"Vina's got an idee she wants to git married." The speaker was a venerable darkey, who stood twirling his rimless hat with a sheepish air in the probate-office.

"Rather hard for you, Father Abram," said the judge kindly, "but it's a way girls have. I presume my daughter will be leaving me some day in the same ungrateful fashion. Bring around Vina's man and I will make out the license."

Father Abram's manner became at once more confused and ludicrous: he poised himself alternately on either foot, and scratched his head vigorously, while his facial expression was something too comical for description. Finally, through a series of embarrassed chuckles and gurgles, he rippled into a broad guffaw, articulating indistinctly between its paroxysms, "Bress de Lord, sah! I'se de man!"

"Shades of the mighty!" exclaimed the judge, in his astonishment dropping his pen upon a virgin page in his docket. "But the United States is a Christian country, Abram, and a man can't marry his own daughter here: it's contrary to law and gospel."

"Yes, sah?" said the negro submissively. "Den dar ain't no way for me an' Vina to git married, not even if we go over to Platte City? Vina'll be mightily disappointed."

"Good Heavens! no. 'Twould be a State's prison offence, and I don't see what ever put such a revolting idea into your head anyway, you hoary-headed old sinner!"

'"Deed, sah, 'tain't no idee ob mine. I done tole yer dat it was all 'long ob Vina, but I wouldn't see her outed for a sight" (outed being a negro expression for displeased). "An' don't yer t'ink, sah, de law might be changed, jus' for dis one time, or dat Vina an' I could be sent to de penitentium togedder? It's rather hard on both on us, 'specially on Vina—'specially as she ain't no more my darter than you be."

"Why didn't you say so before, instead of having all this talk about it? I don't know whether to believe you now: it is more than likely only a lie that you have trumped up as a last resort."

"Wish I may die, sah, ef it ain't de honest truf; an' de fus' time dat ebber I set eyes on Vina war in a slabe-pen in New Orleans eight years ago, when we war sold to de same marster. Ef Massa John Brown war libbin' he could prove it to yer; but dar ain't no udder libbin' human 'cept de slabe-driber—and he war blowed up on his nex' trip up de ribber—dat knows anyting about it."

The judge believed now that Abram had spoken the truth, for the time

had come. The time was the commencement of the war, and any reference to his name on the part of a negro was equivalent to the most solemn oath.

"What did John Brown ever know about it?" asked the judge.

"Why, yer see, he war dar, sah: he come down de ribber on de same boat wid de driber an' Vina. De driber he'd done bought up a heap ob likely young gals all de way down t'roo' Missouri an' de udder towns what neighbored on to de ribber—han'somest young women he could find, what'd bring a high price in New Orleans—an' when he gits dar, what's he do but go roun' to all de slabe-pens an' buy up a heap ob worn-out, or'nary old niggers, what had been worked to def in de rice-swamps, an' nobody wouldn't gib five dollars for. Den he marries de peartest ob de gals to de mizzablest ob de ole men. When de time fur de auction come, dar was plenty ob buyers for de gals, but nobody wanted dem good-for-nuffin' ole husbands. 'Can't help it,' says de driber—'Can't help it, no way whatsumebber: it's ag'in our principles to part families. Ef yer want de woman, yer mus' take her ole man too.' An' so dey gin'rally did, an' paid a high price fur him too, fur de sake ob gittin' de gal. Wall, as I was a-sayin', Massa John Brown he come down in de same boat wid Vina: he'd took notice ob her, and he knowed she hadn't any ole man. De nex' day he come walkin' down to de slabe-pen, a-purtendin' to be a planter, and a-axin' de price ob de niggers. When dey tole him I was Vina's husband, he says, 'Why, he's too ole to be anybody's husband: I don't believe he's got a toof in his head.'—'Yes I has, massa,' says I: 'I'se got t'ree left, and can chaw hoecake powerful, but I don't crack no pecans in my mouf. Better buy me, sah: dar's a heap ob sarbice in me yet. I'se only drawed up wid de rheumatiz, dat's all.'—'Come ober heah to de light,' says he, 'an' let me look in yo' mouf, an' see whedder yer hab got any teef.' So I went wid him, an' while he was a-purtendin' to find out my p'ints he says to me, very quiet, 'Yer ain't dat gal's husband, nohow,' says he, 'an' yer knows it.':—'I knows it, massa,' says I, 'an' I'se skeered for my life ob her, fur she done said she'd kill any one dey dar'd to mate wid her: she's done got a husband ob her own up de ribber, I reckon.'—'Yes, dat am de truf,' says Massa John Brown; 'but see here, uncle: de Lord has done 'p'inted yer to be a guardian angel to dat po' chile. He calls yer to be a fader to her; an' from dis day yer is her fader—'member dat. But it may be jus' as well for yer to purtend to be her husband: 'at will keep de udder boys from pesterin' her. But 'member dis: de Lord will 'quire dat chile's happiness of yo' han's, an' will so do by yer as yer do by her.'—'Be yer de angel ob de Lord, massa?' says I. 'Clar' to goodness, sah! I was dat skeered one knee knocked ag'in de udder like a woodpecker a-hammerin' a rotten tree.—'Yes,' says he: 'I be de messenger ob de Lord, an' my name is John Brown, but I don't s'pose yer ebber heern tell ob it.'—'No, massa,' says I, 'we don't see no powerful sight ob angels down in de rice-swamps.'—'Well, keep a-watchin' an' a-waitin',' says he, 'an' yer will heer from me ag'in.' Wid dat de driber come up, and he tole him he guessed he wouldn't buy me dat day; and den he went away.

