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At Table with the Clergy: German

The famous wine of “Est, Est, Est” owes its celebrity to a German bishop named Fuger, who, while on a journey to Italy, sent his secretary in advance in order to provide the best accommodations. He was especially charged to test the wine in all the inns en route, and wherever he found it best to write the word "Est" on the wall of the albergo. Arriving at Montefiascone, a small town on the highroad from Florence to Rome, the secretary found the wine so superior that he was at a loss to describe it until he bethought him of the inscription that a sultan of Lahore had engraved on the door of his seraglio, - "If there is a paradise on earth, it is here, it is here, it is here!" Accordingly, he wrote the word "Est" thrice in large characters on the wall of the principal inn-a fatal word for the bishop, who tarried so long and drank so freely that he died ere reaching his destination -Rome. His tomb exists at Montefiascone. On either side of his mitre and his arms his secretary had carved a reversed glass, with this epitaph on the stone: Est, Est, Est, et propter nimium est Johannes de Fuger dominus meus mortuus est.

The explanation of the epitaph and emblems is given by the Roman prelate, Valery. It is still further averred that the death of Cardinal Mauri, a distinguished Italian prelate, whose remains were interred near those of the German bishop in the Church of St. Flavien, was also hastened by his fondness for the Montefiascone wine. The story of the bibulous bishop was told in 1825 in German, in a poem of fourteen stanzas, by Wilhelm Müller, father of Professor Max Müller.¹ It has also been excellently rendered in 1" Hart an dem Bolsener See, Auf des Flaschenberges Hoh', Steht ein kleiner Leichenstein Mit der kurzen Inschrift drein:

Propter nimium Est, Est, Dominus meus mortuus est! "Unter diesem Monument, Welches keinen Namen nennt, Ruht ein Herr von deutschem Blut, Deutschem Schlund und deutschem Mut, Der hier starb den schonsten Tod - Seine Schuld vergeb' ihm Gott!"

English verse by an American poetess whose name the efforts of the writer have been unable to trace: "Men have ridden for love, And men have ridden for gold, And men have ridden for honour In the chivalrous days of old.

Little of love recked he, Nor honour, nor golden store, But the Abbot would ride for dinner, And he rode for good wine more. 'I will travel the world, Travel the world in quest- Taste red, white, and yellow,' Cried this jolly old fellow, 'Till I find the wine that is best."

Vanitas vanitorum! ""My servant leal,' said he, 'Now ride thou on before, And drink where'er the branches Hang withering at the door.

Then, if the wine be worthy, That I should stop at all, Write "est"-but if it is not, Write "non" upon the wall.' "Promptly rode the man, In hamlet, city, and town, Albergo and osteria, He gulped the good wine down.

Where'er the wine was worthy There they slept or dined,- Before, the trusty varlet, The lazier monk behind. "Among the hills and valleys, Festooned with wreathing. vine, Where purple grapes and opal Drop red and golden wine, There is a wine delicious In a hamlet little known, With a taste like the mountain flower That blooms in spring alone.

Here pause, O wandering Abbot!

Thy ponderous frame can rest, Lo! the prudent, observant, Intelligent servant Has written here 'Est, Est, Est.' "The Abbot he drank at dinner, The Abbot he drank at night, And he called for more fiasci When dawned the morning light.

He murmured, 'I go no farther, Per Bacco! I cease my quest ; Wine of Hymettus sweetness, Nectar of gods, est, est! "But even an Abbot has limits, Though his were exceeding wide; He passed them and, as you can fancy, Dropped from the table and died:

Drowned as it were in the nectar, Dead of the wine that is best, In his hand the empty wine-cup, His last words 'Est, est, est!"

Vanitas vanitorum! "This very same wine we are drinking To-night in classic Rome, Sipping it after dinner In our quiet foreign home.

I have told as I heard the story, And now the white wine that is best, Let us all fill a bowl of Here 's peace to the soul of The monk of the Est, Est, Est!"

To judge of the quality of Montefiascone, one must drink it at its home; like other white wines of the former Papal States, it will not bear the shock of distant carriage. As for the German ecclesiast, one should not take him too seriously, but consider him rather from the picturesque point of view, as Rowlandson and Combe have done with the reverend Syntax. "Other times, other manners," -to-day his reverence would have made the journey by rail and not by post, and thus, doubtless, would have missed the fiasci of Montefiascone. One must also bear in mind that the wine in question, being of the muscat type, is extremely heady and exciting to the nerves, its deleterious effects being masked by its unctuousness and engaging aroma; so that an unsuspecting beerdrinking bishop, accustomed to copious libations of a milder fluid, might readily and unwittingly find himself under the table, and, even though a hierarch, prove an easy subject for a De Profundis. Many years have elapsed since the prelate's demise; and it is to be supposed that, meanwhile, the nectar of Est has been rendered less potent and even more delectable in heavenly vineyards. ८