So now I was alone keeping Retreat with my soul down in the bosom of the earth. Slumber above me and slumber around me, for the spirits of the dead are asleep by my side. I wonder if they dream of their brief childhood on the distant mountains, and the nightly lullabys sung to them by old Father Rhine; or the kisses of their tender mother the sun when they first opened their eyes in the bright spring air, of their first leafy garments which reflected themselves in their old Father's eyes.

Ah! my soul, I too have rosy days of youth to look back upon, spent upon the soft vine-clad hills and by the blue rivers of my native Swabia; ah the days and the day dreams of glory! What games, what picture-books, what mother-love, what gigantic Easter eggs, what armies of tin and paper! And then, my soul, think of the first little trousers and collars in which your mortal covering, so proud of its size, was dressed; think how your father gave you rides on his knee, and your grandfather lent you his long bamboo cane with a golden head to use as a hobby horse.

Another glass! And then look on a few years. Do you remember the sad morning when you were taken to see all the mournful solemnities of grandfather's funeral? Ah! what would you not have given to get him back. Peace, 'tis but for awhile that he slumbers. And then the delightful hours in the old library filled with folios that were evidently bound in leather for no other purpose than that of forming huts to protect you and your imaginary sheep and cattle from the imaginary rain. How roughly you treated the Higher Literature of your native land. Why, I remember throwing a quarto Lessing at my brother's head, for which he beat me unmercifully with 'Sophy's Journey from Memel to Saxony.' Rise too, ye walls of the old castle, with your half-ruined passage, your cellar, your gate, your courtyard, all of which served only as a playground for a squad of boys; soldiers and robbers, nomads and caravans we were. I didn't much care whether I represented Platoff or a Cossack trooper, Napoleon or Napoleon's charger. Scattered all over the world, in every rank of life, and the sport of every kind of fortune is now the little knot of boys who were the companions of my childhood; and you and I, my dear soul, being alone too erratic to turn soldier, chamberlain, artisan, or parson, have become that remarkable thing called Doctor of Philosophy, having had just sufficient brains between us to write a dissertation. Brains enough to find our way into the Bremen cellars, however.

Another glass! Sure there's an affinity between wine and the tongue. It goes quite straight till it comes to the throat; here, however, is set up a finger-post, directing 'To the Stomach' and 'To the Head.' The latter is the path of the nobler particles of the grape-juice; the pure spirits that inhabit it will ever soar, and sensible, peaceful people they are for the most part, if there are not too many of them there together; but you know the best philosophers will quarrel when half a dozen of them of different intellectual complexions are closely packed in a small room.

How fair is that fourth period of life, (which we begin with the fourth glass.) Fourteen years old, my soul; but the boyish games are left behind, and you are steeped to the lips in reading–especially Goethe and Schiller, over whom you pore without understanding much. You think, however, you understand it all, and you have already kissed Elvira behind the cupboard door, and broken Emma's heart. Perjured villain! she may be another Charlotte, and she may possibly even have read some of Clauren, and be deeply in love with thee (and him). Let the scene change. I blow a greeting to that dear Alpine valley [Blaubeuern] where I spent so many years at school; the cloister roof, the walks over the brasses of dead abbots, the church with the wonderful high altar, the images dipped in the bright gold of sunrise. Thanks be to the strong Alpine air that I was ever full fledged and can fly as well as most people.

Another glass! Another period. That is a better glass than the last, I think–there's an aroma about it that the other lacked. And what a period that was! My college days! High, noble, savage, inharmonious, rough, fair; all opposites and contrasts that ever existed, blended then. No outsider can ever know the delights, and an outsider can hardly choose but laugh at the follies. Mixed with all the dross we bring up from thence there are generally some particles of fine gold. The music of our life would be strange indeed to one who had not sung and laughed with us. I know well what my granddad felt when he crossed the name of some fellow-collegian in his Book of Memory. God bless them all!

