Frankfort-on-the-Main—Met at Depot by a Committee—Frankfort, the Home of Culture and Art—Birthplace of Goethe—”He Preaches like a God “—The Home of Rothschild—A Visit to his House—Worms and its History—Luther and a Bad Diet—Luther Monument—Theses Nailed on the Door—Fame of Luther and his Followers more Imperishable than their Bronze Statues. FROM Mayence, I run up to pay my respects to Frankfort (ford of the Franks)-on-the-Main; and right royal is the reception extended me. The good people of this classic city seem really glad to see me, _especially the hotel keepers_. Reader, you can scarcely imagine what a pleasure it is to a way-worn pilgrim, as he enters a great city in a foreign country, to be met by a committee consisting of a full score of hotel clerks and porters, and half a hundred hack drivers! As the traveler steps off the train, he is approached by the different members of the committee, each of whom tries to be more kind and obliging than any of the others. Indeed, the honored visitor is well-nigh overcome with gratitude, as he sees these committeemen crowding round him on all sides, each with an expectant look, a face wreathed with smiles, and a palm itching to get hold of his purse strings. Such was the welcome given me at Frankfort-on-the-Main, which city, though it dates back from the time of Charlemagne, 775, is now as fresh and fair as a sixteen year old maiden with blue eyes and golden hair. Frankfort is about the size of Rochester, New York, is a place of great commercial importance, and, according to population, is by far the wealthiest city in Germany. It claims two hundred millionaires. The museum and art galleries here are of the highest type. I can not use the brush, palette, and easel myself, but some pictures throw a spell over me that I can not shake off. Murillo’s “Madonna Enthroned,” Overbeck’s “Triumph of Religion in the Arts,” Rembrandt’s “Parable of the Laborers in the Vineyard,” are indelibly stamped on the imperishable tablets of memory; their gilded frames I have entwined with a garland of forget-me-nots, and with golden cord of appreciation I have hung them up in the art gallery of the soul. And, if as Keats says, and as I believe, “A thing of beauty is a joy forever,” then will my visit to Frankfort-on-the-Main be a blessing to me until the silver cord be loosed, and the golden bowl of life broken.