"Vina said dis mornin' she 'lowed to go up to yo' house to do some washin' for de missus; an' yer can ax her, sah, an' she'll tell yer dat all I'se been a-sayin' is de libbin' truf."

The judge hardly needed any confirmation—Abram's story was too straightforward and naïf to have been coined—but, telling him to call at his house toward evening, and that he would have the necessary papers there, and make them out if satisfied as to the eligibility of the parties for such a contract, he dismissed the aspirant for marital honors. As the judge entered the shaded coolness of his library after a distracting day spent in the discussion of a complicated will-case, the refreshing atmosphere of refinement and quiet and home exercised so powerful an influence over his tired nerves that he straightway forgot all professional and other cares, and stretching himself in his favorite lazy-chair, was soon fast asleep.

As he drifted back to a semi-conscious state he became aware of voices conversing on the back veranda, which shaded one of the library windows. The voices were those of his wife and the girl Vina, and the words which he first clearly comprehended were—

"I tell yer what, Miss' Fairdealer, dar ain't no niggerism about ole Fader Abram."

As Father Abram approached the nearest to a pure-blooded Congo African of any negro that he knew, the judge rubbed his forehead in the gentle stimulating way which he always employed when he wished to convince himself that he had heard aright and to assure some sophomorical young lawyer that he had not been asleep at all, but had caught every word of his long-winded statement of the case. The judge's ideas came back to him with their usual easy flow, and before the next sentence was enunciated he had made a mental summing-up of the case and given judgment for the plaintiff.

"I mean," continued Vina, "dat Fader Abe's got de whitest soul ebber yer see: he couldn't do a mean ting, no matter how much money de debbil 'greed to pay him for't. Fus' time I ebber see him war down in Lousianny. My ole marster had sole me away from my husband an' from John Brown: she war a little ting den, only six mo'ths, an' oughtn't to have been weaned, but I don't s'pose he cared whether she libbed or died, and de slabe-driber wouldn't take her—"

"How did you," interrupted Mrs. Judge Fairdealer with the curiosity of a true woman, "ever give your little girl such an unsuitable name as John Brown?"

("Why couldn't the woman let her go on with her story?" thought the judge. What did he care how that impish little creature, whom he had always regarded as old Abram's granddaughter, and who glared at him with such savage malignity from her piercing black eye (no figure of speech, for she had but one) when with his foot and cane he gently rolled her off the door-mat, where he found her coiled up asleep on his entrance to the house,—what did he care how that mixture of chimpanzee and evil sprite, to whom were to be attributed nine-tenths of the mischief done in the neighborhood, came by her unmaidenly cognomen?)

