{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_32064/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_32064","id":"gutenberg_32064","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/32064","summary":null,"tags":["Category: German Literature","Category: Humour","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","German fiction -- Translations into English"],"text":"Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by Google Books\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber's Note:\nSource: Google Books\nhttp://books.google.com/books?id=k6YoAAAAYAAJ\n\n\n\n\n\n                       THE WINE-GHOSTS OF BREMEN\n\n\n\n\n\n\n_This edition of \"The Wine-Ghosts of Bremen\" was printed entirely from\ntype, distributed immediately after printing, and is limited to Five\nHundred Copies, of which this is No._ 485.\n\n            Theo. L. DeVinne & Co.\n\n\n\n[Illustration: 'IT WAS THE DEVIL']\n\n\n\n                                  THE\n                         WINE-GHOSTS OF BREMEN\n\n\n                                   BY\n                             WILHELM HAUFF\n\n\n                    ILLUSTRATED BY FRANK M. GREGORY\n\n\n\n\n                          NEW-YORK AND LONDON\n                            WHITE AND ALLEN\n                              MDCCCLXXXIX\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                           Copyright 1889, by\n                            WHITE AND ALLEN.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                                  THE\n                         WINE-GHOSTS OF BREMEN\n\n                     TRANSLATED PROM THE GERMAN OF\n                               W. HAUFF\n\n\n                                   BY\n                               E. SADLER\n                                  AND\n                           C. R. L. FLETCHER\n                    LATE FELLOW OF ALL SOULS COLLEGE\n\n\n\n\n                         LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.\n\n                                                             PAGE.\n\n    1. 'IT WAS THE DEVIL'                          _Frontispiece._\n\n    2. THE CELLAR OF BACCHUS                                     8\n\n    3. THE GENTLEMEN OF THE RHINE                               24\n\n    4. 'TO THE DANCE! TO THE DANCE!'                            60\n\n\n\n\n                                PREFACE.\n\n\nWhen Mr. Carlyle endeavoured to introduce Jean Paul Richter to the\nEnglish public, it seems to us that he was more than usually\nunsuccessful. The literary publics of the England and the Germany of\nthose days were very different, and perhaps the errors of taste, which\neach professed to find in the other, were not in truth wholly upon the\nside of John Bull. We feel, (with much deprecation of our own impudence\nin challenging such a comparison,) in a somewhat similar position, and\ndread in our more diffident moments a far colder reception and far\ngreater depth of oblivion for our present attempt to render into\nEnglish a good German story about STRONG DRINK. German humour is often\nmore rollicking than that of our own countrymen; it is also\noccasionally more subtle. But it has always been a matter of some\nwonder to us that Hauff's acknowledged masterpiece should be unknown to\nEnglish readers, and we have therefore made the following attempt;\npraying the courteous reader only that he will not throw the story down\nin disgust till he gets to the best part: of the location of which we\nallow him to be the best judge.\n\nWilhelm Hauff was born on the 29th November, 1802, at Stuttgart, where\nhis father held various high posts, with various high-sounding double\nand treble official names, under the paternal government of the Elector\nFrederick, the first of his name and house who attained 'serenity.' It\nwas this same ruler who three years later, after refusing a passage to\nNapoleon's troops for some time with great show of patriotism, allowed\nhimself to be 'convinced,' as soon as the Emperor himself appeared and\noffered him a considerable extension of territory and a Royal Crown;\nand who confessed with some _naivete_ 'that since Frederick the Great\nhe had never met any one so good at talking a man over as Napoleon;\nthat the latter had in fact the same \"tournure de l'esprit\" as\nFrederick.' But His Serene Highness was, in common with many of his\ncontemporaries, in the habit of allowing himself to be talked over by\nany one with a good strong army at his back. 'C'etait leur nature de\ncomplaire aux plus forts.' Therefore he now openly joined, in 1805, as\nhe had practically done in '95 and '99, the row of princely traitors to\nthe cause of Germany, and began to dance with his fellows on the\nfast-closing grave of the Holy Roman Empire. It must however be\nremembered that his country was one of the few German principalities\nthat still possessed an active 'Landstaende' or system of Estates: this\nwas indeed of the most rudimentary order, and consisted chiefly of\nrepresentatives of the nobles, craft gilds, and ecclesiastical\ncorporations; but it is worthy of note that, as in the Tyrol, there was\na Peasants' Estate in Wuerttemberg, and that these Estates did possess,\nthough they rarely made good, the right of voting or withholding\nsupplies from His Serenity. On the occasion referred to, when he\nexpressed some doubts as to whether his Estates would agree to the\nproposed treaty, Napoleon, who had methods of his own for dealing with\nrefractory representatives, answered that 'he would settle all that.'\nThe Elector then got his crown from Napoleon; but in November, 1813, a\nvery similar scene was enacted at Stuttgart, (with Alexander in place\nof Napoleon,) when the confederation of the Rhine was dissolved, and\nBavaria had already made her peace with the allies by the treaty of\nRied. Then the magnanimous King Frederick threw in his lot with the\nwinning side again, in return for that fatal guarantee of absolute\nsovereignty and territorial indemnification for his losses, (for he was\nobliged to disgorge some of the spoils of his neighbours,) which proved\nsuch an obstacle in the way of the long-deferred restoration of\nGermany.\n\nGrowing up under influences like these, it is wonderful that young\nHauff and his brother Hermann (his senior by two years) should ever\nhave discovered that they were Germans at all; but they lost their\nfather in 1809 and do not afterwards appear to have had any political\nconnection with the government: and by 1815, when Wilhelm was only\nthirteen, the worst was over and the people of Stuttgart were left face\nto face with their amiable monarch; who surprised them and all the\nworld by granting them of his own grace and favour an absolutely free\nconstitution. This, however, on the principle of 'Timeo Danaos et dona\nferentes,' was too much for the Wuerttembergers, who profoundly\nmistrusted him: but before the matter could be settled King Frederick\ndied, and King Wilhelm I, the husband of a Russian princess, and a\nbrave soldier and able diplomatist, who had stood up for the rights of\nGermany in the deferred Elsass question, gave to his people, after much\npreparation, a very respectably constitutional form of government\nwith two chambers, which included a representation both of clergy and\nold-imperial nobility, backed up by a strong Executive. This was in\n1822, and the remaining five years of W. Hauff's life were passed in a\nhappy country that had no history. It is usual of course to account for\nthe excessively fertile development of literary culture in Germany at\nthis time by the fact that the system of repression was so strong and\neffective as to drive all the moderate minds away from politics; but\nthis will hardly hold good in Wuerttemberg. Yet the educated classes\nthere seem to have been completely indifferent to such politics as\nthere were. But there were very few.\n\nThose who want to discover the conditions under which Hauff's earlier\nlife passed should read (1) Goethe's Autobiography in Wahrheit and\nDichtung, and (2) Histoire d'un Conscrit; and, by mixing the two well\ntogether, may arrive at some sort of idea what life was like in a small\nGerman state, on which were grafted the new horrors of a military\ndespotism. It is not a pleasant picture, but if it bred a good many\nsouls as dead to patriotism as Goethe's and Heine's, it also bred not a\nfew Muellers and Uhlands and Arndts; and it bred Wilhelm Hauff. That\nHauff, in his later years at least (if a man can be said to have\nlater years who died at twenty-five), had caught much of the spirit\nof the heroes of the War of Liberation, is best seen from the few\nsoul-stirring lyrics which he has left, especially the two odes which\nhe wrote in 1823-4 on the anniversary of the battle of Waterloo; even\nmore perhaps it is seen in his admiration for W. Mueller, and in the\naffecting story that when on his deathbed he heard the news of the\nbattle of Navarino, he cried, 'What news! I must go hence and tell it\nto Mueller,' who preceded him to the grave by a few weeks.\n\nHauff and his brother were voracious readers. Their maternal\ngrandfather, 'a learned jurist,' (one trembles to think what a learned\nGerman jurist must have been like in the first decade of this century,)\nhad a good library, consisting chiefly of old Law and History books,\nbut including also a considerable number of romances; 'Smollett,\nFielding, and Goldsmith were there,' says his biographer, Gustav\nSchwab, in the life which he prefixed to the 1837 (first collected)\nedition of Hauff's works. Schwab relates, not without humour, how the\nboys would play at fortress building and sieges with some of the more\nponderous of the volumes, and the delight which they took in battering\ndown a breastwork composed of the 'Acta Pacis Westphalicae,' perhaps at\nthe very time at which the Congress of Vienna was engaged upon the same\njob. But in the way of reading, they battened chiefly upon the old\nGerman historical romances, Hardleder's 'Ursache des Deutschen Krieges'\nespecially, and it was from works like these that Wilhelm caught that\nold-imperial swing and flow of ideas which carries us so powerfully\nthrough Lichtenstein and the 'Phantasien.' The plan of turning a boy\nloose in a library is sometimes justified by results, although not\nalways in the way expected. But although Wilhelm got a certain amount\nof classics drilled into him at the cloister school of Blaubeuern,\nand afterwards studied 'Philology, Philosophy, and Theology,' from\n1820-1824, at the University of Tuebingen, 'more,' says Schwab, 'to\nplease his mother than from any leaning of his own to those subjects,'\nhe never could write Greek or Latin verses like his brother, or pass\nfor anything but an essentially poor scholar. But several other people\nwho have afforded some pleasure to the world at large have been\nessentially poor scholars.\n\nThis deficiency did not affect him much; his mother, though apparently\nnot wealthy, had good interest, and procured for him, when he left the\nUniversity, the position of private tutor in the family of 'the at that\ntime War's-council's-President, later War's-minister von Huegel' at\nStuttgart, where he remained two years, with apparently abundant\nleisure for exercising his talent for writing poetical romances and\nfairy tales, of which during the last two years of his life he poured\nforth an incessant stream. It is worth while noting that in one of\nthese--the first part of the 'Memoirs of Satan' (not the completed\nedition of these memoirs as they now stand)--is a passage in which the\nauthor falls foul of the great Autocrat of German Literature apropos of\nsome lines in Faust; which was a more daring thing for a young fellow\nof four-and-twenty to do than it is possible for a man living in a free\ncountry to imagine. The rash youth afterwards repented, and expunged\nthe obnoxious passage when he finished the memoirs of his black\nMajesty.\n\nPerhaps it would have been as well if there had been no expunging, at\nleast we may dare to say so on this side of the water, where less and\nless divinity hedges the person of the great man-god of letters every\nday. Hauff, however, had a tender heart, and did not like to see what a\nbig hole he had made by casting a stone at the man-god; and with the\nmodesty of twenty-four he begged pardon. History does not say whether\nthe man-god took any notice of him.