Vainly I wandered thy streets. Thy eating-places ungodly
Knew not the holiness of dinner. In all that evening I dined not;
But in a strange, low lair, infested of native mechanics,
Bolted a fried beefsteak for the physical need of my stomach.
And for them that have fried that steak, in Aïdes’ lowest back-kitchen,
May they eternally broil, by way of a warning to others.
During my wanderings, I met and hailed with delight one Italian,
A man with a name from “Pasquale”—the chap sung by Tagliapietra;
He knew what it was to dine; he comprehended my yearnings;
But the spell was also on him, the somnolent spell Philadelphian,