"John Brown didn' hab no name den: she war jus' my baby, dat war all. I use to t'ink I'd call her for her fader, an' his name war George—mos' consniptious rascal ebber yer see, de han'somest man in de whole township (John Brown takes arter him a sight), but so powerful ugly" (ugly being used here in reference to disposition) "dat de only way de oberseer could make him mind was to hab a parcel ob de boys hold him down while he kicked him in de mouf. Wall, short time befo' John Brown was born he kicked one of his eyes out dat ar way, and I nussed him an' tended him till he got well; an' when John Brown come, 'clar' to goodness ef she didn' have jus' only one eye too! Wall, I lubbed dat ar George wid all my soul, Miss' Fairdealer. Mean an' sneakin' a nigger as ebber libbed, but I didn' know it den; an', anyway, he war John Brown's fader, an' powerful han'some; an' dat do count for sumfin'. When dey sole me away from him I jus' t'ought I should die. Dey let me take my baby wid me down to de partin'-plank—dat's what dey called de gangway dey t'row out from de steamboat—but dar de gals had to bid good-bye to all dar fren's. Such a hollerin' and yellin' an' takin'-on you nebber heerd, Miss' Fairdealer. It was a little lonesome, landin' in de midst ob a right smart piece ob timber, like a many another along de Big Muddy, whar de boats stop to wood up—fearsome-enough place any day, but at night, wid dem tar-barrels a-flarin' an' dem women a-screechin'—some on 'em gone clean crazy, and all on 'em actin' zif dey had—it war more like dat place dan any 'scription I ebber heerd any minister gib ob it. I 'members one face, dat ob a man dat leaned ober de railin' and looked at us bein' dribben on board, dat looked so wild and mad-like. I allus t'ink de Lord will look dat way when on de day ob judgment he says, ''Part from me, all ye onb'lievin', backslidin' workers ob pernickety: don't want to see no more ob yer.' He spoke to me once on our way down de ribber. 'Hab patience, chile,' said he: 'de Lord ain't clean forgot yer. He'll bring yer an' yo' baby togedder ag'in ef yer kin only wait His own good time. I'm on de Lord's business: He's sent me down dis yeah ribber, same as he sent Moses into Egyp', to 'quire into dis matter an' to preach deliberance to de captive. Yer will all be free some day, but yer mus' hab patience, for de time is not yet.' I heern some one say dat dat war John Brown, and somehow de name heartened me up a little, do' I'd nebber heern it befo'."

Vina next told the incident of her so-called marriage at the slave-mart with old Abram.

"'Pears like," said Vina, "I could hab killed dat man when dey tole me he was my husband; but when he tole me 'twan't no sech ting, an' axed me if I hadn't ebber heern 'bout Fader Abram at camp-meetin', an' dat he wan't no fader till de Lord sent His angel and called him to be one—same as He called him to be a fader to me—den I listened to him, an' 'gan to b'lieve de Lord reely had sent him. Den he tole me how Abram went down into Egyp' wid his cousin Sarer, an' ole Pharaoh wanted to marry her, an' Abram he purtended dat Sarer was his wife, so Pharaoh shouldn't get her—leastways, it was sumfin' like dat—an' how de Lord bressed 'em, an' how when dey cl'ar'd out ob Egyp' dey stole 'bout ebberyting Pharaoh had; an' dat John Brown had done tole him to be anudder Fader Abram; an' I promised him I'd be anudder Sarer to him, an' we'd pull de wool ober de white folks's eyes, an' serbe de Lord till it done pleased Him to set us free."

Vina and Father Abram were bought by a planter who, with so many others in 1855, swarmed to the irrepressible conflict which was to decide whether Kansas was to be a free or slave State. By the repeal of the Missouri Compromise this question had been left for settlement to the people of the Territory. Emigration flowed in rapidly, both from the South and the North, and the terrible days of Border Ruffianism followed. Vina's master settled upon a farm in Southern Kansas, on the banks of a little stream called then by the picturesque name of the Marais des Cygnes, which has since been changed to one of a more prosaic character. Here they heard frequently of old John Brown of Ossawattomie, and began to have a clearer understanding of the man and his mission. Vina spoke of her life on the Marais des Cygnes as not a hard one, but her heart ached for her baby and for George, and the longing to see them again grew with every day and night. She felt sure that John Brown could help her, and one night Father Abram said to her, "I'se gwine to run away, honey—gwine to keep agwine till I find John Brown: den, when I'se foun' him, I'll keep agwine and agwine and agwine till I finds yo' George: den I'll come back arter yer. Reckon I'll be here in about a munf: yer kin look for me ebbery night arter dat down by de big cottonwood tree on de ribber." And when the month expired Father Abram came back, but he did not come alone: John Brown and he had found George. He only waited to see their rapturous meeting, and then bade good-bye to his "darter Vina," and heroically trudged away. Vina and George fled away to John Brown's camp near Ossawattomie. Her first question was for her baby. It had been cared for by one of the negro-women, and was now three years old. The family had removed to Platte City, Missouri, nine miles from the Kansas frontier, but the child was still with them when George left.