Another glass, by the immortal gods, and another bottle this time! From Friendship to Love. The most wonderful thing of this period (period six, please observe, my soul) was that its grades fitted themselves into and took their colour from my reading. Especially my affections got coloured from Wilhelm Meister; that is to say, I hardly knew whether it was Emmeline or the gentle Camilla, or even Ottilie. Didn't all three peep out from behind jalousies in bewitching nightcaps to hear the mournful squeaks which my numbed fingers elicited from the guitar? And when all three proved but heartless coquettes, I swore I would never marry till I was forty. Yet the little god slides from the eyes of the loved one into the heart of the victim. For am I not a victim? Is not she the coldest listener of all when I sing? did she ever vouchsafe me a single glance of encouragement? As I am not a general officer, I can't get mentioned in a despatch as having eight bullets in my breast and 'lying in a precarious condition,' even if we were not at peace. If I was only a drummer I could go and make a disgusting noise under her window till she was obliged to look out to tell me to go away, and I would then descend from fortissimo to piano and adagio, for I suppose one could do adagio even upon a drum. But the only fame she is likely to hear of me is that some one will tell her to-morrow that I boozed in the Town Cellar from midnight to six a. m.

Now is no one awake but the highest and the lowest in the town,–the watchman on the top of the cathedral tower, and I deep down in the bowels of the earth. If I were the watchman I would be singing to a certainty, so I don't see why I should not wake the echoes down here. She won't hear either of us, so here goes.

When at the lonely midnight hour
I pace my rounds upon the tower,
I muse upon my love afar,
Whose troth is fixed as morning star.

When to the flag at honour's call
I flew, her kiss was worth it all;
She decked my hat with ribbands blue,
Then pressed me to her heart anew.

And still her love's as warm as then,
It gives my hand the strength of ten;
It lends my heart a firmer beat,
To think in absence on my Sweet.

E'en now within her room she kneels
And wings to Heaven her dear appeals,
All lonely by the pale lamp's ray,
For one she loves that's far away.

But if my danger haunt thy breast,
Yet dry thy tears, and be at rest;
I stand in God's own armour clad,
He loves an honest soldier lad.

The clocks ring out, the round is near.
My hour of rest will soon be here;
Sleep rock thy brain, and set it free
To dream, and only dream of me.

Midnight! and is she dreaming of me? It always seems to me as if at this mysterious hour the earth gave a little tremble, and the dead who sleep in her bosom turned in their heavy slumber as if to mutter a prayer of Domine quousque? That distant bell is borne to me very differently from the 'twelve great shocks of shameless noon.' Hark! did not a door shut in one of the further vaults? Strange, if I didn't know that I was perfectly alone here I should believe that I heard footsteps. Yes, there are footsteps, and now they are at my door too. Never mind, the door's well locked; no mortal can disturb me. No mortal; yet the door flies open!…

