What is money? Money is the mysterious essence of a being which defines its _ego_ in the following words:--“If I were not what I have, I should not have what I am.” But what is no money? No money? No money? No money is a thing of which all empty pockets are full. No money is the _alibi_ of a being which should testify to our presence in this world. No money is a disease aggravated by the continuous obstruction of Fortune. No money is a gentle invitation of nature to incur debts, and a peremptory command not to pay them. No money is an irresistible inclination to melancholy on the part of our purse caused by hopeless love to an unattainable object. No money is an _ex_position of no money at all, a _pro_position in abstract philosophy, a fit position for a minister of finance, and a happy _dis_position for platonic love. No money is a vulgar ballad which common people sing aloud on the streets, but the more refined only hum between their lips within doors. No money is the watchword of extreme radicalism and the art of making oneself popular at a low price. Alas, what is man without money? A twice-told anecdote, a song without a tune, a lost poodle-dog without an honest finder, last year’s calendar, etc., etc. Without money no prince can reign, no minister can minister, no general can make war, no painter can paint, no farmer can till the field; only the bards and poets sing and make verses without money; the poet is true to his muse even though he has no money; indeed he muses more than ever--how to get some. _M. G. Saphir_ (1795-1858). _A NIGHT IN THE BREMER RATHSKELLER._ IT struck ten o’clock as I descended the broad steps of the Rathskeller. There was a reasonable hope of finding it empty, for a storm was howling without, the weather-cocks were making strange music, and the rain splashed upon the pavement. But the kellerdiener gave me a questioning look when I told him my desire. “What, so late, and to-night of all nights?” he exclaimed. “It’s never too late for me before twelve,” I answered; “and after that it is early enough in the day.” “Are you expecting company?” asked the man. “I am alone.” “You might have some unasked,” he added, looking about timorously at the shadows his lamp cast. “What do you mean?” I asked in surprise. “Oh, I was only thinking,” answered he, lighting a couple of candles and setting a large beaker before me. “There are all sorts of odd rumours about the 1st of September. Indeed I can’t do it, sir! Not to-day, sir!” I took this to be one of those common tricks wherewith custodians, wardens, and the like work upon a stranger’s purse, so I placed a generous coin in his hand, and took him by the arm to make him come with me. “No, that was not my intention, sir,” he said, trying to give it back to me. “I’ll tell you frankly what my meaning was--there’s nothing in the world would induce me to enter the Apostles’ cellar this night, for it’s the 1st of September.” “Well, and what of that?”