temperature is perfect, the water abundant, plenty of towels, and a sheet besides, and the price is about 25 cents. I enjoyed it exceedingly, and commend it before all other bathing establishments this side of Turkey. The antiquary finds much to interest him in this old town. It is something to be where Charlemagne was born and buried, and to see the works of his mighty hand; to visit the town-house, a tower of which still bears the name of Granus, a brother of _Nero_, who is said to have built it, and to have founded the city 124 years after Christ. In this house is a great hall, where for many successive centuries the Emperors of Germany were crowned. In front of it is a statue of Charlemagne, and the priests carry a silver bust of him in their septennial procession, with a bit of his skull in the top of it. CHAPTER XXI. FRANKFORT. WITH faces at last fairly turned towards Russia, we stopped to rest for a day at the old town of Frankfort—the _Ford of the Franks_. Towards evening I wandered out to an old graveyard. Like some in our own cities, it had ceased to be used for interments, and its walks and shade and vacant squares had become places of recreation for the children of the town. The gates were never shut, and, indeed, the walls were broken, so that it was a public square for the living rather than a quiet resting-place for the dead. A party of little folks were amusing themselves with children’s plays, and I paused in my solitary stroll to see them go through the old-time game of “Oats, peas, beans, and barley grow,” the same that our children from generation to generation play with so much zest on the grass or the carpet at home. It was pleasant to know that the young ones, in another language, were singing the same simple song that millions on the other side of the sea have sung and will sing in their childish glee. It was a queer place for children to make a playground. Our children would not fancy it. The Germans have more pleasing associations with the burial-places of their dead than we have. They indulge in cheerful sentimentalism more than we do, in this direction. These old graves are covered with flowering shrubs; some of them are cared for by the children or friends of the sleepers who have been here so many years that their names might be forgotten but for the tombstones. I read the inscriptions on many, and sought and found names familiar in history. One grave was covered with wreaths and flowers. Yet it was an old grave, and evidently some special interest attached to it. I drew near and read in German,— “THE GRAVE OF THE MOTHER OF GOETHE. BORN FEB. 19, 1731. DIED SEPT. 13, 1808.”