"An' yer done luff dat bressed baby? Didn' car' what 'come ob her, so yo' own mizzable self was safe!" exclaimed Vina in much disgust. George explained that this was the only way—that it would have been utterly impossible for him to have got away with the child—and promised that if ever a raid was made in that direction, he would join it and bring her away, at no matter what risk. In 1857 affairs began to be more settled in Kansas. John Brown, having ended his work here, had gone East: Vina and George were living in Leavenworth. Little by little, she had found out that it would have been better for her if they had never met. George was satisfied: freedom for him meant being supported by Vina, getting drunk whenever he pleased, and ill-treating her by way of showing his gratitude. Vina could have borne all this willingly enough, but at last a perfectly safe opportunity for the rescue of her baby occurred, and George refused to attempt it. They were well enough off as they were: he didn't see "what she wanted ob dat chile to support—he was sho' he wouldn't do it;" and as for adventuring his precious self among the Philistines again, he utterly declined the proposition. Then Vina's anger rose, and with her lifted mop she drove her liege lord from her cabin-door, which he ever after found barred against him. George soon consoled himself with another wife, and about a year later departed for parts unknown. The years that followed were hard and lonely ones for Vina, but she never wept for George: to use her own expression, "He wan't no cry-tear-un (criterion), he wan't, and she wasn't going to cry no tears for him."

Father Abram had found his way to Leavenworth too, but it was not till 1860 that Providence again threw them together. He stood erect now with a sense of freedom and manhood: a comparatively easy life had untied the knots that rheumatism had twisted in his muscles, and the weight of fully twenty years seemed to have been lifted from his shoulders. He heard her story. "'Pears like de Lord has got more work for Fader Abram," he said simply; and shortly after he found a way to do the Lord's work. When Vina reached this point in her story the judge became aware that his wife and himself were not the only listeners. Father Abram, true to his appointment, had come around to see if the judge's scruples had been overcome, and to ask for the marriage license.

"Fader Abram," said Vina, "tell Miss' Fairdealer how yer done foun' John Brown."

"Couldn't help findin' her," replied the old man. "Dar she was, right 'fo' my eyes. I reckon yer'd a foun' her ef de Lord had sot her down squar' in front ob yer, as he did ob me.—Ye see, madam, dat ar spring I was workin' for de Risin' Sun libbery-stable: Colonel Trott an' Cap'n Gallup run it den. De colonel was what yer call a fas' man, one ob yo' racin', bettin' characters, but right smart ob a gentleman same time; while de cap'n b'longed to de Church, and war de meanes' man out of Missouri. 'Bout dat time de firm owned Challenger, de fas'est Kansas horse goin', an' dey made a heap ob money a-racin' him at all de fairs. De colonel allus divided de winnin's wid de cap'n, but when he lost on a race de cap'n made him stan' it out ob his private puss, 'cause he said bettin' was ag'in his principles, anyhow. Dis yeah spring dar was goin' to be a famous big race at Platte City, an' de colonel he 'lowed he'd take Challenger ober. Now, de colonel nebber rode a hoss on de track—'twan't t'ought to be de correct ting for a gentleman to do—and he weighed a heap too much for anyting short ob a elephant to race. I war de leanest man in de stables, an' as de colonel war more dan usual pertik'lar 'bout Challenger carrying light weight dis time, he took me 'long wid him. When we got dar he gabe me a quarter an' tole me to loaf roun' until de races was called. Dis war jus' what I wanted, fur I knowed dat de Skylarks who used to own Vina libbed at Platte City, an' I t'ought likely some ob dem mought be at de races. Dar was a right smart sprinklin' ob niggers on de groun's, mos' ob dem hangin' roun' de 'freshment-stan's, an' I walked roun' 'mongst 'em kinder careless, zif I wasn't t'inkin' ob nuffin' pertik'lar, when I see standin' right in front ob me a little one-eyed gal dat 'minded me mightily ob Vina's George. 'Whose little gal be yer?' says I.—'She's one ob Judge Skylark's niggers,' says a woman standin' by. 'Don't see none ob de udders here: shouldn't wonder if she'd runn'd away to see de racin'.' Wall, I waited till nobody wan't lookin', an' den I axed her what her name was.—'Dey calls me Vina's little gal,' says she.—'Who's Vina?' says I.—'Dar ain't no Vina,' says she.—Who's yo' fader an' mudder?' says I.—'George was my fader,' says she, 'but de abolitioners done carried him off an' chawed him up. I'se awful skeered ob de abolitioners, I is. I ain't got no fader nor mudder: de buzzards done hatched me.' Wall, I was dat sho' it was Vina's chile dat I didn' wait no longer, but jus' toted her roun' to de ice-cream stan' an' filled her chock full of ice-cream. Den I says, 'How would yer like a ride on one ob dem fancy hosses?' an' showed her whar to hide outside de groun's until de races was ober, when I'd gib her one. I knew de colonel 'lowed to send me home wid Challenger dat night, and, do' it was mighty resky, I 'lowed to take dat chile wid me. Dat war de fus' race dat Challenger lost dat season, but I didn' put him t'roo' his best paces, for I t'ought likely dar might be need ob tall runnin' dat night, an' I didn' want him to play out den. De colonel war mightily outed, fur de stakes was heavy, an' I was sorry 'nuff to see him lose. He tole me I'd got to ride libelier dan dat ef I meant to git to de Leavenworth ferry 'fo' de boat made its last trip for de day; and I knowed dat as well as he did.