Two men stood there, making fantastic compliment of yielding the pas to each other. One was tall and haggard, with a long black wig, a dark red coat made by some old French tailor, and covered with gold tassels and gilt buttons. His immensely long thin legs were clad in tight trousers of black velvet, with gold knee-buckles; he had stuck his sword with its porcelain handle through his breeches pocket; when he bowed he flourished a three-cornered hat, and the curls of his peruke rustled down his shoulders like a waterfall. He had a pale face, sunken eyes, and a fiery red nose. The little fellow to whom he wished to yield precedence was quite different. His hair was plastered down with white of egg and then twisted into two long rolls like pistol holsters at the sides–and a plait about a yard long hung down his back. He wore a little steel-grey coat faced with red, and, beneath that, great riding boots, and a richly embroidered waistcoat which covered his plump figure to the knee, and a huge sword was fastened to his side. There was something good-tempered in his face, especially the eyes. He too performed wondrous evolutions with a huge beaver hat. I recovered a little from my terror while their courtesy proceeded to the verge of absurdity: at last they settled it by opening the other half of the door and marching in arm-in-arm. They hung their hats on the wall, unfastened their swords, and sat down silently without noticing me: I think I disliked their silence even more than anything else. Before however I had mustered courage to break it, more steps were heard, and four other gentlemen entered, dressed in somewhat similar fashion: one of them for the chase apparently. 'Greeting, gentlemen of the Rhine! it's long since we met,' said the pale-faced man with the red nose. 'Greeting, greeting, Mr. James, Mr. Matthew, greeting Mr. Judas. But what's this? where are the glasses and the pipes, where's the tobacco? Has that old fool not waked out of his sinful snoring yet? I suppose he is still in Our Lady's churchyard; but stay, I'll ring him up'–and he seized a great bell that stood on the table and rang it till the halls re-echoed. The three new comers took their seats at the table, and sat silent after the first greeting, especially one whom they called Andrew, who sat between the huntsman and the red-nosed man; he was evidently a person nice of his manners and appearance, his features were still youthful, and a gentle smile played upon his lips. There were varieties in the dress and expression of all, but not such as to have particularly fastened themselves upon my remembrance. As it usually is with old drinkers, conversation flagged for want of liquor; until, in answer to the summons of the bell, a new figure appeared at the door–a piteous-looking old man with trembling legs and grey hair, with a sort of death's-head face. With much exertion he dragged forward a great basket, and greeted the guests humbly.

'Hurrah,' they cried, 'here's Balthasar, slip along old fellow, on with your glasses and pipes; what a time you have been!'

The old man gave a rude yawn, and declared that he had almost overslept the first of September: 'I sleep so sound, d'ye see, since they've new paved the churchyard, that I'm getting to hear rather badly. But here's only six of you yet, and where's my Lady Rose?' 'Just you put on the bottles, old chap, and then you may go across and rattle your dry bones against their casks, and tell them it's time to get up,' cried one of them; but the words were hardly spoken when a great noise and laughter was heard. 'Rosa, Rose, Lady Rose, hurrah, hurrah for Bacchus, hurrah for Rosa!' The ghostly companions within shouted with delight to the same effect, and clinked their glasses to the health of the Rose. Balthasar threw his cap up to the ceiling in his joy. In they came: Bacchus, my old friend who had bestrid the cask, had got down off it–not a rag of clothing on him–yet in he came, leading his blushing Rose, an ancient matron of stately mien and considerable stoutness of figure: splendidly dressed, too, she was like a true old Rhineland lady. Time might have written a few wrinkles on her brow and mouth, the fresh colour of youth might be a trifle wanting on her cheeks, but two hundred years had but added dignity to her contour. What though her eyebrows had grown grey, and there were–hush, yes there were really–a few ugly grey hairs on her chin, her locks above were nut-brown, with but very slight tinge of silver here and there. Her head was covered with a black velvet cap, fitting close to her temples: her jacket was of the finest cloth, and the red velvet bodice that peeped from beneath it was laced with silver hooks and chains. Necklace, a string of garnets and gold coins. Her skirt was of thickly pleated brown cloth, and she wore a sort of toy white apron, with a huge leather pocket at one side and a bunch of huge keys at the other. In short, she was the very picture of a worthy matron of Mainz or Coblentz, of the years immediately preceding the Thirty Years War. Six jolly companions followed her, dressed in the same fashion as my friends who were already seated, and all with their wigs somewhat awry. How politely Bacchus led his lady-love to the table! how politely she bowed to the company as she sat down! As for her fat little sweetheart, Balthasar had to put a great pillow under him, or he would not have been able to get his nose above the table. When all were seated I realised that they were indeed the spirits of those mighty Rhinewines that I had tasted an hour before; the twelve Apostle-casks, Bacchus and the old Rose.

'Well, well, it's a long while since 1700, Mistress Rose,' said one of them, 'but we seem to be all in pretty good condition, and I vow you are as young and handsome as ever. Here's good luck and long life to your sweetheart and yourself, my dear.' 'Rosa, Frau Rosa, the Rose, long life and health to her!' shouted all, and Bacchus tossed off two quarts at a gulp, which had the visible effect of making him look more like an inflated bladder than ever.