\n\nIt is not, however, with the Memoirs of Satan, or with any but one of\nHauff's works that we are now concerned. The 'Man in the Moon' was a\nscathing satire upon a school of story-book makers, popular at the\ntime, and headed by one H. von Clauren, whose works we have not\nperused. 'Lichtenstein,' which has been dramatised, is not inferior to\nan inferior Waverley novel. These and many more are well known to\nEnglish readers, but the 'Phantasien im Bremer Rathskeller' has never\nbeen translated, no doubt because of its dreadfully Rabelaisian\nmorality in the matter of strong drink. What can you think of a man\nwho dedicates his book to the 'lovers of wine,' and takes for his motto\nthe passage from Othello which appears at the head of the story? We do\nnot intend to defend him; we ourselves are by no means the pair of\nultra-Pickwickian topers, that a cursory perusal of the motto and\ndedication would lead the reader to believe: and we are quite aware\nthat there _are_ to be no more cakes and ale in this world; we are a\nlittle sorry for it, that is all. As for Hauff we will let him speak\nfor himself; we have no reason whatever to believe that he had more\nthan a poetical and literary affection for the juice of the grape.\n\nHauff had grown tired of being a private tutor in 1826, and spent the\nprofits of Lichtenstein in a journey to the North of Germany and to\nParis in the latter half of that year. It was upon that occasion that\nhe visited Bremen, although not upon the errand imagined in the text.\nOn his return to the South in 1827 he became Editor of the 'Morning\nNews for the Educated Classes,' to which his brother, who succeeded him\nin the editorship, was already a contributor. This paper survived till\n1865, when it expired a few months after the death of Hermann Hauff,\nwhom from all we know of him we imagine to have been a much more\nbusiness-like editor than Wilhelm. Contemporarily with this responsible\npost Wilhelm took to himself a wife, one of his own cousins, who bore\nhim a daughter but a few days before his death. He died of fever on the\n18th November, 1827. Prefixed to the edition of 1853 is a very pretty\nlittle poem of L. Uhland's on the occasion, and also a funeral oration\nby Mr. Court Chaplain Grueneisen, who was his cousin, both of which were\nrecited over his grave in true German fashion. If we could believe all\nthat this worthy priest said--and we have not a scrap of evidence to\nthe contrary--Wilhelm Hauff's life must indeed have been a bright and\nhappy one; 'Wonnezeit voll holder Traeume,' as he himself called the\nseason of youth. Apparently he made no enemies, and he made every one\nwhom he chose his friend; his tender affection for his mother seems to\nhave been the mainspring of his existence; to his bride he had been\nlong attached in a half playful spirit, that wanted only the shadow of\na difficulty to withdraw their love into those regions of romance in\nwhich his mind delighted to dwell. It was about a month before his\ndeath that he produced, as a reminiscence of his northern journey, the\nfollowing story, entitled--\n\n                      'THE WINE-GHOSTS OF BREMEN.'\n\n\n\n\nNOTE (_written before the late incorporation of the Hanse towns with\nthe Empire_).\n\nIt may seem a little superfluous here to attempt to describe the\nRathskeller at Bremen, for it is well known to many travellers. But\nfrom the method by which travellers are usually conducted through the\nvaults, in which Hauff spent his grandfather's _Schalttag_ in that\nbygone October, little acquaintance with the object of his story is to\nbe derived. The Rathhaus at Bremen, then, is by far the most\nconspicuous object in the town. It contains some of the most beautiful\nof the German efforts, both in stone and wood carving, of the fifteenth\nand sixteenth centuries. Whether there is any connection between the\nfact that the fifteenth century preferred stone, the sixteenth wood,\nand the other fact that the former of these centuries was to the Hanse\ntowns the epoch of glory, the latter the epoch of decay, we must leave\nfor Mr. Ruskin to decide. Anyhow, the men who embellished that Rathhaus\ninside were as little conscious of the decay of their city as those who\nbuilt it and decorated it outside. So far as Germany is concerned, even\nin the best examples of Luebeck, Augsburg, or Nuremberg, the force of\nArt could no further go. But descend the steps on the left of the\nbuilding, and you will find a very different state of things. The\ncellar is built as a cellar should be, strictly with a view to the\npractical--that is, to the comfort of its inhabitants, the mighty\nspirits imprisoned in the mighty casks. For the comfort of those who\ncame to commune with those mighty spirits, a broad oak settle with\nstrong arms would and did suffice; and the steps were made strictly\nwith a view to be _easy of ascent_. Since Hauff's time, and partly in\nconsequence of his story, the internal arrangements appear to have been\nmuch altered. Some of the cellar chambers have been painted in the true\nmodern German style, about which we should prefer not to say too much.\nSome of the mural paintings profess to be representations of scenes in\nthe story. There is no longer a passage straight through from the\nApostle cellar to the boudoir of Frau Rosa herself, and of the other\nvaults the cellar of Bacchus is alone unaltered. Bacchus, indeed, is\nthe hero of the place. No better description could possibly be given of\nhim than that which Hauff gives, and therefore we will not attempt to\namplify it. But the same Bacchus does not actually 'in the wood,' so to\nspeak, sit there. He was taken down ten years ago, and a new one put up\nin his place--why, I failed to discover. His cask is, however, like all\nthe other casks except Frau Rosa (who has disappeared altogether), the\nold one, a veritable Thirty Years War cask, beautifully carved with\nfantastic figures in relief. In the Apostle cellar all the wine is\nHochheimer or Ruedesheimer, and the names are still graven on each cask,\nand 'Herr Judas, 1729,' is said to contain the best wine. But from a\nsomewhat limited experience it is difficult cordially to endorse the\nreported opinion of the late King Ludwig of Bavaria, that the finest\nRhine wines would keep for ever. Let the man who wishes to know what\nwine _can be_, by all means go daily for a few weeks to the Rathskeller\nin Bremen. Let him pay due homage to the worthies of old time there by\ntasting them, one glass of each per diem; but let him not fail to wash\nthem down speedily with a bottle of twenty-year old Niersteiner or\nRuedesheimer. If you ask, thirsty reader, why these things are to be\nfound at their best in Bremen, we can only say that North Germany is a\nright conservative country; and because the Burgomasters of Bremen\nthought it their duty in the seventeenth century to lay down cask upon\ncask of the best vintages, their successors think it is their duty\nlikewise; which is a very practical and righteous feeling. Bacchus,\nhowever, and the two mighty casks which guard his right hand and his\nleft (like those trusty comrades who stand up in the halls of the\nColleges of our Universities on each side of the drinker, when the\nloving cup is passed round, to prevent his being stabbed in the back),\nare now empty. The right hand cask was broken open and drained by the\nFrench soldiers in 1806, after the defeat of Prussia at Auerstaedt; a\nloss which one can well imagine that the Town Council of Bremen bore\nless philosophically than many another act of power of those merciless\nfreebooters. Bacchus himself, who dates from 1624, has been empty for\n100 years. But what has become of the Rose herself? There are many old\ncasks in the cellar called after her, but none that I could identify\nwith the heroine of the story. She is still painted on the ceiling--a\nsufficiently ugly specimen (of the variety known as 'La France,' she\nappears to be)--very fat and round, with very dirty green foliage, and\nround her the following inscription:--\n\n'Cur Rosa Flos Veneris Bacchi depingitur antro,\n  Causa quod absque mero frigiat ipsa Venus.'\n\nOther bad hexameters follow in other parts of the vault known as the\nRose cellar; as for instance:\n\n'Haec Rosa Luminibus Veneres Nectarque Palato\n Objicit, exhalans pocula grata cadis:\nVina vetusta tenet, grandaevi munera Bacchi;\n Sint procul hinc juvenes; vos decet iste senes.'\n\nThey are in fact the sort of verses that the traditional Eton boy, who\nwrote verses for the whole of his Dame's house, could turn out at the\nrate of a couplet a minute, adding a few false quantities and concords\nby desire of the accomplice for whom they were written, 'because if you\ndon't, you know, my tutor will never believe they're my own\ncomposition.' Finally, over the entrance door, on the other side of\nwhich is a medallion of Hauff, erected in 1876, comes the following:--\n\n  'Was Magen, Leib und Herz, Saft, Kraft, und Geist kann geben,\n   Betruebte troesten mag, halbtodte kann beleben,\n   Theilt diese Rose mit, sie hat von hundert Jahren\n   Den Preis ein edles Oel mit Sorgfalt zu bewahren.'\n\nMore could be quoted, but this breathes the spirit of the eighteenth\ncentury quite sufficiently for our purpose.\n\nAs for Roland, he is still in the marketplace, a wonderful\nfourteenth-century stone figure, nearly twenty feet high, not standing\non a pillar, but simply on a pedestal about two feet from the ground.\nHe would certainly find it remarkably difficult to sit down, even on a\ncask, for he has iron spikes to his knees, which would make him\nextremely uncomfortable if he bent them. He did not bow his head to me\nas I went away as he did to Hauff, which I felt deeply. It is generally\nbelieved that he only bows his head to those departing visitors who\nhave had enough Nierstein to appreciate the compliment.\n\n                                                  C. R. L. F.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                            THE WINE-GHOSTS\n                               OF BREMEN.\n\n'Come, come, good wine is a good familiar creature if it be well\nused.'--_Othello_, ii. 3.\n\n'There's nothing to be done with the fellow,' I heard them say, as they\nstumped down the stairs; 'nine o'clock and he is going to doze away his\nevening like a dormouse. He wouldn't have been like that four years\nago.' They were not far wrong from their point of view, good fellows;\nfor this evening there was to be a most brilliant musical tea and\nmuffin fight with dancing and recitation, and these gentlemen had come\nto invite me (who was a stranger to the High Life of Bremen) to go with\nthem. But I did not feel up to it. Some one, whom I had come to Bremen\non purpose to visit, was not to be there, and what's the use of going\nanywhere where Some one isn't? Besides, I knew I should have to sing if\nI went, and I didn't choose to sing if she wasn't to be there to hear\nme. I should only spoil all their fun by looking sulky. I preferred to\nlet them curse me for a dull dog for a few minutes on the steps, rather\nthan let them bore themselves from nine to one in talking to my body\nonly, while my soul would be whole streets off wandering about in the\nneighbourhood of the Frauenkirche.\n\nIt wasn't sleepiness though. I am not a habitual dormouse, and don't\nlike being called one. No, I meant to be thoroughly awake that night,\nand one of my friends--it was you, Hermann--said as much when he got\noutside. 'He didn't look sleepy,' I heard him say, 'with those bright\neyes of his. But he looked like a man who had been drinking either too\nmuch or too little, which probably means that he is going to make a\nnight of it with the bottle, and alone.'\n\nProphetic soul! Did you know that my eyes were sparkling yet\nproleptically with the thought of old Rhenish? You didn't know that I\nhad a permit from their High Mightinesses to greet my Lady Rose and the\nTwelve Apostles. And you certainly didn't know that it was my\n'Retreat.'