s inscribed
on each in large plain letters, as I could see when the old fellow
placed the taper on them. ANDREW, JOHN, JUDAS, PETER, and here on the
right PAUL, on the left JAMES, good James. Paul is Nierstein of 1718,
and James Ruedesheim, ye gods! Ruedesheim of 1726!

Ask not of their virtues; no one has any right to ask: like dark-red
gold their blood sparkles in my glass; when it was first ripened on the
hills of St. John it was pale and blonde, but a century has coloured
it. What a bouquet! quite beyond the power of words to express. Take
all the scents from all the flowers and trees, and all the spices of
Araby and Ind, fill the cool cellar with ambergris, and let the amber
itself be dissolved into fumes--and the result will be but poor and
scentless compared to the liquid sunshine of Bingen and Laubenheim, of
Nierenstein and Johannisberg. 'Why do you shake your head?' said I to
my companion at last; 'you've no reason to be ashamed of these old
fellows here. Come, fill your glass and here's good luck to the whole
Twelve of them!'

'Heaven forbid that I should do anything of the kind,' he replied; 'it's
an uncanny toast and an uncanny night for it. Taste them, sir, and
let's pass on, I shiver in their presence.' 'Good-night, then,
gentlemen--remember that I am everywhere and for ever at your service,
most noble Lords of the Rhine.' 'Surely,' said the old fellow, 'those
few drops haven't made you so drunk that you would raise the whole crew
of sprites already? If you talk like that again I shall be off, though
I should get the sack for it: I tell you that on this night the spirits
imprisoned in these casks rise and hold infernal carnival here in this
very spot, aye, and other spirits besides! I wouldn't be here after
twelve o'clock for worlds.' 'Well, I'll be quiet, you old driveller, if
you'll only take me on to my Lady Rose's apartment itself.' At last we
reached it, the little garden of the queen of flowers. There she lay in
all her majestic girth, the biggest cask I ever saw in my life, and
every glass worth a golden guinea. Frau Rosa was born in 1615. Ah,
where are the hands that planted her parent vine? where are the eyes
that watched the ripening clusters? where the sun-browned feet that
hurried to the festival when she was pressed in the sunny Rheingau, and
streamed a pale gold rivulet into the vat? Like the waves of the stream
that lapped the base of her cradle, they are gone no one knows whither.
And whe