To return.  If it is not the want of proper materials, or of taste to use them, what can be the cause of the unjust ostracism against buttered toast?

A Genoese friend of mine accounts for it on the same principle on which another friend of mine, a Polish refugee in London, accounted for the difference, nay, in many points, the direct opposition, between English and French habits of life,—­that is to say, on the principle of national antagonism.  Why does the English Parliament hold its sittings at night? my Polish friend would ask.  The reason is obvious. Because, the French Parliament sits in broad day, when it sits at all.  Why is winter the season of villeggiatura in England? Because in France it is summer and autumn.  Why are beards and moustaches tabooed in Great Britain? Because it is common to wear them in France.  Why are new pipes preferred in England for smoking? Because in France the older and more culottee a pipe, the more welcome it is.  And so on, ad infinitum.

Arguing on the same principle, my Genoese friend avers that buttered toast is proscribed at Turin because it is so justly popular in Genoa.  The Genoese, in fact, excel in the preparation of that dainty article.  They have, for the purpose, delicious little rolls, which they cut in two and suit to all tastes and whims.  The upper or under crust, soft or hard, deep brown or light brown, with much or little butter, with cold or hot butter, with butter visible or invisible:—­be as capricious in your orders as you like, and never fear tiring the waiter.  Proteus himself never took so many shapes.

There is some speciousness in my Genoese friend’s argument.  The Superba, naturally enough, cannot forget that she was first and is now second.  Turin, on her side, does not intend to have her official supremacy disputed.  No wonder that the two noble cities should look at each other rather surlily, and stick to their own individuality.  “Hence it is,” concludes my friend, “that the comparatively easy Apennines have proved to this day an impassable barrier to the buttered toast on one side, and to the grisini on the other.”

“But not so to the white truffle,” I put in, triumphantly.  “The Genoese have adopted that; and honor to them for having done so!  What do you say to this, eh?”

My friend scratched his head in quest of a new argument.  We will leave him to his embarrassment, and have done with this string of digressions.

I was saying, that my first visit to Turin dated as far back as 1831.  On that journey I had a singular travelling-companion, a beautiful fish, a John Dory, carefully wrapped up, and neatly laid in a wicker-basket, like a babe in its cradle.  The officers of the octroi, who examined my basket, complimented me on my choice,—­nay, grew so enthusiastic about my John Dory, that, if I remember right, they let it pass duty-free.  The mistress of the house,