[1]\n\nIn my opinion the habit which I inherit from my grandfather of blazing,\nso to speak, the tree of life here and there with a notch, and spending\na quiet day of meditation over each notch, is not a bad one. To keep\nthe ordinary festivals of the Church only is hardly sufficient; one\nbecomes commonplace, and one's thoughts are too apt to become\ncommonplace on such days. But let the soul that keeps an anniversary of\nits own making keep it alone; look inwards for a few hours in the year\ninstead of always outwards; sit down at the long table d'hote of\nmemory, people it with the shadows of the past, and then set to and\nmake out the bill conscientiously. Such days as these my grandfather\nalways kept, and called his 'retreats.' He didn't prepare a banquet for\nhis friends, or pass the time in festivity at all; he simply sat down\nand feasted his own soul and talked to her in that inner chamber which\nshe had occupied for five-and-seventy years. Even now I can trace, long\nas it is since the dear old man was laid in the churchyard, the marked\npassages in his Elzevir Horace which he always read on such days; and\nas I read, I can see his large blue eyes wandering thoughtfully over\nthe yellow leaves of memory's book. He takes up his pen. Slowly and\nhesitatingly he draws the black cross beneath the name of some dear\ndeparted friend. 'The master is keeping his Retreat,' whispered the\nservants to us, as we grandchildren were running gaily and noisily up\nthe stairs; and we repeated the words to each other, and imagined that\nhe was making himself Christmas presents, and wondered how he managed\nto light up his own Christmas tree. And we were not far wrong. They\nwere the tapers of affection that he was kindling upon the tree of\nUnforgetfulness, each taper the symbol of happy hours of a long life.\nAnd when his hours of solitude were passed, and we were admitted in the\nevening, he sat still and quiet in his chair as if he rejoiced like a\nchild in the Heaven-sent Christmas gifts of the past.\n\n\n[Footnote 1: Schalttag, lit. 'intercalary day'--used of the 29th of\nFebruary in leap years--impossible to translate except by a\ncircumbendibus. Hence we have borrowed from ecclesiastical phraseology\na word which, to a certain extent, possesses the same meaning in\nEnglish. So far as we are aware Hauff is peculiar in using Schalttag in\nthis sense.]\n\n\nAnd it was on his Retreat day that he was borne by loving hands to his\nlast resting-place. For the first time for many years, (for he had been\nconfined to his room,) it was 'out into the air,' but it was also 'into\nhis grave.' And again, 'I could not choose but weep they should lay him\nin the mould.' I had often walked with him along the same road; but\nwhen they turned off across the black bridge and laid him deep in\nthe earth, I knew that he was keeping his real Retreat. I was a little\nboy, and I wondered as they threw a lot of stones and turf on him\nwhether he would ever come up again. He did not. But his image remained\nin my memory, and when I grew up my favourite pieces in the long\npicture-gallery of Reflection were his Retreats.\n\nAnd isn't to-day mine? The First of September? And am I to go and drink\nweak tea and listen to bad music to-day? No! I have a better\nprescription in my pocket, directed to the best apothecary in the\nworld--somewhat under the world in fact he dwells. Down therefore to\nhim, and _Fiat, sum., haust. ad lib._\n\nIt was striking ten o'clock when I descended the broad steps that lead\nto the noble vault, which with all its contents is the ancient and\nperpetual inheritance of their High Mightinesses the Corporation of\nBremen. There was every probability of my having my drink to myself, as\nthere was a fearful storm raging outside and no one about in the\nstreets. The cellarman stared at me as I presented a slip of paper,\nsigned and sealed by a town-councillor:--\n\n'Admit the Bearer to Drink. Sep. 1st.'\n\n'So late and _To-night_?' says he. 'It is never late before twelve and\nnever too early after that for good wine,' says I. He looked at the\nsignature and seal, and not without hesitation led the way through the\nvaults. What a noble sight was there! His lantern shone over long rows\nof casks, and threw strange forms and shadows on the arches of the\ncellar; and the pillars seemed to float in the background like busy\ncoopers plying their staves. My companion wanted to open for me one of\nthose smaller rooms where six or eight friends at the most can pack in\nwith comfortable space to let the bottle circulate: and a very proper\nthing it is, when your companions are the right sort, to sit close\ntogether; but when I am to be alone I love free space, where my\nthoughts and my body can find room to expand. So I chose an old vaulted\nhall, the largest we passed into, for my solitary banquet-room. 'You\nexpect company?' said the attendant. 'No.' Some have who do not\nexpect,' said he, with an uneasy glance at the shadow on the wall.\n'What do you mean?'\n\n'Nothing. It's the first of September.... By-the-bye, there was Mr.\nCouncillor Pumpernickel here a while agone, and he bade me get out some\nsamples for you--samples of my Lady Rose and of the Twelve Apostle\ncasks'; and he began to take down some pretty little bottles with\nlong strips of paper on their necks. 'You don't mean to tell me I am\nnot to be allowed to drink out of the casks themselves.' 'Your honour\ncouldn't possibly be allowed that privilege except in the presence of a\ntown-councillor. Let me fill your honour's glass from this bottle.'\n'Not a drop here then,' said I; 'if I mayn't drink from the cask head I\nwill drink at the cask side at least. Come, old fellow, pick up your\nsamples, and give me the light.' He still kept fidgeting about, and\nshoving the bottles into and out of his pockets, which irritated me\nmuch, as I was longing to be off to the Apostle cellar; and at length I\nspoke quite sharply, 'Come now, march.' This gave him courage\napparently, and he answered with some firmness, 'It won't do, sir,\nreally it won't--not to-night.' Thinking he was merely angling to raise\nhis price, I pressed a substantial douceur into his hand, and took him\nby the arm to lead him along. 'No, no, it wasn't that I meant,' said\nhe, trying to reject the proffered coin; 'but no one shall take me into\nthe Apostle cellar on the night of the first of September, not for love\nor money!'\n\n[Illustration: THE CELLAR OF BACCHUS]\n\n'Stuff and nonsense! What do you mean?' 'I mean that it's an uncanny\nthing to go in there on Frau Rosa's own birthday.' I laughed till the\nvault rang. 'I've heard of a good many ghosts before now, but never\nheard of a wine-ghost: fancy an old man like you believing such tales:\nbut I tell you, friend, I am serious. I have permission from their High\nMightinesses to drink in the cellar tonight, time and place at my own\ndiscretion; and in their name I order you to lead me to the cellar of\nBacchus.' This finished him. Unwillingly, but without answering, he\ntook the taper and beckoned me to follow. We went first back through the\ngreat vault, then through a number of smaller ones, till our path came\nto an end in a narrow passage. Our steps echoed weirdly in the hollow way,\nand our very breath as it struck on the walls sounded like distant\nwhisperings. At last we stood before a door, the keys rattled, with a\ngroan the hinge opened, and the light of the candles streamed into the\nvault. Opposite me sat friend Bacchus on a mighty cask of wine: not\nslender and delicate like a Grecian youth had the cunning old wood carvers\nof Bremen made him; no, nor a drunken old sot with goggle eyes and hanging\ntongue, as vulgar mythology now and then blasphemously represents him\n(scandalous anthropomorphism I call it!). Because some of his priests,\ngrown grey in his service, have gone about like that; because their bodies\nmay have swelled full of good humour, and their noses been coloured by the\nburning reflection of the dark red flood; because their eyes may have\nbecome fixed through being constantly turned upwards in silent\nrapture,--are we to ascribe to the god the qualities of his servants?\nThe men of Bremen thought differently. How cheerily and gaily the old\nboy rides on his cask: the round blooming face, the little bright eyes\nthat looked down so wisely and yet so mockingly, the wide laughing\nmouth that has been the grave of so many a cask, the whole body\noverflowing with comfortable good living. It was his arms and legs,\nhowever, that specially delighted me. I almost expected to see him snap\nhis chubby fingers, and hear his voice sing out a gay hurrah! Why, he\nlooked as if at any moment he might jump off his seat and trundle his\ncask round the cellar, till the Rose and the Apostles joined in the\nmerry dance, and chased each other round whooping. 'Merciful powers,'\ncried the cellarmaster, clinging tightly to me, 'I saw his eye roll and\nhis feet move!' 'Peace, you old fool!' said I, feeling however rather\nqueer, and looking anxiously at the wine god; 'it's only the dancing\nreflection of your taper. Well, we'll go on to the Apostle cellar, the\nsamples will taste better there.' But as I followed the old man out of\nBacchus' private room, I looked round, and the figure certainly seemed\nto nod his little head, and stretch out his legs, and give a shake as\nif from an inward giggle. One ascends from Bacchus to a smaller vault,\nthe subterranean celestial firmament I called it, the seat of\nblessedness, where dwell the twelve mighty casks, each called after an\napostle. What funeral vault of a royal race can compare with such a\ncatacomb as this? Pile coffin on coffin, trim the everlasting lamps\nthat burn before the ashes of the mighty dead, let black-on-white\nmarble speak in epigrammatic phrase the virtues of the departed: take\nyour garrulous cicerone with his crape-trimmed hat and cloak, listen to\nhis praises of Prince This, who fell at the battle of That, and of\nPrincess Tother on whose tomb the virgin myrtle is intertwined with the\nhalf-opened rosebud; see and drink in all the associations of such a\nplace; but will it move you like this? Here sleeps, and has slept for a\ncentury, the noblest race of all. Dark-brown their coffins, and all\nunadorned--no tinsel, no lying epitaphs, simply their names inscribed\non each in large plain letters, as I could see when the old fellow\nplaced the taper on them. ANDREW, JOHN, JUDAS, PETER, and here on the\nright PAUL, on the left JAMES, good James. Paul is Nierstein of 1718,\nand James Ruedesheim, ye gods! Ruedesheim of 1726!\n\nAsk not of their virtues; no one has any right to ask: like dark-red\ngold their blood sparkles in my glass; when it was first ripened on the\nhills of St. John it was pale and blonde, but a century has coloured\nit. What a bouquet! quite beyond the power of words to express. Take\nall the scents from all the flowers and trees, and all the spices of\nAraby and Ind, fill the cool cellar with ambergris, and let the amber\nitself be dissolved into fumes--and the result will be but poor and\nscentless compared to the liquid sunshine of Bingen and Laubenheim, of\nNierenstein and Johannisberg. 'Why do you shake your head?' said I to\nmy companion at last; 'you've no reason to be ashamed of these old\nfellows here. Come, fill your glass and here's good luck to the whole\nTwelve of them!'\n\n'Heaven forbid that I should do anything of the kind,' he replied; 'it's\nan uncanny toast and an uncanny night for it. Taste them, sir, and\nlet's pass on, I shiver in their presence.' 'Good-night, then,\ngentlemen--remember that I am everywhere and for ever at your service,\nmost noble Lords of the Rhine.' 'Surely,' said the old fellow, 'those\nfew drops haven't made you so drunk that you would raise the whole crew\nof sprites already? If you talk like that again I shall be off, though\nI should get the sack for it: I tell you that on this night the spirits\nimprisoned in these casks rise and hold infernal carnival here in this\nvery spot, aye, and other spirits besides! I wouldn't be here after\ntwelve o'clock for worlds.' 