The remembrance of his former humiliation seemed to revive his wrath at this day, and he unfolded his whole strength to take his revenge. In vain had the Olympians tried repeatedly to cross at different points; everywhere, from the Alps to the Northern Sea, they found him furious, roaring and rushing, full of threats in his green waters and besprinkling the banks with white foam.
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At last they bribed him to espouse the cause of the Empire: they made him a king, the king of German rivers. A king more or less mattered very little to a people who made and unmade kings at will.
The Rhine was evidently flattered by the distinction; and he laid aside his long cherished wrath.
He had already allowed Jupiter to cross, taking him perhaps for Esus; he now carefully examined the passports and certificates of good conduct of several other gods, and left the way open for Apollo and Minerva, Diana and some deities of fair repute; but when he saw Bacchus, his anger was rekindled. What? Were not the Germans mad and quarrelsome enough, when they had only taken too much beer? How could he consent to allow their passions to be aroused by potent wine? He was king, and as such bound to keep this scourge from his people.