the theory that the Bavarians take to beer by instinct.  He shared, too, in the patriotic doubt of the people as to the possibility of successfully imitating the article in other countries.  When, on our journey homeward, the train brought us into the little city of Koethen, we found evidence of one of those attempts so unsuccessfully made everywhere in North Germany to imitate the Bavarian beer.  A man passed along by the train, crying at the top of his voice, “Baierisches bier!” upon which the little fellow, in the height of his indignation, cried out, “Baierisches Bier nicht!”—­("Not Bavarian beer!")—­and so the cry and response continued until the parties were out of each other’s hearing, and all the passengers in the train had their attention called, and their main amusement furnished, by this childish outburst of patriotic indignation.  At this point, my life, observation, and adventures in connection with Bavarian beer ceased, and almost the last echo of its magic name in the original tongue died on my ears.  That the results may not be lost and forgotten, I now commit them to paper and to the public.

* * * * *

FRIAR JEROME’S BEAUTIFUL BOOK.

    The Friar Jerome, for some slight sin,
  Done in his youth, was struck with woe. 
  “When I am dead,” quoth Friar Jerome,
  “Surely, I think my soul will go
  Shuddering through the darkened spheres,
  Down to eternal fires below! 
  I shall not dare from that dread place
  To lift mine eyes to Jesus’ face,
  Nor Mary’s, as she sits adored
  At the feet of Christ the Lord. 
  Alas!  December’s all too brief
  For me to hope to wipe away
  The memory of my sinful May!”
  And Friar Jerome was full of grief,
  That April evening, as he lay
  On the straw pallet in his cell. 
  He scarcely heard the curfew-bell
  Calling the brotherhood to prayer;
  But he arose, for’t was his care
  Nightly to feed the hungry poor
  That crowded to the Convent-door.