'Well, I'll be quiet, you old driveller, if\nyou'll only take me on to my Lady Rose's apartment itself.' At last we\nreached it, the little garden of the queen of flowers. There she lay in\nall her majestic girth, the biggest cask I ever saw in my life, and\nevery glass worth a golden guinea. Frau Rosa was born in 1615. Ah,\nwhere are the hands that planted her parent vine? where are the eyes\nthat watched the ripening clusters? where the sun-browned feet that\nhurried to the festival when she was pressed in the sunny Rheingau, and\nstreamed a pale gold rivulet into the vat? Like the waves of the stream\nthat lapped the base of her cradle, they are gone no one knows whither.\nAnd where are their High-Mightinesses of the Hansa, who ruled when the\nHansa was a League indeed, those worthy senators of Bremen who brought\nthe blushing maiden to this cool grot for the edification of their\ngrandchildren? Gone too--with two centuries over their heads, and we\ncan only pour wine on their tombs.\n\nGood luck to you, departed High-Mightinesses, and good luck to your\nliving representatives, who have so courteously extended such\nhospitality to a Southerner! 'And goodnight to you, my Lady Rose,'\nadded the old servant more kindly. 'Come along, sir, we can get out\nthis way without going back, mind you don't stumble over the casks.'\n'My good man, you don't imagine I'm going away, do you?' I replied. 'I\nhave only just begun my night. Bring me some of that special '22, two\nor three bottles, into that big room behind there. I saw that wine\ngrowing green and saw it pressed, and now I'm going to prove to my\npalate that we can still grow something worth drinking.' The old boy\nexpostulated, entreated, threatened, swore nothing should induce him to\nstay;--who wanted him to stay? Swore he daredn't leave me here;--did he\nthink I was going to carry off Frau Rosa in my arms? Finally he agreed\nto let me remain if he might padlock me into the big room, and come at\nsix o'clock tomorrow to wake me and receive his reward. Then, with a\nheavy heart, he put three bottles of the '22 on the table, wiped the\nglass, poured me out a little, and wished me good-night, double-locking\nand padlocking the door behind me, more apparently out of tender\nanxiety for me than out of fear for his cellar. The clock struck\nhalf-past eleven as I heard him say a prayer and hurry away. When he\nshut the outer door of the vaults at the top of the stairs, there was\nan echo like the thunder of cannons through the halls and passages.\n\nSo now I was alone keeping Retreat with my soul down in the bosom of\nthe earth. Slumber above me and slumber around me, for the spirits of\nthe dead are asleep by my side. I wonder if they dream of their brief\nchildhood on the distant mountains, and the nightly lullabys sung to\nthem by old Father Rhine; or the kisses of their tender mother the sun\nwhen they first opened their eyes in the bright spring air, of their\nfirst leafy garments which reflected themselves in their old Father's\neyes.\n\nAh! my soul, I too have rosy days of youth to look back upon, spent\nupon the soft vine-clad hills and by the blue rivers of my native\nSwabia; ah the days and the day dreams of glory! What games, what\npicture-books, what mother-love, what gigantic Easter eggs, what armies\nof tin and paper! And then, my soul, think of the first little trousers\nand collars in which your mortal covering, so proud of its size, was\ndressed; think how your father gave you rides on his knee, and your\ngrandfather lent you his long bamboo cane with a golden head to use as\na hobby horse.\n\nAnother glass! And then look on a few years. Do you remember the sad\nmorning when you were taken to see all the mournful solemnities of\ngrandfather's funeral? Ah! what would you not have given to get him\nback. Peace, 'tis but for awhile that he slumbers. And then the\ndelightful hours in the old library filled with folios that were\nevidently bound in leather for no other purpose than that of forming\nhuts to protect you and your imaginary sheep and cattle from the\nimaginary rain. How roughly you treated the Higher Literature of your\nnative land. Why, I remember throwing a quarto Lessing at my brother's\nhead, for which he beat me unmercifully with 'Sophy's Journey from\nMemel to Saxony.' Rise too, ye walls of the old castle, with your\nhalf-ruined passage, your cellar, your gate, your courtyard, all of\nwhich served only as a playground for a squad of boys; soldiers and\nrobbers, nomads and caravans we were. I didn't much care whether I\nrepresented Platoff or a Cossack trooper, Napoleon or Napoleon's\ncharger. Scattered all over the world, in every rank of life, and the\nsport of every kind of fortune is now the little knot of boys who were\nthe companions of my childhood; and you and I, my dear soul, being\nalone too erratic to turn soldier, chamberlain, artisan, or parson,\nhave become that remarkable thing called Doctor of Philosophy, having\nhad just sufficient brains between us to write a dissertation. Brains\nenough to find our way into the Bremen cellars, however.\n\nAnother glass! Sure there's an affinity between wine and the tongue. It\ngoes quite straight till it comes to the throat; here, however, is set\nup a finger-post, directing 'To the Stomach' and 'To the Head.' The\nlatter is the path of the nobler particles of the grape-juice; the pure\nspirits that inhabit it will ever soar, and sensible, peaceful people\nthey are for the most part, if there are not too many of them there\ntogether; but you know the best philosophers will quarrel when half a\ndozen of them of different intellectual complexions are closely packed\nin a small room.\n\nHow fair is that fourth period of life, (which we begin with the fourth\nglass.) Fourteen years old, my soul; but the boyish games are left\nbehind, and you are steeped to the lips in reading--especially Goethe\nand Schiller, over whom you pore without understanding much. You think,\nhowever, you understand it all, and you have already kissed Elvira\nbehind the cupboard door, and broken Emma's heart. Perjured villain!\nshe may be another Charlotte, and she may possibly even have read some\nof Clauren, and be deeply in love with thee (and him). Let the scene\nchange. I blow a greeting to that dear Alpine valley [Blaubeuern] where\nI spent so many years at school; the cloister roof, the walks over the\nbrasses of dead abbots, the church with the wonderful high altar, the\nimages dipped in the bright gold of sunrise. Thanks be to the strong\nAlpine air that I was ever full fledged and can fly as well as most\npeople.\n\nAnother glass! Another period. That is a better glass than the last, I\nthink--there's an aroma about it that the other lacked. And what a\nperiod that was! My college days! High, noble, savage, inharmonious,\nrough, fair; all opposites and contrasts that ever existed, blended\nthen. No outsider can ever know the delights, and an outsider can\nhardly choose but laugh at the follies. Mixed with all the dross we\nbring up from thence there are generally some particles of fine gold.\nThe music of our life would be strange indeed to one who had not sung\nand laughed with us. I know well what my granddad felt when he crossed\nthe name of some fellow-collegian in his Book of Memory. God bless them\nall!\n\nAnother glass, by the immortal gods, and another bottle this time! From\nFriendship to Love. The most wonderful thing of this period (period\nsix, please observe, my soul) was that its grades fitted themselves\ninto and took their colour from my reading. Especially my affections\ngot coloured from Wilhelm Meister; that is to say, I hardly knew\nwhether it was Emmeline or the gentle Camilla, or even Ottilie. Didn't\nall three peep out from behind jalousies in bewitching nightcaps to\nhear the mournful squeaks which my numbed fingers elicited from the\nguitar? And when all three proved but heartless coquettes, I swore I\nwould never marry till I was forty. Yet the little god slides from the\neyes of the loved one into the heart of the victim. For am I not a\nvictim? Is not she the coldest listener of all when I sing? did she\never vouchsafe me a single glance of encouragement? As I am not a\ngeneral officer, I can't get mentioned in a despatch as having eight\nbullets in my breast and 'lying in a precarious condition,' even if we\nwere not at peace. If I was only a drummer I could go and make a\ndisgusting noise under her window till she was obliged to look out to\ntell me to go away, and I would then descend from fortissimo to piano\nand adagio, for I suppose one could do adagio even upon a drum. But the\nonly fame she is likely to hear of me is that some one will tell her\nto-morrow that I boozed in the Town Cellar from midnight to six a. m.\n\nNow is no one awake but the highest and the lowest in the town,--the\nwatchman on the top of the cathedral tower, and I deep down in the\nbowels of the earth. If I were the watchman I would be singing to a\ncertainty, so I don't see why I should not wake the echoes down here.\n_She_ won't hear either of us, so here goes.\n\n      When at the lonely midnight hour\n      I pace my rounds upon the tower,\n      I muse upon my love afar,\n      Whose troth is fixed as morning star.\n\n      When to the flag at honour's call\n      I flew, her kiss was worth it all;\n      She decked my hat with ribbands blue,\n      Then pressed me to her heart anew.\n\n      And still her love's as warm as then,\n      It gives my hand the strength of ten;\n      It lends my heart a firmer beat,\n      To think in absence on my Sweet.\n\n      E'en now within her room she kneels\n      And wings to Heaven her dear appeals,\n      All lonely by the pale lamp's ray,\n      For one she loves that's far away.\n\n      But if my danger haunt thy breast,\n      Yet dry thy tears, and be at rest;\n      I stand in God's own armour clad,\n      He loves an honest soldier lad.\n\n      The clocks ring out, the round is near.\n      My hour of rest will soon be here;\n      Sleep rock thy brain, and set it free\n      To dream, and only dream of me.\n\nMidnight! and is she dreaming of me? It always seems to me as if at\nthis mysterious hour the earth gave a little tremble, and the dead who\nsleep in her bosom turned in their heavy slumber as if to mutter a\nprayer of _Domine quousque_? That distant bell is borne to me very\ndifferently from the 'twelve great shocks of shameless noon.' Hark! did\nnot a door shut in one of the further vaults? Strange, if I didn't\n_know_ that I was perfectly alone here I should believe that I heard\nfootsteps. Yes, there are footsteps, and now they are at my door too.\nNever mind, the door's well locked; no mortal can disturb me. _No\nmortal_; yet the door flies open!...\n\nTwo men stood there, making fantastic compliment of yielding the _pas_\nto each other. One was tall and haggard, with a long black wig, a dark\nred coat made by some old French tailor, and covered with gold tassels\nand gilt buttons. His immensely long thin legs were clad in tight\ntrousers of black velvet, with gold knee-buckles; he had stuck his\nsword with its porcelain handle through his breeches pocket; when he\nbowed he flourished a three-cornered hat, and the curls of his peruke\nrustled down his shoulders like a waterfall. He had a pale face, sunken\neyes, and a fiery red nose. The little fellow to whom he wished to\nyield precedence was quite different. His hair was plastered down with\nwhite of egg and then twisted into two long rolls like pistol holsters\nat the sides--and a plait about a yard long hung down his back. He wore\na little steel-grey coat faced with red, and, beneath that, great\nriding boots, and a richly embroidered waistcoat which covered his\nplump figure to the knee, and a huge sword was fastened to his side.\nThere was something good-tempered in his face, especially the eyes. He\ntoo performed wondrous evolutions with a huge beaver hat. I recovered a\nlittle from my terror while their courtesy proceeded to the verge of\nabsurdity: at last they settled it by opening the other half of the\ndoor and marching in arm-in-arm. They hung their hats on the wall,\nunfastened their swords, and sat down silently without noticing me: I\nthink I disliked their silence even more than anything else. Before\nhowever I had mustered courage to break it, more steps were heard, and\nfour other gentlemen entered, dressed in somewhat similar fashion: one\nof them for the chase apparently. 