"_If you wish to go to Righi, You will not need shoes to Wegis, (For you go that far by steamboat), But from Wegis take a stout staff, Also take upon your arm a maiden; Drink a glass of wine on starting, Only do not drink too freely, For if you desire to drink here, You must earn the right to, first._" "Oh! a splendid song!" he exclaimed, as he finished. The servants, evidently, also found the song much to their mind, because they came up closer to us. "Yes, but who was it composed the music?" I asked. "Oh, no one at all; you know you must have something new when you are going to sing for strangers." When the ice was brought, and I had given my comrade a glass of champagne, he seemed somewhat ill at ease, and, glancing at the servants, he turned and twisted on the bench. We touched our glasses to the health of all artists; he drank half a glass, then he seemed to be collecting his ideas, and knit his brows in deep thought. "It is long since I have tasted such wine, _je ne vous dis que ça_. In Italy the _vino d'Asti_ is excellent, but this is still better. Ah! Italy; it is splendid to be there!" he added. "Yes, there they know how to appreciate music and artists," said I, trying to bring him round to the evening's mischance before the Schweitzerhof. "No," he replied. "There, as far as music is concerned, I cannot give anybody satisfaction. The Italians are themselves musicians,--none like them in the world; but I know only Tyrolese songs. They are something of a novelty to them, though." "Well, you find rather more generous gentlemen there, don't you?" I went on to say, anxious to make him share in my resentment against the guests of the Schweitzerhof. "There it would not be possible to find a big hotel frequented by rich people, where, out of a hundred listening to an artist's singing, not one would give him any thing." My question utterly failed of the effect that I expected. It did not enter his head to be indignant with them: on the contrary, he saw in my remark an implied slur upon his talent which had failed of its reward, and he hastened to set himself right before me. "It is not every time that you get any thing," he remarked; "sometimes one isn't in good voice, or you are tired; now to-day I have been walking ten hours, and singing almost all the time. That is hard. And these important aristocrats do not always care to listen to Tyrolese songs." "But still, how can they help giving?" I insisted. He did not comprehend my remark. "That's nothing," he said; "but here the principal thing is, _on est tres serré pour la police_, that's what's the trouble. Here, according to these republican laws, you are not allowed to sing; but in Italy you can go wherever you please, no one says a word. Here, if they want to let you, they let you; but if they don't want to, then they can throw you into jail." "What? That's incredible!"