In the cause of national
or personal freedom they have found a refuge here, and the patriot
who made it for them sits his steed, overlooking their district,
while he listens through his left ear to vaudeville that caricatures
the posterity of his proteges. Italy, Poland, the former Spanish
possessions and the polyglot tribes of Austria-Hungary have spilled
here a thick lather of their effervescent sons. In the eccentric
cafes and lodging-houses of the vicinity they hover over their native
wines and political secrets. The colony changes with much frequency.
Faces disappear from the haunts to be replaced by others. Whither do
these uneasy birds flit? For half of the answer observe carefully the
suave foreign air and foreign courtesy of the next waiter who serves
your table d'hote. For the other half, perhaps if the barber shops
had tongues (and who will dispute it?) they could tell their share.
Titles are as plentiful as finger rings among these transitory
exiles. For lack of proper exploitation a stock of title goods large
enough to supply the trade of upper Fifth Avenue is here condemned
to a mere pushcart traffic. The new-world landlords who entertain
these offshoots of nobility are not dazzled by coronets and crests.
They have doughnuts to sell instead of daughters. With them it is a
serious matter of trading in flour and sugar instead of pearl powder
and bonbons.
These assertions are deemed fitting as an introduction to the tale,
which is of plebeians and contains no one with even the ghost of a
title.
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