'Greeting, gentlemen of the Rhine!\nit's long since we met,' said the pale-faced man with the red nose.\n'Greeting, greeting, Mr. James, Mr. Matthew, greeting Mr. Judas. But\nwhat's this? where are the glasses and the pipes, where's the tobacco?\nHas that old fool not waked out of his sinful snoring yet? I suppose he\nis still in Our Lady's churchyard; but stay, I'll ring him up'--and he\nseized a great bell that stood on the table and rang it till the halls\nre-echoed. The three new comers took their seats at the table, and sat\nsilent after the first greeting, especially one whom they called\nAndrew, who sat between the huntsman and the red-nosed man; he was\nevidently a person nice of his manners and appearance, his features\nwere still youthful, and a gentle smile played upon his lips. There\nwere varieties in the dress and expression of all, but not such as to\nhave particularly fastened themselves upon my remembrance. As it\nusually is with old drinkers, conversation flagged for want of liquor;\nuntil, in answer to the summons of the bell, a new figure appeared at\nthe door--a piteous-looking old man with trembling legs and grey hair,\nwith a sort of death's-head face. With much exertion he dragged forward\na great basket, and greeted the guests humbly.\n\n'Hurrah,' they cried, 'here's Balthasar, slip along old fellow, on with\nyour glasses and pipes; what a time you have been!'\n\n[Illustration: THE GENTLEMEN OF THE RHINE]\n\nThe old man gave a rude yawn, and declared that he had almost overslept\nthe first of September: 'I sleep so sound, d'ye see, since they've new\npaved the churchyard, that I'm getting to hear rather badly. But here's\nonly six of you yet, and where's my Lady Rose?' 'Just you put on the\nbottles, old chap, and then you may go across and rattle your dry bones\nagainst their casks, and tell them it's time to get up,' cried one of\nthem; but the words were hardly spoken when a great noise and laughter was\nheard. 'Rosa, Rose, Lady Rose, hurrah, hurrah for Bacchus, hurrah for\nRosa!' The ghostly companions within shouted with delight to the same\neffect, and clinked their glasses to the health of the Rose. Balthasar\nthrew his cap up to the ceiling in his joy. In they came: Bacchus, my old\nfriend who had bestrid the cask, had got down off it--not a rag of clothing\non him--yet in he came, leading his blushing Rose, an ancient matron of\nstately mien and considerable stoutness of figure: splendidly dressed, too,\nshe was like a true old Rhineland lady. Time might have written a few\nwrinkles on her brow and mouth, the fresh colour of youth might be a trifle\nwanting on her cheeks, but two hundred years had but added dignity to her\ncontour. What though her eyebrows had grown grey, and there were--hush, yes\nthere were really--a few ugly grey hairs on her chin, her locks above were\nnut-brown, with but very slight tinge of silver here and there. Her head\nwas covered with a black velvet cap, fitting close to her temples: her\njacket was of the finest cloth, and the red velvet bodice that peeped from\nbeneath it was laced with silver hooks and chains. Necklace, a string of\ngarnets and gold coins. Her skirt was of thickly pleated brown cloth,\nand she wore a sort of toy white apron, with a huge leather pocket at\none side and a bunch of huge keys at the other. In short, she was the\nvery picture of a worthy matron of Mainz or Coblentz, of the years\nimmediately preceding the Thirty Years War. Six jolly companions\nfollowed her, dressed in the same fashion as my friends who were\nalready seated, and all with their wigs somewhat awry. How politely\nBacchus led his lady-love to the table! how politely she bowed to the\ncompany as she sat down! As for her fat little sweetheart, Balthasar\nhad to put a great pillow under him, or he would not have been able to\nget his nose above the table. When all were seated I realised that they\nwere indeed the spirits of those mighty Rhinewines that I had tasted an\nhour before; the twelve Apostle-casks, Bacchus and the old Rose.\n\n'Well, well, it's a long while since 1700, Mistress Rose,' said one of\nthem, 'but we seem to be all in pretty good condition, and I vow you\nare as young and handsome as ever. Here's good luck and long life to\nyour sweetheart and yourself, my dear.' 'Rosa, Frau Rosa, the Rose,\nlong life and health to her!' shouted all, and Bacchus tossed off two\nquarts at a gulp, which had the visible effect of making him look more\nlike an inflated bladder than ever.\n\n'Thank you, most honoured apostles and cousins,' said she, bowing\ngraciously; 'but when you refer to my sweetheart I don't know whom you\nmean; you confuse a modest maiden.' The modest maiden sought refuge in\na mighty draught of wine. 'Sweetheart,' said Bacchus, looking tenderly\nat her and pressing her hand, 'be not coy, sweetheart; you know well\nwhose heart has been yours any time these 200 vintages; and I don't\nmind proving it to you by this chaste salute'--and he bent forward to\nkiss her. 'If all these young people were not here,' she murmured--but\namid shouts of laughter from the young people she allowed him to take\nhis due by force and with interest. Then he tossed off a bowl or two\nand began to sing in a rich mellow voice:\n\n      There's not a palace in the land\n      So fair as this of Bremen,\n      Its spacious floors, its halls so grand\n      A king would feel no shame in:\n      And sure 'tis decked with everything\n      To take the fancy of a king;\n      But the thing that best would win it\n      Is the Lady fair within it.\n\n      Her eyes like sparkling Rhenish shine,\n      Her cheeks are bright as roses,\n      Her heavy draperies rich and fine\n      Are decked with fragrant posies:\n      Of heart-of-oak her farthingale,\n      Her girdle of the birchwood pale,\n      And her bodice trim she faces\n      With iron clasps and laces.\n\n      But ah, her bedroom too is barred\n      With locks and bolts of iron,\n      She slumbers soft nor dreams how hard\n      The threshold 'tis to lie on.\n      I knock in vain from twelve to four,\n      Arise, my love, and ope the door\n      That bars thy chamber cosy,\n      Come forth, my lovely Rosie!\n\n      So pass I every midnight hour\n      Before her lonely dwelling,\n      Once, only once, and never more,\n      The fairy lass was willing.\n      And since I drew that honeyed kiss\n      My heart's been drunken all with bliss--\n      Ah, just once more, my treasure,\n      Fill me a brimming measure!\n\n'That's enough of such indelicate allusions, now, Mr. Bacchus,' says\nshe; 'you know very well that their High Mightinesses keep me strictly\nlocked up, and don't allow me to admit anyone at all.' 'Not even me,\ndear Rosie,' said he; 'ah, I think they would wink at it if you let me\nin now and then for a taste at your lips.' 'You're a rogue,' she\nanswered, 'and little better than a Turk. I should like to know how\nmany sweethearts you want. I know of your goings on with those\nfrivolous French girls, Miss Champagne, (who has no more colour in her\nface than a dried pea,) and Fraeulein von Bordeaux, the sickly minx. Ah,\nyou have not the true Rhinelander's heart, nor understand the\nRhinelander's love.' 'Pooh, my dear,' says he, 'I have visited these\nladies occasionally, and amused myself with their wit, but nothing\nelse; rest assured, my dearest, my heart is thine alone.' 'And then I\nfancy,' she went on, 'that I have heard some stories from Spain. Of\npoor Lady Xeres I will say nothing, (that's too well-known a story for\nyou to deny); but how about the Senorina Dentilla di Rosa, Senorina San\nLucar, and Senora Ximenes--a married lady too?' 'You carry your\njealousy too far,' said he, with some asperity. 'I don't see why one\nshould give up one's old connexions. As for the Senora Ximenes, I\nmerely visit her out of kindness to you as being your relation.' 'Our\nrelation?' muttered Rosa and the others, 'how's that?' 'Don't you\nknow,' he continued, 'that she is originally from the Rhine? The most\nexcellent hidalgo, Don Ximenes, took her from thence to his home in\nSpain when she was a very tender maid, and there she settled, and\nnaturally took his family name. But she preserves with the Spanish\nsweetness much of the true German character, especially in colour and\nscent.' 'Long life to her, then,' cried they all, 'if she really is\nRosie's cousin.' Rosa did not seem quite satisfied with her\nsweetheart's cunning mode of extricating himself from the scrape, so\nshe changed the subject by turning round to the others and rallying\nthem each in turn on the way in which the years had treated or spared\nthem. One looked pale, she said, another was but half awake, a third\nhad grown fat, almost too lazy to drink, a fourth was as ready for a\njoke as ever, and so on--'but hallo, why there are thirteen of you.\nWho's that in the strange clothing over there? who brought him in?'\n\n_Was I frightened or not?_ None of them looked pleased at my presence:\nbut I said, 'I present my compliments to this worthy assemblage; I am\nreally nothing but a man, who has taken a degree of Ph.D., and at\npresent my residence is at the Frankfurt hotel in this city.'\n\n'But, oh man who hast taken a degree, how camest thou here, man?'\n'Apostle,' I answered--it was Peter whose eyes flashed fire on me as he\nspoke--'I'll trouble you not to call me man till we're better\nacquainted. And as for this society into which you say I have come, you\nare quite in error; it came to me, not I to it, for I had been sitting\nin this very room nearly an hour past' (I don't know whence I got the\ncourage to say this--probably from the 'Special '22'). 'But what were\nyou doing in the cellar at this time of night, sir?' said Bacchus\nrather more gently; 'you ought to be asleep.' 'Your Honour,' says I, 'I\nhad excellent reasons for being here. I am a particular friend of the\nnoble drink that is stored here, and, by favour of the not less noble\nSenate, I received permission to pay you all a visit--time and place\nnot specified.'\n\n'So you like to drink Rhine wine,' said Bacchus; 'that's a good liking\nto have in these days, when most men have grown so cold towards the\ngolden spring,' 'Yes,' growled out the man in the red coat, 'no one\nwill drink us now except here and there a travelling doctor, like this\nfellow, or a schoolmaster out for a holiday; and most of them water it\nfirst.' 'I beg most respectfully to contradict you, Mr. Jude,' said I.\n'I have already tried you all round, and had but recently sat down to a\nfew modest bottles of a more contemporaneous vintage, and that I have\npaid for myself.' 'Don't get hot, doctor,' said my Lady Rose, 'he\ndidn't mean to hurt your feelings; he only reflected upon the low\nmanners and bad taste of the present day.' 'Bad taste, low manners, I\nshould think so,' said another. 'The generation that concocts a\ndetestable mixture of brandy and half a dozen kinds of syrups, and\ncalls it Chateau Margaux or Sillery, must indeed feel itself unworthy\nof a noble drink. And then people wonder why they get red rings round\ntheir mouths and a splitting headache the next day. Cochineal and\nbrandy, nothing else!'\n\n'What a life it was too when we were young, even as late as '26; yes,\neven as late as '50. Every evening, were it bright sunshiny spring, or\ndeep wintry snow, the little rooms here were alive with joyous guests.\nThe Senators of Bremen sat with majestic wigs on their heads, their\nweapons at their sides, and their glasses before them. That's what I\ncall honour and dignity. Here, here, not _upon_ the earth was their\ncouncil chamber; here the true hall of the senate; here was settled\nover the cool wine the affairs of the nation and of most other nations\nbesides. If they didn't agree they never quarrelled, but just drank\neach other's healths till they did; and if they ever failed it was\nbecause they didn't go on drinking long enough--but this rarely\nhappened. Equal friends of the noble wine, how could they but be\nfriends of each other? And on the next day their word pledged overnight\nwas held sacred, and the resolves taken overnight were executed coolly\nenough in the morning.'