At midnight the café was crowded. By some chance thelittle table at which I sat had escaped the eye of incomers，and two vacant chairs at it extended their arms with venalhospitality to the influx of patrons.
And then a cosmopolite sat in one of them， and I wasglad， for I held a theory that since Adam no true citizen ofthe world has existed. We hear of them， and we see foreignlabels on much luggage， but we find travellers instead ofcosmopolites.
I invoke your consideration of the scene—the marbletoppedtables， the range of leather-upholstered wall seats，the gay company， the ladies dressed in demi-state toilets，speaking in an exquisite visible chorus of taste， economy，opulence or art； the sedulous and largess-loving gar？ons，the music wisely catering to all with its raids upon thecomposers； the mélange of talk and laughter—and， if youwill， the Würzburger in the tall glass cones that bendto your lips as a ripe cherry sways on its branch to thebeak of a robber jay. I was told by a sculptor from MauchChunk that the scene was truly Parisian.
My cosmopolite was named E. Rushmore Coglan， andhe will be heard from next summer at Coney Island. Heis to establish a new “attraction” there， he informed me，offering kingly diversion. And then his conversation rangalong parallels of latitude and longitude. He took thegreat， round world in his hand， so to speak， familiarly，contemptuously， and it seemed no larger than the seedof a Maraschino cherry in a table d’h？te grape fruit. Hespoke disrespectfully of the equator， he skipped fromcontinent to continent， he derided the zones， he moppedup the high seas with his napkin. With a wave of his handhe would speak of a certain bazaar in Hyderabad. Whiff！
He would have you on skis in Lapland. Zip！ Now you rodethe breakers with the Kanakas at Kealaikahiki. Presto！ Hedragged you through an Arkansas post-oak swamp， let youdry for a moment on the alkali plains of his Idaho ranch，then whirled you into the society of Viennese archdukes.
Anon he would be telling you of a cold he acquired in aChicago lake breeze and how old Escamila cured it inBuenos Ayres with a hot infusion of the chuchula weed.
You would have addressed a letter to “E. RushmoreCoglan， Esq.， the Earth， Solar System， the Universe，” andhave mailed it， feeling confident that it would be deliveredto him.
I was sure that I had found at last the one truecosmopolite since Adam， and I listened to his worldwidediscourse fearful lest I should discover in it the local noteof the mere globe-trotter. But his opinions never flutteredor drooped； he was as impartial to cities， countries andcontinents as the winds or gravitation.
And as E. Rushmore Coglan prattled of this littleplanet I thought with glee of a great almost-cosmopolitewho wrote for the whole world and dedicated himself toBombay. In a poem he has to say that there is pride andrivalry between the cities of the earth， and that “the menthat breed from them， they traffic up and down， but clingto their cities’ hem as a child to the mother’s gown.” Andwhenever they walk “by roaring streets unknown” theyremember their native city “most faithful， foolish， fond；making her mere-breathed name their bond upon theirbond.” And my glee was roused because I had caughtMr. Kipling napping. Here I had found a man not madefrom dust； one who had no narrow boasts of birthplaceor country， one who， if he bragged at all， would bragof his whole round globe against the Martians and theinhabitants of the Moon.
Expression on these subjects was precipitated from E.
Rushmore Coglan by the third corner to our table. WhileCoglan was describing to me the topography along theSiberian Railway the orchestra glided into a medley. Theconcluding air was “Dixie，” and as the exhilarating notestumbled forth they were almost overpowered by a greatclapping of hands from almost every table.
It is worth a paragraph to say that this remarkable scenecan be witnessed every evening in numerous cafés in theCity of New York. Tons of brew have been consumed overtheories to account for it. Some have conjectured hastilythat all Southerners in town hie themselves to cafés atnightfall. This applause of the “rebel” air in a Northerncity does puzzle a little； but it is not insolvable. The warwith Spain， many years’ generous mint and watermeloncrops， a few long-shot winners at the New Orleans racetrack，and the brilliant banquets given by the Indiana andKansas citizens who compose the North Carolina Societyhave made the South rather a “fad” in Manhattan. Yourmanicure will lisp softly that your left forefinger remindsher so much of a gentleman’s in Richmond， Va. Oh，certainly； but many a lady has to work now—the war， youknow.
When “Dixie” was being played a dark-haired youngman sprang up from somewhere with a Mosby guerrillayell and waved frantically his soft-brimmed hat. Then hestrayed through the smoke， dropped into the vacant chairat our table and pulled out cigarettes.
The evening was at the period when reserve is thawed.
One of us mentioned three Würzburgers to the waiter；the dark-haired young man acknowledged his inclusionin the order by a smile and a nod. I hastened to ask him aquestion because I wanted to try out a theory I had.
“Would you mind telling me，” I began， “whether you arefrom—”
The fist of E. Rushmore Coglan banged the table and Iwas jarred into silence.
“Excuse me，” said he， “but that’s a question I never liketo hear asked. What does it matter where a man is from？
