“Stop your foolish prattle, old fellow, and be comforted. I will not say another word to wake your wine-spirits. But now take me to the Rose.” We walked on; we entered a vault, the rose-garden of Bremen. There she lay, old Rose, bulky, tremendous, with an air of commanding sovereignty. What an enormous cask! and every bumper worth its weight in gold! 1615! Where are the hands that planted thee? Where are the eyes that revelled in thy bloom. Where are the happy folks that exulted when thou, noble grape, wert cut upon the heights of the Rhinelands, when thou wert pulled and thy golden flood burst into the tub? They are gone, like the waves of the river that bathed the foot of thy vineyard. “There, and now good-night, Frau Rose!” said the old servant pleasantly. “Now, good-night, and God bless you; here, this way, sir, not around that corner; this is the way out of the cellar. Here, come, do not run against those casks; I will hold the candle.” “No, indeed, old chap,” I said; “the joke is only just beginning. All this was but a foretaste. Bring me two or three bottles of your choicest of ’22 in the large room yonder.” He stood there with eyes wide open, the poor fool. “Sir,” he said solemnly, “put it out of your mind. I will not stay with you for love or money.” “Who told you to stay with me? Put the wine where I tell you, and, in God’s name, go along with you.” “But I cannot leave you alone in the cellar,” he replied. “I know, begging your pardon, that you wouldn’t steal anything, but it is against my orders.” “Well, then, lock the door behind me; put a padlock on, as ponderous as you please, and to-morrow morning at six come and wake me and get your fee.” [Illustration: “TWO MEN WITH CEREMONIOUS POLITENESS URGING PRECEDENCE UPON EACH OTHER.”] He tried to remonstrate, but it was in vain. At last he put down three bottles and nine candles before me, wiped out the beaker, and bade me good-night with a heavy heart as it seemed. He locked the door, and out of tender solicitude for me, as it would seem, more than for the safety of his cellar, hung on a padlock. Just then the clock struck twelve. I heard him mutter a prayer and hasten away. The sound of his steps died away in the vault, and when he shut the outside door of the cellar it reverberated like a peal of thunder through the passages. So I am alone with thee, my soul, far down in the womb of the earth. Up on the earth they are all asleep and adream, and down here, round about, they slumber in their coffins, the spirits of wine. Do they dream, I wonder, of their short childhood, of the distant hills where they were bred, and of their old father Rhine who murmured a gentle ditty by their cradle? * * * * *