\n\n'Ah, the good old times,' said another Apostle, 'and it is still, you\nknow, a custom that every Councillor keeps a little wine-book or\ndrinking account, reckoned up and discharged at the end of the year.\nWhen a man sat here every night of his life, he didn't care to be\nalways putting his hands in his pockets, so it was worked on the tally\nsystem, and I hear there are still a few brave old fellows left who use\nthe same plan.'\n\n'Yes, yes, children,' said the old Rose, 'it was another world a couple\nof centuries, or even one, or even half a century ago. They used to\nbring their wives and daughters into the cellar with them, and the fair\nBremen maids, who were famed far and wide for bright eyes and rosy\ncheeks and voluptuous lips, drank nothing but good Rhine wine. Now\nforsooth, they must have tea and stuff like that, wretched foreign\nstuff, which girls in my time would only take if they had a little\ncough or sore throat, as a drug. And will you believe me, people\nactually put sweet Spanish stuff into true Rhine wines because they say\nwe are sour.'\n\nThe Apostles roared with laughter at this last idea, and I couldn't\nhelp joining. As for Bacchus, he had to be patted on the back by\nBalthasar to recover him. 'Yes, the g-g-g-good old times,' sputtered he\nas he got breath again, 'every burgher drank his honest half gallon and\nwent home as sober as a judge: now a glass upsets them, they're so out\nof practice.'\n\n'There was a fine story to that effect a couple of centuries ago,' said\nmy Lady, and smiled to herself at the recollection of it. 'Please tell\nit us, Frau Rose. Yes! the story! the story!' they all began to cry.\nShe emptied her bowl to clear her voice, and began.\n\n'You must know that in 1620 or 30 there was a great rumpus in Germany\nabout a very small matter--the Form of Religion. Each side wanted its\nown form shoved down the throat of the other, and instead of sitting\ndown to talk it over sensibly over a pipe of wine, they proceeded to\nknock each other on the head. Albrecht von Wallenstein, the Kaiser's\nfield-marshal in particular, made sad havoc of the Protestant\ncountries, until the King of Sweden, called Gustavus Adolphus, took\npity on them, and crossed the Baltic with a large army, and went at it\nhammer and tongs in defence of the Protestant religion. Well, they\nfought a lot of battles, and chased each other about from the Rhine to\nthe Danube, and from the Danube to the Rhine with mighty little result.\nAt that time Bremen and the other Hanse towns were neutral, and did not\nwish to quarrel with either party; but as Gustavus wanted a passage\nthrough their territories, he determined to send an embassy to them. It\nwas well known, however, that everything like state business in Bremen\nwas transacted in this cellar, and that the Bremeners were good hands\nat stowing away liquor: so the king was in some perplexity lest his\nambassadors should be drunk under the table, and then made to sign an\nunfavourable treaty. Now, there was by chance in the Swedish camp a\ncaptain of the Yellow Regiment who was a notable drinker. Two or three\nquarts for breakfast were a trifle to him, and in the evening he would\nhalf empty a four-gallon cask and sleep well after it. The chancellor\nOxenstiern brought this man to the king's notice. Captain Tosspot he\nwas called. The king was much pleased when he observed his nose, which\nwas of the right copper hue, and asked him how much he _could_ drink if\nit was a case of life and death. \"O king,\" he answered,\n\n\"I am but a poor captain, and wine is very dear. I never tried\nseriously. I can't afford to exceed my seven quarts a day; but if your\nmajesty would stand treat I would undertake to finish twelve at least.\nBut my squire who is called Balthasar the Bottomless, is a much harder\ndrinker than I am.\" Balthasar was called, a thin, ashy-pale little\nfellow with lank straight hair, and the king sent them into a tent by\nthemselves, with some fine old casks of Hochheimer and Nierstein, and\ntold them to get drunk. They began at 11 a.m., and by 4 p.m. they had\nfinished eight gallons of Hochheimer and twelve of Nierstein. When the\nking went to see them they were quite sober, but Captain Tosspot said\nhe thought he should soon have to loosen his sword-belt, and Balthasar\nhad undone three buttons of his collar. Then said the king, \"What\nbetter ambassadors can I find to talk the fair city of Bremen into its\nsenses?\" So Tosspot was made ambassador and Balthasar the Bottomless\nhis secretary, and they were properly rigged out, and their\ninstructions were made out; and the first of these was that they were\nto drink nothing but water on the way to Bremen, that the battle in the\ncellar might be more glorious afterwards; another was that Tosspot was\nto rub his nose with a white ointment, that no one might see what a\npractised mouth he was. They arrived safely at Bremen, but both of them\nnaturally quite ill through drinking water: the Senators of Bremen\nthought they would have an easy victory over two such milksops, and so\nthe burgomaster said he would look after the ambassador, and Dr.\nRedpepper should settle the secretary. So in the evening they were\nsolemnly led into the cellar with a lot of senators who were invited to\nassist in the negotiations. They sat down in this room and had a little\nspiced meat and ham and red herrings; but when Mr. Ambassador Tosspot\nwanted to begin the negotiation in an honourable manner, and Mr.\nSecretary Balthasar took parchment and ink-horn from his pocket, \"Not\nso, noble gentlemen,\" said the burgomaster; \"it is not the custom in\nBremen that we should settle weighty matters with a dry throat, we will\nfirst drink to one another, as our ancestors in like cases have always\ndone.\" \"I am but a poor drinker,\" said the captain, \"but if it so\npleases your High-Mightiness I will take a drop.\" So they began to\ndrink and treat at the same time; and to encourage their guests, the\nsenators and the doctor and the burgomaster went a little further than\nusual with the Ruedesheimer. At each new bottle the strangers excused\nthemselves, assuring the burgomaster that it was beginning to get into\ntheir heads; which of course delighted him immensely: and at last said\nthe burgomaster, \"now for bishnesh.\" But as the \"bishnesh\" went on, the\nburgomaster went to sleep while he was defining the word neutrality,\nand Doctor Redpepper lay already under the table: then the other\nsenators came and went on with the negotiations and the drinking; but\nthe captain, who kept five men running backwards and forwards filling\nhis glass for him, drank them all under the table.\n\n'All--but one. Mr. Senator Walther was a man of whom ugly tales would\ninfallibly have been told, if he had not been Mr. Senator. He was a man\nwho had raised himself from a humble position in his craft-guild to be\nan alderman, and then to his present place. He was a very tall bony\nman. He alone now held out with the two guests, and put away twice as\nmuch as both of them. Moreover, he seemed as sensible as ever, whereas\nTosspot was beginning to feel as if a wheel were going round in his\nhead. But the curious thing was this, that when Walther drank a glass\nBalthasar fancied that he saw a thin blue mist rise and exude from his\nblack hair. These two, however, drank bravely on till Tosspot dropped\npeacefully to sleep with his head pillowed against the burgomaster's\narm.\n\n'Then said the Senator to the Secretary, \"My dear fellow, you drink\nwonderfully well, but I fancy you are more familiar with the bridle\nthan the pen.\" Balthasar attempted some bluster about his Majesty's\nEmbassy, but the other replied with a terrible laugh, \"Ho, ho? and do\nsecretaries in your country always wear such clothes and carry such\npens?\" Then the groom looked at his dress and saw with alarm that he\nhad on his ordinary stable coat and had a curry comb in his hand. Bluer\nthan ever looked the mist about Walther's head as he tossed off another\nquart. \"Heaven forbid, sir,\" said poor Balthasar, \"that I should drink\nwith you any longer. I see you are a magician.\"\n\n\"True,\" said the man, \"but we needn't go into that, most honourable\nhorse-combing secretary; the point of the thing as far as you are\nconcerned is, that it is no use your trying to drink me under the\ntable, for I have a little tap screwed into my brain through which the\nfumes of the wine can evaporate.\" It was indeed true, and he inclined\nhis head towards Balthasar to show him the process. The groom clapped\nhis hands with delight: \"That's a most excellent device, sir; couldn't\nyou screw such a thing as that into my head? I will give you everything\nI possess for such an article.\" \"No, that can't be done,\" said the\nother thoughtfully; \"you are not learned either in magic or anything\nelse; but as I have taken a great liking to you I will serve you with\nall my power. Listen: The post of cellarmaster is vacant here at\npresent. Leave, oh Bottomless one, the Swedish service, where there is\nmore water than wine, and come into the service of the most noble the\nCouncil of this City. Even if we do lose a few dozen casks of wine per\nannum, which you drink in secret, that won't matter, we have been long\nlooking out for a fit person for the place. I will make you\ncellarmaster to-morrow if you like: whereas if you don't like, all the\ntown shall know to-morrow that the Swede has sent us a groom as a\nsecretary.\" This proposal tasted to Balthasar like a draught of good\nwine, he cast a glance into the immeasurable realm of drink that was\nalready prospectively his, and accepted the offer at once. After this\nthere remained several little points to be settled; as for instance,\nwhat was to be done with Balthasar's soul when he ceased to be\ncellarmaster in the course of nature: all these were satisfactorily\ndetermined, and Captain Tosspot went back to the Swedish camp without\nhis secretary, without his treaty, and with a bad headache. And when\nthe Imperialists afterwards came to Bremen and occupied it, the\nburgomaster was right glad that he had not allied himself too closely\nwith Gustavus.'\n\nThus the Rose, amid much laughter and thanks for her story; but one of\nus asked, 'And what became of Balthasar the Bottomless, did he remain\nin his new situation long?' Frau Rosa turned round laughing and pointed\nto a corner of the room, and said, 'There he sits still as the bold\ndrinker sat 200 years ago!' There he sat sobbing between every draught\nof Rhenish that he drank, poor shrunken pallid fellow: it was the very\nsame man who had come up so sleepily when the big bell was rung for him\na while before. All were anxious to hear the conditions which had been\nwrung from him by Senator Walther respecting his soul. 'Oh sir,' he\nreplied, in a voice which sounded as if Eternal Death was accompanying\nhim on the bassoon, 'don't require me to tell you.' 'Out with it! what\ndid he want? Out with it!' cried all. 'My soul.' 'What for?' 'For\nwine.' 'Speak plainly, old fellow, what did he do with your soul?' He\nwas silent for a long time, and at last said, 'Why should I tell this,\ngentlemen? It is a dreadful thing, and you don't know what it is to\nlose a soul as none of you ever had one.' 'All the more reason why you\nshouldn't be afraid of hurting our feelings,' said another. 'But there\nis a mortal here, I may not say it before him.' 'Go on,' said I,\ntrembling all over, 'I'm not easily shocked; after all, I suppose it\nwas only the Devil who came for you, and he does that every night on\nthe stage.' 'Well then,' said the old man, 'it was the man with the tap\nwho had begun by selling _his_ soul to the Devil, but on condition that\nhe should redeem it if he could find a substitute. He had tried many\nbut all had escaped him; so he made sure of me. I had grown up a wild\nyouth with no teaching, and the wars had left me no time for thinking\nof my own soul, or Heaven, or Hell, and my only idea was to have a good\ntime during my life. And my idea of a good time was plenty to drink and\nall day to drink it in. Walther perceived this, and says he, \"To live\nand swill in this Vinous Paradise for two or three decades that would\nbe a life, hey Balthasar? Wouldn't it?