town or city he intends to seek employment, and by what route he purposes
to get there; and any deviation from the chosen road (which will be
marked in the wander-book) will be visited by the punishment of expulsion
from the country. A fixed number of days will be allotted to the
wanderer in which to reach his destination, but should he overstep that
period, a similar punishment awaits him; expulsion from the country
always meaning that the offender shall retrace his steps, and quit the
land by the way he had entered it. This is the substance of the
"ordinance."

Hans is ready for the road. He has only now to take his farewell. A
farewell among workmen is simply a drinking-bout, a parting glass taken
overnight. Hans has many friends; these appoint a place of assemblage,
and invite him thither. It is a point of honour among them that the
"wandering boy" shall pay nothing. Imagine a large, half-lighted room; a
crowded board of bearded faces. On the table steams a huge bowl of
punch, which the chosen head of the party, perhaps Johann's late master,
ladles into the 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. O