And he accentuated his statement by a vicious side spit upon the
American soil.

It transpired that the "polit-a work" on which he had been engaged in
Pal-aer-mo had been waiting in a restaurant.

And so the poor soul chattered on, touching, not unintelligently, in his
absurd English, on American politics, capital and labour, the rich and
the poor. The hard lot of the poor man in America, and--"Pal-aer-mo,"
made the recurring burden of his talk, through which, a pathetic
undertone, came to us a sense of the native poetry of his race.

Did he ever expect to return to Palermo? we asked him as we parted. "Ah!
many a night me dream of Pal-aer-mo," he called back, as, striking into a
by-path, he disappeared in the darkness.

And then we came to a great iron bridge, sternly silhouetted in the
sunset. On either side rose cliffs of darkness, and beneath, like sheets
of cold moonlight, flowed the Genesee, a Dantesque effect of jet and
silver, Stygian in its intensity and indescribably mournful. The banks of
Acheron can not be more wildly _funèbre_, and it was companionable to
hear Colin's voice mimicking out of the darkness:

"In this country me do rough-a work. In Pal-aer-mo do polit-a work!"

"Poor chap!" I said, after a pause, thinking of our friend from
Pal-aer-mo. "Do you know Hafiz, Colin?" I continued. "There is an ode of
his that came back to me as our poor Italian was talking. I think I will
say it to you. It is just the time and place for it."