\" \"Ah!\" said I, \"I should think\nit would, but how could I attain such felicity?\" \"Which would you think\nmost of, living here and drinking to your heart's content as long as\nyou _do_ live, or of the stories about what will happen afterwards?\" I\nswore a dreadful oath, \"My bones will go where so many of my comrades'\nbones are lying. When a man is dead he neither feels nor thinks. I have\nseen that plainly enough in the case of many a poor fellow whose skull\nhas been smashed by a bullet; and therefore I will choose to live and\nbe merry.\" \"Very well,\" said he. \"Then you renounce and forswear the\nhereafter, do you? then I can easily manage to make you cellarmaster\nhere; only write your name in this book, and swear a binding oath at\nthe same time.\" I swore again that the Devil or whoever else liked\nmight have all that remained of me after death. When I had said this I\nwas aware that we were no longer two, but a third sat by me and gave me\nthe book to sign.' 'Who was it?' cried all the company. 'It was the\nDevil.' Weird words: even the spirits of the Vines looked gravely into\ntheir glasses, and Bacchus and Frau Rosa were pale and silent, and we\nheard only the old man's teeth chattering in his skull. 'Well! I\n_could_ write,' he went on, 'and I wrote now just what was asked of me:\nand from that time my life went on in riot and merriment, and there was\nnone so gay in Bremen as Balthasar the Bottomless. I drank up all that\nwas oldest and most precious in the cellar. I never went to church, but\nwhen the bells rang I came down here and sat down by the best cask and\nlet the tap run into my goblet. As I became old a creepy feeling would\nnow and then come over me, but I drowned all thoughts of death in wine.\nI had no wife to lament and no children to comfort me: and so on and so\non for long years till from very weakness I longed to rest in the\ngrave. Then one day I felt as if I were awake and yet couldn't get up,\nmy eyes wouldn't open, my fingers were stiff, my legs were like logs of\nwood, and I heard the people come to my bed side, and they felt me all\nover and said, \"Old Balthasar is gone at last.\" This really frightened\nme. Dead and not asleep? Dead and still thinking? Though my heart had\nceased to beat, something within me beat loudly enough.' 'Your soul,\npoor fellow,' they whispered. Balthasar nodded and went on. 'Then they\nmeasured my length and my breadth to make the six boards ready, and put\nme in with a hard cushion of shavings under my head and nailed up the\ncoffin, and carried me out into our Lady's churchyard. I heard the bell\ntolling in the Cathedral, though no eye wept for me; and my soul was\never more frightened because I couldn't sleep. They had dug my grave. I\ncan still hear the whistle of the rope which they drew up as I lay down\nbelow. Then they threw stones and earth on me, and it was silent all\naround me. But my soul grew more and more terrified as it drew towards\nevening. I knew a little prayer from old times, but my lips wouldn't\nmove. I heard ten--eleven--strike, and at last TWELVE,--when a fearful\nblow resounded on my coffin'.... A blow that made the hall re-echo now\nburst open the door of the room, and a great white figure appeared on\nthe threshold. By the wine and the horrors of the night, I had been so\necstasised as to be taken out of myself. I did not scream or jump up,\nbut stared quietly at this new apparition of terror, and simply said,\n'Well, I suppose this is the Devil.'\n\nHave you realised the fearful moment in Don Giovanni, when heavy steps\nring nearer and nearer, and Leporello comes back screaming and the\nstatue of the governor stalks in to supper, as he was bidden? So this\nfigure: gigantic, with measured echoing tread, a huge sword in hand, in\nfull armour, but unhelmeted, it stalked into the room. It was of stone,\nyet the stony lips moved, and said, 'Greeting, dear vine-spirits from\nmy beloved river: greeting to you on your birthday, fair child of my\nneighbour; greeting, My Lady Rose, may I take a seat in your assembly?'\n\nAll looked in amazement at the figure. But Rosa clapped her hands with\njoy, and cried, 'Why, it's Roland! the great stone Roland that has\nstood in the square at Bremen for ever so many years! This will indeed\nbe a memorable night when you do us so much honour, sir. Put your\nshield and sword away, and make yourself comfortable. Will you take a\nseat by my side? Oh, how glad I am!'\n\nThe wooden Bacchus, who had been growing fatter and fatter all this\ntime, cast discontented looks now at Roland and now at the Lady of his\nheart, who had expressed her pleasure so loudly and unrestrainedly. He\nmurmured something about 'uninvited guests being a bore,' and stamped\nhis legs impatiently. But my Lady appeased him with sweet looks and\npressed his hand under the table. Room was made for Roland on her other\nside, and the latter laid down his spear and shield in a comer, and sat\ndown rather awkwardly on a chair. But, alas! the chair was made for the\ncushioned forms of the burghers of Bremen town, not for a stone giant,\nand it at once cracked and fell in pieces under him, leaving him\nsprawling. 'Vile race of weaklings,' he cried, as he rose, 'that puts\ntogether such furniture as this, whereon in my time a tender lady could\nnot have sat in safety!' But Balthasar rolled a huge cask up to the\ntable, and persuaded the knight to try it; a couple of staves cracked,\nbut the cask held firm. It was the same with his wine. The glass that\nBalthasar offered him he shivered to fragments as he grasped it.\n'Well,' said the latter rather angrily, 'you might have taken off your\nstone gauntlets.' A silver goblet of the tumbler-shape holding about a\nquart escaped with a few unimportant dents, and the knight tossed off\nits contents.\n\n'How do you like the liquor?' said Bacchus; 'it must be dry work up\nthere on your pillar. I suppose you haven't tasted wine for years?'\n\n'It is good, by my sword, very good. What growth is it?'\n\n'Red Ingelheimer, noble sir,' said Balthasar.\n\nThe stony eyes of the knight took fire and sparkled as he heard this, a\nsoft smile beautified his stern features, and he looked with affection\ninto the goblet.\n\n'Ah, dear beloved Ingelheim! how sweet it sounds! the noble castle of\nmy knightly Kaiser. So, even in these days thy name is named! and the\nvines still bloom which Karl first planted by _his_ Ingelheim! Do the\nmen who live now ever speak of Roland? or of his great master?'\n\n'That you must ask of the mortal here,' said Jude; 'he calls himself\nDoctor and Master of Arts, and he must give you an account of his\nrace.' The giant turned his eyes inquiringly on me, and I said, 'Noble\nPaladin, mankind has indeed grown bad and careless of all that is great\nand lofty: its blind gaze is fixed upon the present, and looks neither\nbefore nor after. Yet so wretched are we not yet become, as to have\nwholly ceased to remember the glorious figures that once trod our\nnative land; they still cast their shadow through the ages till it\ntouches even us. Still are there hearts that fly for refuge to the\nmemories of the past, when the present has become too stale and mean\nfor reflection. Still are there pulses which beat higher at the naming\nof mighty names, still men who wander with reverence through the ruins\nwhere sat the first German Kaiser on his throne with his Paladins and\nhis bards around him. Karl and Oliver, Eginhard and the lovely Emma are\nstill familiar in men's mouths. And where Karl is renowned there too is\nRoland unforgotten. Next to him thou stoodst in life, and next to him\nthou wilt stand in song and saga and history till Memory itself shall\nbe no more. The final blast of thy warhorn still echoes in the hills of\nRoncesvalles, and will echo and echo on till it fades into the blare of\nthe Latest Trumpet.' 'Not in vain, my Kaiser, not in vain have we\nlived! There _is_ a posterity which does honour to our name,' cried the\nknight. 'True,' cried Frau Rosa, 'these men would deserve to drink the\nwater of the Rhine instead of the vine blossom of its hills if they\ncould forget the name of the man who first planted us in the Rheingau.\nMy dear friends and apostles, up! a health to our glorious founder and\nancestor! to Kaiser Karl, to Kaiser Karl!' The glasses rang again; but\nBacchus said, 'Yes, it was a beautiful and a glorious time, and I\nrejoice in it as I did a thousand years ago. Where now there is one\nlong wonderful garden from the shore of the stream to the tops of the\nhills, where grape climbs after grape up and down the terraces, there\nwas nothing but wild dark forest before he came. Then he looked down\nfrom the mountains from his castle at Ingelheim, and he saw how even in\nMarch the sun greeted the hills so warmly as the snow slid down them\ninto the stream; saw how early the trees became leafy there, and how\ntender and fresh the young grass looked as it burst upwards from the\nearth in the spring. And then there awakened in him the thought of\nplanting vines where the wood grew. And a busy life began to move in\nthe Rheingau beside Ingelheim; the wood vanished, and the earth was\ncleared to receive the vine. Then Karl sent men to Hungary and Spain,\nto Italy and Burgundy, to Champagne and Lothringen, and had vines\nbrought from thence, and entrusted the cuttings to dear mother earth.\nAnd my heart rejoiced that he should extend my kingdom beside the noble\nstream of Germany, and when the first shoots blossomed there I came\nwith all my train, and we camped upon the hills, and we worked in the\nearth, and we worked in the air, and we spread out delicate nets and\ncaught the dews of spring lest they should fall too heavily; and we\nrose up and caught the rays of the sunshine, and poured them round the\nlittle swelling clusters, and we dived down and brought up water from\nthe green Rhine for the roots, and water for the leaves. And when in\nautumn the first tender child of the Rheingau lay in its cradle we kept\na great feast, and invited all the elements to celebrate it; and each\ncame with some costly gift for the child. Fire laid his hand upon its\neyes and said, \"Thou shalt bear my sign upon thee for ever--there shall\nbe fire in thee, albeit of such purity and transparency, that thou\nshalt impart noble courage beyond all other juice of the grape.\" And\nAir came in her golden garment of gossamer, and laid her hand upon the\nchild's forehead and blessed him. \"Be thy colour as bright and delicate\nas the golden edge of morning light upon the hills, as the golden\ntresses of the fair women of the Rheingau.\" And Water ran past him, all\nrustling with silver, and bent towards the child, saying, \"I will be\never near thy roots, that thou mayst bloom and be green and cover the\nbanks of the Rhine.\" But when Earth came she kissed his mouth tenderly,\nand blew with her sweet breath upon him. \"The perfumes of all my most\ndelicate herbs, the honey of all my fairest flowers,\" she said, \"have I\ncollected as an offering for thee. The most precious spikenard or\nambergris shall be coarse beside thy scent; and thy fairest daughter\nshall be named after the Queen of Flowers--the ROSE!\" Thus spake the\nelements, and we rejoiced at their promised blessings, and we adorned\nthe child with vine leaves, and sent him to the Kaiser in his castle at\nIngelheim. And the Kaiser marvelled at the beauty of the child, and\nfrom that day he esteemed the vines of the Rhine among the most\nsplendid of his treasures.'\n\nWe sat silent for a while when Bacchus had finished, until her Ladyship\nrequested Andrew to favour us with an old melody, which he did with\ngreat ease and grace, by singing a simple old song of the fourteenth or\nfifteenth century. The words have escaped my memory, but the tune I\nremember still. This set us all off, even Frau Rosa herself, who sang a\npretty little air of 1615 with a rather trembling voice, and Roland\nalso growled out in deep bass a Frankish war hymn, of which I could\ndistinguish little. I was obliged to bear my part, so I began bravely,\n\n      The Rhine! the Rhine! the garden of the vine!