“Edite, bebite, collegiales,
Post multa sæcula procula nulla!”
“Eat ye then, drink ye then, social companions,
Centuries hence and your cups are no more!”
The mildest of the clerks comes out well with Kotzebue’s philosophical song:—
“Es kann ja nicht immer so bleiben,
Hier unter den wechselnden Mond;
Es blüht eine Zeit und verwelket,
Was mit uns die Erde bewhont.”
“It cannot remain thus for ever,
Here under the changeable moon;
For earthly things bloom but a season,
And wither away all too soon.”
The spruce gentleman with the crisp hair throws back his head, and with closed eyes warbles melodiously:—
“Einsich bin ich nicht allein.”
“Alone I’m not in solitude.”
The butcher has forgotten his dignity, and joins vigorously in every chorus. At this crisis Louise gracefully retires, leaving us to our replenished bowl.
“My friends!” shouts the student, mounting on a chair, “listen to me for a moment.” And then he plunges into an eloquent discourse upon the beauties of fraternity, and the union of nations, concluding his harangue by proposing a “Lebe hoch” to Alcibiade and myself. Alcibiade is decidedly the lion of the evening, and bears his honours gracefully, like a well-tamed creature. “Se sollen leben! Vivat ho—o!” it roars in our ears, and amid its echoes we duly acknowledge the compliment.
“That’s beautiful!” exclaims the student, whose name, by the bye, is Pimblebeck. “And now grant me one other favour. Thou Briton, and thou son of France, let us drink brotherhood together. What say ye? Let it be no longer ‘you’ and ‘yours’ between us, but ‘thou’ and ‘thine.’” Having reached the affectionate stage of exhilaration, we enter at once into the spirit of the proposal, and each in his turn, glass in hand, locking his arm in that of the enthusiastic Pimblebeck, drinks eternal friendship: to love truly; to defend valiantly; and to address each other by no other title than that of “thou” and “thee” for the rest of our lives.