My cosmopolite was named E. Rushmore Coglan, and he will be heard from next summer at
Coney Island. He is to establish a new attraction there, he informed me, offering kingly diversion. And then his conversation rang along parallels of latitude and longitude. He took the great, round world in his hand, so to speak, familiarly, contemptuously, and it seemed no larger than the seed of a Maraschino cherry in a table dhôte[18] grape fruit. He spoke disrespectfully of the equator, he skipped from continent to continent, he derided the zones, he mopped up the high seas with his napkin. With a wave of his hand he would speak of a certain bazaar in Hyderabad[19]. Whiff! He would have you on skis in Lapland. Zip! Now you rode the breakers with the Kanakas[20] at Kealaikahiki. Presto[21]! He dragged you through an Arkansas post-oak swamp, let you dry 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 a Chicago lake breeze and how old Escamila cured it in Buenos Ayres with a hot infusion of the chuchula weed. You would have addressed a letter to E. Rushmore Coglan, Esq., the Earth, Solar System, the Universe, and have mailed it, feeling confident that it would be delivered to him.
I was sure that I had found at last the one true cosmopolite since Adam, and I listened to his worldwide discourse fearful lest I should discover in it the local note of the mere globe-trotter. But his opinions never fluttered or drooped; he was as impartial to cities, countries and continents as the winds or gravitation.
And as E. Rushmore Coglan prattled of this little planet I thought with glee of a great almost-cosmopolite who wrote for the whole world and dedicated himself to Bombay. In a poem he has to say that there is pride and rivalry between the cities of the earth, and that the men that breed from them, they traffic up and down, but cling to their cities hem as a child to the mothers gown. And whenever they walk by roaring streets unknown they remember their native city most faithful, foolish, fond; making her mere-breathed name their bond upon their bond. And my glee was roused because I had caught Mr. Kipling napping. Here I had found a man not made from dust; one who had no narrow boasts of birthplace or country, one who, if he bragged at all, would brag of his whole round globe against the Martians and the inhabitants of the Moon.
Expression on these subjects was precipitated from E. Rushmore Coglan by the third corner to our table. While Coglan was describing to me the topography along the Siberian Railway the orchestra glided into a medley. The concluding air was Dixie[22], and as the exhilarating notes tumbled forth they were almost overpowered by a great clapping of hands from almost every table.
It is worth a paragraph to say that this remarkable scene can be witnessed every evening in numerous cafés in the City of New York. Tons of brew have been consumed over theories to account for it. Some have conjectured hastily that all Southerners in town hie[23] themselves to cafés at nightfall. This applause of the rebel air in a Northern city does puzzle a little; but it is not insolvable. The war with Spain, many years generous mint and watermelon crops, a few long-shot winners at the New Orleans race-track, and the brilliant banquets given by the Indiana and Kansas citizens who compose the North Carolina Society have made the South rather a fad in Manhattan. Your manicure will lisp softly that your left forefinger reminds her so much of a gentlemans in Richmond, Va. Oh, certainly; but many a lady has to work now the war, you know.
When Dixie was being played a dark-haired young man sprang up from somewhere with a Mosby[24] guerrilla yell and waved frantically his soft-brimmed hat. Then he strayed through the smoke, dropped into the vacant chair at 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 inclusion in the order by a smile and a nod. I hastened to ask him a question because I wanted to try out a theory I had.
Would you mind telling me, I began, whether you are from
The fist of E. Rushmore Coglan banged the table and I was jarred into silence.
Excuse me, said he, but thats a question I never like to hear asked. What does it matter where a man is from? Is it fair to judge a man by his post-office address? Why, Ive seen Kentuckians who hated whiskey, Virginians who werent descended from Pocahontas, Indianians who hadnt written a novel, Mexicans who didnt wear velvet trousers with silver dollars sewed along the seams, funny Englishmen, spendthrift Yankees,
cold-blooded Southerners, narrow-minded Westerners, and New Yorkers who were too busy to stop for an hour on the street to watch a one-armed grocers clerk do up cranberries in paper bags. Let a man be a man and dont handicap him with the label of any section.