\n        Heaven bless the noble Rhine!\n      Along his bank the clustered grapes entwine,\n      And patriot hearts inspire to guard the Rhine!\n\nWhen they heard the words they pressed nearer, and nodded to one\nanother, and stretched out their necks as if wishful not to lose a\nword. I sang louder and louder for their encouragement. It was\ninspiration enough to be heard by such a company. The old Rose kept\ntime with her head, and gently hummed the chorus, and the Apostles\ngazed at me with surprise and joy in their eyes. When I had finished,\nall were loud in praise of the poor Doctor of Philosophy. 'What a\nsong!' cried Bacchus himself, 'how my heart opens to it, dear Doctor,\nwas it composed in that head of yours that's crowned with academic\nhonours?' 'No, indeed, your honour, the composer has long been dead; he\nwas called Matthew Claudius.' 'He knew a good glass of wine when he\ncame across it, I'll go bail,' said another. 'I don't know, sir,' said\nI, 'though I have no doubt of it; but another great mortal has said,\n\n  Good wine is a good familiar creature, if it be well used,\n\nand I think old Claudius had a similar idea, or he would never have\nwritten such a beautiful song, which all men still sing as they sit\nbeneath the vine-covered arbours of the Rhine.' 'Well, Doctor,' said\nBacchus, 'if they still sing songs like that they can't be quite such a\nmiserable lot of fellows as you made out.'\n\n'Ah, sir,' said I, 'your poetical \"high soul\" won't sin by allowing\nsuch a song to be poetry at all, just as your pietist finds the Lord's\nPrayer too simple and straightforward for him.' 'There have been fools\nin every age, sir,' said another, 'and every one is bound to clean the\npavement opposite his own door only; but as we are upon the subject of\nthe present times, tell us what has happened this year on the earth.'\n\n'If I thought it would interest the ladies and gentlemen----' 'Go on,'\ncried Roland, 'and as far as I am concerned you may begin 500 years\nback, for I see nothing from my pedestal but cigar-makers, vintners,\npriests, and old women, and they don't make history, or didn't in my\ndays.'\n\n'First of all then, concerning German Literature ...'\n\n'Stop for Heaven's sake, man! Do you think we are going to listen to\ntrash like that?' cried Peter. 'Poetasters and public-house squabbles!'\n\nI was startled. If these people were not interested by our magnificent\nliterature, if Goethe had no charms for them, what was the use of\nspeaking to them at all?\n\nI tried again. 'It was only last autumn that the stage was----' Howls\nof laughter drowned my voice. 'We want facts, man, history and facts\nonly; do you suppose we care who spins your comedies and who hisses\nthem?'\n\n'Ah, sir,' I replied, 'you're sadly out of fashion. So's History. We\nhave in fact only the Diet at Frankfurt. Among our neighbours it's true\nthere's occasionally something--for instance, the Jesuits are up again\nin France, and it looks uncommonly as if the Jacobins were up in\nRussia.' 'Stuff!' cried one, 'you mean vice versa.' 'No, I don't.'\n'Well, that's odd.' 'And is there no war?' 'Just a little firespitting\ngoing on in Greece against the Turks.' 'Ha!' cried the Paladin,\nsmashing a few planks of the table with his stone fist, 'that is good!\nBy my sword, that is good! I have been angry for centuries at the\ntameness of Christendom while Greece is in chains. You live, sir, in a\nfine time, and your race is nobler than I thought. I retract my\nprevious vituperation. So the knights of France and Germany, of Spain\nand England have set out again as erst under Richard of the Lion-heart,\nto fight the infidel? The fleets of Genoa cover the Mediterranean? the\nOriflamme is raised on high within sight of the towers of Stamboul, and\nthe banner of Austria floats over the foremost ranks. Ha! in such a\ncase I would fain bestride once more my steed; I would make Durendal,\nmy good sword, flash the lightnings of death indeed, and would rouse\nwith one blast of my horn every hero who sleeps within the bounds of\nEurope!'\n\n'Noble knight,' I answered--and again I blushed for the age in which I\nlived--'times are changed. You would probably be imprisoned as a\nJacobin demagogue under the present circumstances, for neither the\nbanner of Hapsburg nor the Oriflamme, neither the Leopard of England\nnor the Lion of Spain are to the fore in the present conflict.'\n\n'Who then is fighting against the Crescent, if not these?'\n\n'Simply the Greeks themselves.'\n\n'The Greeks?' cried another, 'is it possible? and what are the other\npowers about?' 'They have their ambassadors with the Porte.' 'Man,\nman,' said Roland, stiffer than ever with amazement, 'what are you\nsaying? a Christian state fighting for its freedom and left to do it\nalone? Holy Virgin, what a world is this!' and he crushed the silver\ngoblet as if it had been cardboard, so that the wine in it splashed up\nto the ceiling; then rising from the table took his sword and targe,\nand passed with clanking strides out of the chamber.\n\n'Why, what a hot-headed fellow he is!' said the Rose, shaking her\nkerchief, which was splashed with his wine. 'Does the stony fool want\nto go a-campaigning again in his old age? If he were to show himself\nthey would certainly make him a right-hand man in a company of Prussian\nGrenadiers, for he's tall enough.'\n\n'Do not be hard on him, my Lady Rose,' said one of the company, 'for he\nhas the right stuff in him, and he showed it on many a stricken field.\nIf his Kaiser had wished it he would have fought a thousand Mussulmans\nsingle-handed.'\n\n'Let him go,' said Bacchus; 'I'm glad he's gone; he bored me with his\nstrong heroics: a fellow ten feet high is out of place here. He showed\nme no respect. We should never have been able to dance while he was\nhere; his legs would have broken if he had tried.' 'To the dance! to\nthe dance!' they all cried. The wine god beckoned to me. 'Do you\nunderstand music, Doctor?' 'A little.' 'Keep good time?' 'Oh yes, I\nkeep good time.' 'Then take this little barrel and this cooper's stave,\nand sit down besides the Bottomless one there; he is our cellarmaster\nand cornet player, and you shall accompany him on the drum.' I did\nas I was bid, but if my drumming was rather unusual, Balthasar's\ncornet-playing was even more so. He held the iron spout of a large\nempty cask to his mouth like a clarionet. Two more sat near me with\nhuge wine-funnels which they used as trumpets, waiting for the signal.\nThen began a fearful rumbling and hooting, all out of tune, to which\nTurkish music was nothing. Balthasar's instrument had but two notes,\nthe key note and an horribly high falsetto. As for the trumpeters the\nsounds of grief and anguish which they drew from their funnels was like\nnothing but the wailing of a Triton on a conch.\n\nBacchus and his sweetheart paraded in the height of the fashion of 200\nyears ago. Frau Rosa held her skirt wide out with both hands, so that\nshe looked more like a great wine cask than ever. She didn't move far\nfrom her place, but tripped a few steps up and down and back again, and\nkept bobbing with little curtsies. Her partner meanwhile spun round her\nlike a top, snapping his fingers and crying Halloo!\n\n[Illustration: 'TO THE DANCE! TO THE DANCE!']\n\nWhen at last he seemed tired he beckoned to two of the others, and\nwhispered something to them, whereon they took off Mistress Rose's\napron, (which Bacchus had tied round his own neck when he began to\ndance.) Then the others stood all round and grasped the edge of it. Ha!\nthought I, now old Balthasar is going to be tossed in a blanket. I hope\nhe won't break his head against the low roof. Then to my horror two of\nthe biggest of them came forward and seized--me; Balthasar chuckled.\nStruggling was vain; they laid me on the sheet shouting with laughter.\n'Only not too high, my noble patrons, or I shall break my head;\nremember it's not like your saintships' heads,' I cried. Up and down I\nwent, first three, four, then five feet high. Suddenly they began to\npull harder, and I flew up--up--and like a cloud the roof opened, and I\nflew up beyond the roof of the Council Hall, beyond even the Cathedral\ntower. 'Ah!' thought I, 'now it's all over with me, I shall infallibly\nbe spiked on the weather-cock in coming down, or at least break a few\narms or legs; and I know what Adelgunde thinks of a man with broken\nlimbs. Adieu! my love! my life! Then I began to descend as swiftly\nthrough the air, through the Council Hall, through the vault, but I\nlighted not upon the cloth, but just upon a chair which toppled over\nbackwards with me to the floor.\n\nStunned by the awful fall I lay long, but at length a headache and the\ncoldness of the ground awoke me. Anxiously I examined my limbs, but\nfound nothing broken. Daylight was faintly streaming in through a\ncellar grating; on the table a candle was flickering as it expired, and\nround the table in front of each chair a long-shaped bottle with a\nlabel on its neck. The company was gone! But whither and how?\n\nThoughtfully I walked round the long table. The sample bottles stood\nwhere each one had sat. Frau Rosa's at the head of the board. Surely it\ncouldn't have been a dream? No, one does not dream so vividly--besides,\nmy headache from that bump! But I had little time left for reflections.\nI heard keys rattling at the door--it opened slowly, and my old friend\nof the evening before came in wishing me good morning. 'It has just\nstruck six, sir,' said he, 'and I have come as you desired to let you\nout. Well, how did you sleep?' 'As well as one can upon a chair--pretty\nfairly, thank you.' 'Sir,' cried he, anxiously examining me, 'something\nstrange happened to you last night--you look disturbed and pale, and\nyour voice trembles.' 'Nonsense,' said I, 'what could have happened to\nme? I am only sleepy.' 'I am not so blind as you think,' said he, 'and,\nbesides, the night watchman came to me early this morning and told me\nthat as he passed by the cellar between twelve and one last night he\nheard all kinds of riot and revelry within there.' 'Pure imagination,'\nsaid I, 'I'm given to talking loud, and even to singing, in my sleep\nsometimes.'\n\n'Never again,' said he, 'do I leave a gentleman alone in the cellar at\nnight. The Lord knows what awful things he has not heard and seen. I\nwish you a most respectful good morning, sir.'\n\n     'But the thing that best would win it\n      Is the Lady Fair within it.'\n\nRemembering these words of the joyous Bacchus as being particularly\napplied to Bremen and to my own case, I hurried, after I had slept a\nfew hours, to bid good morning to the lovely Adelgunde. But she\nreceived me with more than wonted coldness, and when I whispered some\naffectionate words to her she fairly laughed aloud, and turning her\nback said, 'Go, and have your sleep well out, sir, first.' A friend,\nwho was sitting at the piano in another corner of the room, followed me\nas I turned away, and taking my hand said, 'Dear Brother, it is all\nover with your love for her--put all thoughts of it out of your head.'\n'I could see as much,' I answered; and then, _sotto voce_, 'The Devil\ntake every pretty pair of eyes and every rosy mouth in the world!' 'But\ntell me,' says my friend, 'is it true that you stayed the whole night\ndrinking in the wine cellar?' 'Well, yes! but whose business is that?'\n'Heaven knows how she heard it, for she has been crying all the\nmorning, and vows you are a mere vulgar sot, and she will have no more\nto do with you.' 'Well,' said I, steeling myself, 'good then; that\nproves she can never have loved me. Give her my kind regards;\nfarewell.'\n\nI ran home quickly and resolved to quit Bremen at once. As I left the\nmarket-place that evening I gave old Roland's statue a friendly wave of\nthe hand, and to the horror of my postillion, he nodded a parting\ngreeting at me with his stone head. I threw a kiss to the old Council\nHall and its happy cellars, and curling up in the comer of my chaise\nallowed the fancies of the night to pass once more before my eyes.","title":"The Wine-ghosts of Bremen","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":17221}