n the table. "Did you ever cross the Alps?"

"No, but--"

"But you believe the color-daubers of the artist guild, whose eyes are
caught by the blue of the sky and sea, or the musical gentry who allow
themselves to be deluded by the soft voices and touching melodies there,
but you would do well to listen to a quiet man too for once."

"Go on, Captain."

"Very well. And if anybody can get an untruthful word out of me, I'll
pay his score till the Day of Judgment. I'll begin the story at the
commencement. First you must cross the horrible Alps. There you see
barren, dreary rocks, cold snow, wild glacier torrents on which no boat
can be used. Instead of watering meadows, the mad waves fling stones on
their banks. Then we reach the plains, where it is true many kinds
of plants grow. I was there in June, and made my jokes about the tiny
fields, where small trees stood, serving as props for the vines. It
didn't look amiss, but the heat, Junker, the heat spoiled all pleasure.
And the dirt in the taverns, the vermin, and the talk about bravos,
who shed the blood of honest Christians in the dark for a little paltry
money. If your tongue dries up in your mouth, you'll find nothing but
hot wine, not a sip of cool beer. And the dust, gentlemen, the frightful
dust. As for the steel in Brescia--it's worthy of all honor. But the
feather was stolen from my hat in the tavern, and the landlord devoured
onions as if they were white bread. May God punish me if a single piece
of honest beef, such as my wife can set before me every day--and we
don't live like princes--ever came between my teeth.

"And the butter, Junker, the butter! We burn oil in lamps, and grease
door-hinges with it, when they creak, but the Italians use it to fry
chickens and fish. Confound such doings!"

"Beware, Captain," cried Wilhelm, "or I shall take you at your word and
you'll be obliged to pay my score for life. Olive-oil is a pure, savory
seasoning."

"For a man that likes it. I commend Holland butter. Olive-oil has its
value for polishing steel, but butter is the right thing for roasting
and frying; so that's enough! But I beg you to hear me farther. From
Lombardy I went to Bologna, and then crossed the Apennines. Sometimes
the road ascended, then suddenly plunged downward again, and it's a
queer pleasure, which, thank God, we are spared in this country, to sit
in the saddle going down a mountain. On the right and left, lofty
cliffs tower like walls. Your b