'Thank you, most honoured apostles and cousins,' said she, bowing graciously; 'but when you refer to my sweetheart I don't know whom you mean; you confuse a modest maiden.' The modest maiden sought refuge in a mighty draught of wine. 'Sweetheart,' said Bacchus, looking tenderly at her and pressing her hand, 'be not coy, sweetheart; you know well whose heart has been yours any time these 200 vintages; and I don't mind proving it to you by this chaste salute'–and he bent forward to kiss her. 'If all these young people were not here,' she murmured–but amid shouts of laughter from the young people she allowed him to take his due by force and with interest. Then he tossed off a bowl or two and began to sing in a rich mellow voice:

There's not a palace in the land
So fair as this of Bremen,
Its spacious floors, its halls so grand
A king would feel no shame in:
And sure 'tis decked with everything
To take the fancy of a king;
But the thing that best would win it
Is the Lady fair within it.

Her eyes like sparkling Rhenish shine,
Her cheeks are bright as roses,
Her heavy draperies rich and fine
Are decked with fragrant posies:
Of heart-of-oak her farthingale,
Her girdle of the birchwood pale,
And her bodice trim she faces
With iron clasps and laces.

But ah, her bedroom too is barred
With locks and bolts of iron,
She slumbers soft nor dreams how hard
The threshold 'tis to lie on.
I knock in vain from twelve to four,
Arise, my love, and ope the door
That bars thy chamber cosy,
Come forth, my lovely Rosie!

So pass I every midnight hour
Before her lonely dwelling,
Once, only once, and never more,
The fairy lass was willing.
And since I drew that honeyed kiss
My heart's been drunken all with bliss–
Ah, just once more, my treasure,
Fill me a brimming measure!

'That's enough of such indelicate allusions, now, Mr. Bacchus,' says she; 'you know very well that their High Mightinesses keep me strictly locked up, and don't allow me to admit anyone at all.' 'Not even me, dear Rosie,' said he; 'ah, I think they would wink at it if you let me in now and then for a taste at your lips.' 'You're a rogue,' she answered, 'and little better than a Turk. I should like to know how many sweethearts you want. I know of your goings on with those frivolous French girls, Miss Champagne, (who has no more colour in her face than a dried pea,) and Fräulein von Bordeaux, the sickly minx. Ah, you have not the true Rhinelander's heart, nor understand the Rhinelander's love.' 'Pooh, my dear,' says he, 'I have visited these ladies occasionally, and amused myself with their wit, but nothing else; rest assured, my dearest, my heart is thine alone.' 'And then I fancy,' she went on, 'that I have heard some stories from Spain. Of poor Lady Xeres I will say nothing, (that's too well-known a story for you to deny); but how about the Señorina Dentilla di Rosa, Señorina San Lucar, and Señora Ximenes–a married lady too?' 'You carry your jealousy too far,' said he, with some asperity. 'I don't see why one should give up one's old connexions. As for the Señora Ximenes, I merely visit her out of kindness to you as being your relation.' 'Our relation?' muttered Rosa and the others, 'how's that?' 'Don't you know,' he continued, 'that she is originally from the Rhine? The most excellent hidalgo, Don Ximenes, took her from thence to his home in Spain when she was a very tender maid, and there she settled, and naturally took his family name. But she preserves with the Spanish sweetness much of the true German character, especially in colour and scent.' 'Long life to her, then,' cried they all, 'if she really is Rosie's cousin.' Rosa did not seem quite satisfied with her sweetheart's cunning mode of extricating himself from the scrape, so she changed the subject by turning round to the others and rallying them each in turn on the way in which the years had treated or spared them. One looked pale, she said, another was but half awake, a third had grown fat, almost too lazy to drink, a fourth was as ready for a joke as ever, and so on–'but hallo, why there are thirteen of you. Who's that in the strange clothing over there? who brought him in?'