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 breathing becomes oppressed in the narrow valleys, and
if you want to get a distant view--there's nothing to be seen, for
everywhere some good-for-nothing mountain thrusts itself directly before