clanging in your ears and the ineffable majesty of the Casa Grande crag
soaring behind the jade canal.

The air was chill, and I buttoned my surtout tightly as I stepped into
the curious seven-wheeled _sforza_ lettered _Hôtel Decameron_. We
rumbled _andante espressivo_ over the hexagonal cobbles of the Chaussée
d'Arsenic, crossed the mauve canal and bent under the hanging cliffs of
the cheese quarries. I could see the fishwives carrying great trays of
lampreys and lambrequins toward the fish market. It is curious what
quaintly assorted impressions one receives in the first few minutes in a
strange place. I remember noticing a sausage kiosk in the _markt-platz_
where a man in a white coat was busily selling hot icons. They are
delivered fresh every hour from the Casa Grande (the great cheese
cathedral) on the cliff.

The Hôtel Decameron is named after Boccaccio, who was once a bartender
there. It stands in a commanding position on the Place Nouveau Riche
overlooking the Casino and the odalisk erected by Edward VII in memory
of his cure. After two weeks of the strychnine baths the merry monarch
is said to have called for a corncob pipe and a plate of onions, after
which he made his escape by walking over the forest track to the French
frontier, although previous to this he had not walked a kilometer
without a cane since John Bull won the Cowes regatta. The _haut ton_ of
the section in which the Hôtel Decameron finds itself can readily be
seen by the fact that the campanile of the Duke of Marmalade fronts on
the rue Sauterne, just across from the barroom of the Hôtel. The
antiquaries say there is an underground corridor between the two.

The fascinations of a stay in Strychnine are manifold. I have a weak
heart, so I did not try the baths, although I used to linger on the