my body only, while my soul would be whole streets off wandering about in the neighbourhood of the Frauenkirche.

It wasn't sleepiness though. I am not a habitual dormouse, and don't like being called one. No, I meant to be thoroughly awake that night, and one of my friends--it was you, Hermann--said as much when he got outside. 'He didn't look sleepy,' I heard him say, 'with those bright eyes of his. But he looked like a man who had been drinking either too much or too little, which probably means that he is going to make a night of it with the bottle, and alone.'

Prophetic soul! Did you know that my eyes were sparkling yet proleptically with the thought of old Rhenish? You didn't know that I had a permit from their High Mightinesses to greet my Lady Rose and the Twelve Apostles. And you certainly didn't know that it was my 'Retreat.'¹

In my opinion the habit which I inherit from my grandfather of blazing, so to speak, the tree of life here and there with a notch, and spending a quiet day of meditation over each notch, is not a bad one. To keep the ordinary festivals of the Church only is hardly sufficient; one becomes commonplace, and one's thoughts are too apt to become commonplace on such days. But let the soul that keeps an anniversary of its own making keep it alone; look inwards for a few hours in the year instead of always outwards; sit down at the long table d'hôte of memory, people it with the shadows of the past, and then set to and make out the bill conscientiously. Such days as these my grandfather always kept, and called his 'retreats.' He didn't prepare a banquet for his friends, or pass the time in festivity at all; he simply sat down and feasted his own soul and talked to her in that inner chamber which she had occupied for five-and-seventy years. Even now I can trace, long as it is since the dear old man was laid in the churchyard, the marked passages in his Elzevir Horace which he always read on such days; and as I read, I can see his large blue eyes wandering thoughtfully over the yellow leaves of memory's book. He takes up his pen. Slowly and hesitatingly he draws the black cross beneath the name of some dear departed friend. 'The master is keeping his Retreat,' whispered the servants to us, as we grandchildren were running gaily and noisily up the stairs; and we repeated the words to each other, and imagined that he was making himself Christmas presents, and wondered how he managed to light up his own Christmas tree. And we were not far wrong. They were the tapers of affection that he was kindling upon the tree of Unforgetfulness, each taper the symbol of happy hours of a long life. And when his hours of solitude were passed, and we were admitted in the evening, he sat still and quiet in his chair as if he rejoiced like a child in the Heaven-sent Christmas gifts of the past.

And it was on his Retreat day that he was borne by loving hands to his last resting-place. For the first time for many years, (for he had been confined to his room,) it was 'out into the air,' but it was also 'into his grave.' And again, 'I could not choose but weep they should lay him in the mould.' I had often walked with him along the same road; but when they turned off across the black bridge and laid him deep in the earth, I knew that he was keeping his real Retreat. I was a little boy, and I wondered as they threw a lot of stones and turf on him whether he would ever come up again. He did not. But his image remained in my memory, and when I grew up my favourite pieces in the long picture-gallery of Reflection were his Retreats.

And isn't to-day mine? The First of September? And am I to go and drink weak tea and listen to bad music to-day? No! I have a better prescription in my pocket, directed to the best apothecary in the world--somewhat under the world in fact he dwells. Down therefore to him, and Fiat, sum., haust. ad lib.

It was striking ten o'clock when I descended the broad steps that lead to the noble vault, which with all its contents is the ancient and perpetual inheritance of their High Mightinesses the Corporation of Bremen. There was every probability of my having my drink to myself, as there was a fearful storm raging outside and no one about in the streets. The cellarman stared at me as I presented a slip of paper, signed and sealed by a town-councillor:--

'Admit the Bearer to Drink. Sep. 1st.'

'So late and To-night?' says he. 'It is never late before twelve and never too early after that for good wine,' says I. He looked at the signature and seal, and not without hesitation led the way through the vaults. What a noble sight was there! His lantern shone over long rows of casks, and threw strange forms and shadows on the arches of the cellar; and the pillars seemed to float in the background like busy coopers plying their staves. My companion wanted to open for me one of those smaller rooms where six or eight friends at the most can pack in with comfortable space to let the bottle circulate: and a very proper thing it is, when your companions are the right sort, to sit close together; but when I am to be alone I love free space, where my thoughts and my body can find room to expand. So I chose an old vaulted hall, the largest we passed into, for my solitary banquet-room. 'You expect company?' said the attendant. 'No.' Some have who do not expect,' said he, with an uneasy glance at the shadow on the wall. 'What do you mean?'

'Nothing. It's the first of September.... By-the-bye, there was Mr. Councillor Pumpernickel here a while agone, and he bade me get out some samples for you--samples of my Lady Rose and of the Twelve Apostle casks'; and he began to take down some pretty little bottles with long strips of paper on their necks. 'You don't mean to tell me I am not to be allowed to drink out of the casks themselves.' 'Your honour couldn't possibly be allowed that privilege except in the presence of a town-councillor. Let me fill your honour's glass from this bottle.' 'Not a drop here then,' said I; 'if I mayn't drink from the cask head I will drink at the cask side at least. Come, old fellow, pick up your samples, and give me the light.' He still kept fidgeting about, and shoving the bottles into and out of his pockets, which irritated me much, as I was longing to be off to the Apostle cellar; and at length I spoke quite sharply, 'Come now, march.' This gave him courage apparently, and he answered with some firmness, 'It won't do, sir, really it won't--not to-night.' Thinking he was merely angling to raise his price, I pressed a substantial douceur into his hand, and took him by the arm to lead him along. 'No, no, it wasn't that I meant,' said he, trying to reject the proffered coin; 'but no one shall take me into the Apostle cellar on the night of the first of September, not for love or money!'

THE CELLAR OF BACCHUS

'Stuff and nonsense! What do you mean?' 'I mean that it's an uncanny thing to go in there on Frau Rosa's own birthday.' I laughed till the vault rang. 'I've heard of a good many ghosts before now, but never heard of a wine-ghost: fancy an old man like you believing such tales: but I tell you, friend, I am serious. I have permission from their High Mightinesses to drink in the cellar tonight, time and place at my own discretion; and in their name I order you to lead me to the cellar of Bacchus.' This finished him. Unwillingly, but without answering, he