The brewers in Zittau believe that a phantom
monk blesses the malt on a certain night
in every year, and that if he does not come to
bless it, the brew turns out ill. Connected
with this monk there is, of course, a legend.
The Franciscans, who long had a monastery
near the town, being forbidden to drink wine,
were very particular about their beer. At
one time, they were ruled by an abbot who
knew how to provide all good things for
himself and for his brethren. He declared
that the beer brewed in Zittau and sent
to the monastery was not fit to drink,
and obtained from the town a grant
of a building in which the monks' ale might
be brewed under monastic oversight. The
clerical inspector set over this brewery was a
witless monk named Laurence, in whom there
was no sense developed beyond an acute
sense of the quality of beer. The
monks' beer infinitely surpassed all other—
not because it was brewed differently, but
because Brother Laurence wandered day
and night about the brewery, shovelling
up here a little malt; there, pouring a little
wort into a rosewood cup that he carried in
his cowl, tasting and judging and selecting,
the very fittest time for every turn in
the process of beer-making. From a
subterranean gallery he passed into the
brewery at night, and there wandered about,
mumbling and tasting also, and, in his
witlessness and his great love of beer,
blessing the casks in a fantastic way,
as though he were in the chapel blessing
congregations. The brewers were all ruined,
because the Zittau public ran after the monks'
beer, and bought no other.

The lay keeper of the monks' brewery had
a daughter betrothed to a young brewer of
the town, for whose sake she played the spy.
In consequence of information given by her,
the entire fraternity of brewers conspired
together; and one night, seizing brother
Laurence, carried him away by force. The town
then treated with the abbot, offering to
release the beer inspector, on condition that he
tasted and blessed for the town as well as for
the monastery. Consent was given; but the
result was a complete spoiling of all the
town beer, and a triumph lor the monks more
glorious than ever. The united brewers
desponded; the lovers again conspired. They
determined that the monk's power of tasting
lay in his rosewood cup. He had lost his
wits after being carried away by the fairies
to christen a child for them, and had received
the christening cup on that occasion as his
fee. It was a fairy cup, with such power for
developing flavour as the little people needed.
They must get possession of the cup, and
also learn the words of the priest's blessing,
They accordingly lay in wait one night; and,
when brother Laurence was in the act of
blessing a great tub, the powerful young
brewer ran behind, and, tripping him up,
held him by the legs over the beer, in which
his shaven crown occasionally dipped. The
girl had snatched the cup as the priest fell.
In that position Brother Laurence was
summoned to surrender all his spells: but never
sensible when upright, he was more confused
than ever when turned upside down. The
brewer saw that, and endeavoured to replace
him on his legs; but—horrible discovery—
the fat priest was too heavy to be lifted back,
The young people were in dismay. Barbara
the girl leaned forward to help by pulling at
the Brother's hand, and Brother Laurence,
in his struggles, clutched her with such force
that he pulled her in. The young brewer, of
course, went after her, and so it was that all
three sank to the bottom of the vat. Only
the rosewood cup remained upon the surface.

In the morning, when the men came to
their work, they were surprised to see the
priest's cup left, as they thought, behind him,
but tasted the beer by help of it, and were
astonished at its flavour. They called the
master, who called others, and before noon
half the chief beer-drinkers in the town had
tasted the best liquor ever brewed in Zittau.
A large quantity was sent off to the abbot,
But before the vat was empty the beer
suddenly ceased running from the tap. The
obstruction was looked for. The three bodies
were found. The town was shocked. Many
died, and among them the abbot. Not a
barrel of monks' beer was ever again asked
for. The rosewood cup, which had in some
way been lost, was not seen again until one
night, after the town brewers had regained
all their prosperity: a man by chance left in
a malting room heard a noise at the window,
and saw a train of fairies enter. The fairies
led in state the ghost of a fat monk with a
rosewood cup in his hand. Behind the monk
two lovers followed merrily—they were the
ghosts of the young brewer and Barbara.
More fairies followed, and the whole
procession went about the brewery, the monk
tasting everything. When the visitors had
been through all the floors, they travelled
out again into the moonlight; and it is
ascertained that a visit of this kind is paid
every year, on a certain night, to all the
breweries in Zittau, always excepting those
belonging to men who have incurred the
displeasure of the fairies.

This malt-monk is a ghost quite independent
of the spirit of the barley; which, as a
matter of course, haunts the wort at night
whenever and wherever there is brewing
done.

COMMISSION AND OMISSION.

WHAT London wants, and what every town
must, sooner or later, come to have, in the
way of drainage, if the civilisation of this
country be not checked long before it has
attained anything like perfection (for, though
we are highly civilised, we are by no means
fully civilised at present), may be told in a