Is it fair to judge a man by his post-office address？ Why，I’ve seen Kentuckians who hated whiskey， Virginianswho weren’t descended from Pocahontas， Indianianswho hadn’t written a novel， Mexicans who didn’t wearvelvet trousers with silver dollars sewed along the seams，funny Englishmen， spendthrift Yankees， cold-bloodedSoutherners， narrow-minded Westerners， and New Yorkerswho were too busy to stop for an hour on the street towatch a one-armed grocer’s clerk do up cranberries inpaper bags. Let a man be a man and don’t handicap himwith the label of any section.”
“Pardon me，” I said， “but my curiosity was notaltogether an idle one. I know the South， and when theband plays ‘Dixie’ I like to observe. I have formed thebelief that the man who applauds that air with specialviolence and ostensible sectional loyalty is invariably anative of either Secaucus， N.J.， or the district betweenMurray Hill Lyceum and the Harlem River， this city. I wasabout to put my opinion to the test by inquiring of thisgentleman when you interrupted with your own—largertheory， I must confess.”
And now the dark-haired young man spoke to me， andit became evident that his mind also moved along its ownset of grooves.
“I should like to be a periwinkle，” said he， mysteriously，“on the top of a valley， and sing tooralloo-ralloo.”
This was clearly too obscure， so I turned again toCoglan.
“I’ve been around the world twelve times，” said he. “Iknow an Esquimau in Upernavik who sends to Cincinnatifor his neckties， and I saw a goat-herder in Uruguaywho won a prize in a Battle Creek breakfast food puzzlecompetition. I pay rent on a room in Cairo， Egypt， andanother in Yokohama all the year around. I’ve got slipperswaiting for me in a tea-house in Shanghai， and I don’thave to tell ’em how to cook my eggs in Rio de Janeiro orSeattle. It’s a mighty little old world. What’s the use ofbragging about being from the North， or the South， or theold manor house in the dale， or Euclid avenue， Cleveland，or Pike’s Peak， or Fairfax County， Va.， or Hooligan’sFlats or any place？ It’ll be a better world when we quitbeing fools about some mildewed town or ten acres ofswampland just because we happened to be born there.”
“You seem to be a genuine cosmopolite，” I said admiringly.
“But it also seems that you would decry patriotism.”
“A relic of the stone age，” declared Coglan， warmly.
“We are all brothers—Chinamen， Englishmen， Zulus，Patagonians and the people in the bend of the KawRiver. Some day all this petty pride in one’s city or Stateor section or country will be wiped out， and we’ll all becitizens of the world， as we ought to be.”
“But while you are wandering in foreign lands，” Ipersisted， “do not your thoughts revert to some spot—some dear and—”
“Nary a spot，” interrupted E. R. Coglan， flippantly. “Theterrestrial， globular， planetary hunk of matter， slightlyflattened at the poles， and known as the Earth， is myabode. I’ve met a good many object-bound citizens ofthis country abroad. I’ve seen men from Chicago sit in agondola in Venice on a moonlight night and brag abouttheir drainage canal. I’ve seen a Southerner on beingintroduced to the King of England hand that monarch，without batting his eyes， the information that his grandaunton his mother’s side was related by marriage to thePerkinses， of Charleston. I knew a New Yorker who waskidnapped for ransom by some Afghanistan bandits. Hispeople sent over the money and he came back to Kabulwith the agent. ‘Afghanistan？’ the natives said to himthrough an interpreter. ‘Well， not so slow， do you think？’
‘Oh， I don’t know，’ says he， and he begins to tell themabout a cab driver at Sixth avenue and Broadway. Thoseideas don’t suit me. I’m not tied down to anything thatisn’t 8，000 miles in diameter. Just put me down as E.
Rushmore Coglan， citizen of the terrestrial sphere.”
My cosmopolite made a large adieu and left me， forhe thought he saw some one through the chatter andsmoke whom he knew. So I was left with the would-beperiwinkle， who was reduced to Würzburger withoutfurther ability to voice his aspirations to perch， melodious，upon the summit of a valley.
I sat reflecting upon my evident cosmopolite andwondering how the poet had managed to miss him. Hewas my discovery and I believed in him. How was it？ “Themen that breed from them they traffic up and down， butcling to their cities’ hem as a child to the mother’s gown.”
Not so E. Rushmore Coglan. With the whole world forhis—
My meditations were interrupted by a tremendous noiseand conflict in another part of the café. I saw above theheads of the seated patrons E. Rushmore Coglan and astranger to me engaged in terrific battle. They foughtbetween the tables like Titans， and glasses crashed， andmen caught their hats up and were knocked down， and abrunette screamed， and a blonde began to sing “Teasing.”
My cosmopolite was sustaining the pride and reputationof the Earth when the waiters closed in on bothcombatants with their famous flying wedge formation andbore them outside， still resisting.
I called McCarthy， one of the French gar？ons， and askedhim the cause of the conflict.
“The man with the red tie” （that was my cosmopolite），said he， “got hot on account of things said about the bumsidewalks and water supply of the place he come from bythe other guy.”
“Why，” said I， bewildered， “that man is a citizen of theworld—a cosmopolite. He—”
“Originally from Mattawamkeag， Maine， he said，”
continued McCarthy， “and he wouldn’t stand for noknockin’ the place.”
