Yet I was already surfeited with the angelic
metropolis, and my thoughts began to turn in the direction of
Manfredonia once more. At a corner of the street, however, certain
fluent vociferations in English and Italian, which nothing would induce
me to set down here, assailed my ears, coming up - apparently - out of the
bowels of the earth. I stopped to listen, shocked to hear ribald
language in a holy town like this; then, impelled by curiosity,
descended a long flight of steps and found myself in a subterranean
wine-cellar. There was drinking and card-playing going on here among a
party of emigrants - merry souls; a good half of them spoke English and,
despite certain irreverent phrases, they quickly won my heart with a
"Here! You drink this, mister."
This dim recess was an instructive pendant to the archangel's cavern. A
new type of pilgrim has been evolved; pilgrims who think no more of
crossing to Pittsburg than of a drive to Manfredonia. But their cave was
permeated with an odour of spilt wine and tobacco-smoke instead of the
subtle Essence des pelerins aes Abruzzes fleuris, and alas, the
object of their worship was not the Chaldean angel, but another and
equally ancient eastern shape: Mammon. They talked much of dollars; and
I also heard several unorthodox allusions to the "angel-business," which
was described as "played out," as well as a remark to the effect that
"only damn-fools stay in this country." In short, these men were at the
other end of the human scale; they were the strong, the energetic; the
ruthless, perhaps; but certainly - the intelligent.
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