"I foun' little John Brown waitin' fur me jus' whar I tole her to hide: she was too skeered to go home, fur she knowed dey would gib her a lickin' fur runnin' away. I took her up befo' me on de hoss, an' we started fur home, 'Pears like de road from Platte City to de Leavenworth ferry's jus' 'bout de lonesomes' in dis yeah worl', an' I hadn't trabelled more'n five mile 'fore I knew I was follered. I could hear de clappetty, clappetty ob de hosses a good piece behin' me, an' one place whar de road stretched middlin' straight for nigh a half mile along de bluffs I see 'em, as many as five men, a-ridin' like mad an' a-shakin' carbines in de arr. Den I knowed dat dey was eder after John Brown or Challenger; an', hoss-thieves or kidnappers, I knew it would far' jus' about de same wid me. 'Go for true,' says I to Challenger; an' den I wraps John Brown in de hoss-blanket so dey couldn't rightly tell what it was I was a-carryin'. We'd a won de stakes easy ef I'd made Challenger lif' up his heels on de track de way he did on dat ar road. De sun went down an' de moon riz, an' I t'ink likely we trod on as many as twenty squirrels: dey didn' hab time to cl'ar de road after dey heard us a-comin'. I rode into Slab Town jus' about ten minutes ahead of my follerers, an' den I foun' dat de wus' dat could happen had happened. De Ella had made her las' trip, an' was tied up to de Kansas sho'. Dar wan't no time fur considerin' de matter. I see a flatboat hauled up on de bank, an' I shubbed her off, led Challenger onto her, an' poled her off into de ribber. Challenger didn' want to go aboard, nohow—he knowed it wan't safe—but I struck him de fus' blow I ebber gin a hoss of his blood, an' we were pretty well out in de current when de Missourians come ridin' down to de sho'. Dey was dat mad when dey see us dat dey fired all dar shot-guns at us, an' Challenger was dat s'prised dat he jumped right into de arr, an' come down on his feet ag'in like a jack-rabbit. Dat was a leetle too much for de ole raft, an' she done went to pieces like a bundle of straw. John Brown was a-holdin' on to Challenger's neck, an' she jus' held on, legs an' han's, wid her fingers clenched into de mane, so dat I had to cut some ob it off arterward to git 'em away. We'se nebber been able to prise 'em clean open sence: dey look more like birds' claws dan han's, anyway, do' 'tain't likely yer ebber took notice on't. I was a-holdin' on to Challenger's tail, an' dar we all t'ree was in de middle ob de ribber. Wall, fus' de current carried us down a good piece, an' I t'ought it was all ober for dis nigger sho'; den de saddle-girth bust, an' dat seemed to gib Challenger some 'couragement, fur he drawed a long breff an' struck out fur de Kansas sho'. Wall, it war an awful swim, an' no mistake, but bimeby we all landed, 'bout halfway down to Quindaro, blowin' and snortin' like so many steamboats. I didn' try to ride Challenger up to Leavenworth, but jis' walked by his side, a-huggin' an' a-kissin' him as I nebber kissed no women-trash in all my young days, an' John Brown a-lyin' 'crost his back as limp as a empty gunny-bag. I took her roun' to Vina's 'fore I went to de libbery-stable, an' jes' 'fore I come to de doah a t'ought come to me dat made me dat sick to de stomach I could hardly stan'. S'posin', after all, she wan't Vina's chile! But she was—leastways, Vina was sure ob it—an' ob all de goin's-on dat gal went into yer'd a t'ought 'twas sumfin' mighty consequentious, stead ob nuffin' but a little nigger young 'un. 'Yer jus' take back dat hoss, Fader Abram,' says she, 'an' den come back to yo' darter Vina; an' don't yer dar lib anywhar else after dis.'

"I tole Cap'n Gallup I'd been chased by hoss-thieves, an' had swum de ribber wid Challenger, but I didn' say nuffin' 'bout John Brown, for dat war de name Vina gabe de chile dat very day. I went dar, as she tole me, an' she got up de biggest dinnah, wid more chicken-fixin's an' pie an' cake dan ebber I see; but dat arternoon I was taken down ag'in wid de rheumatiz—couldn't do no work for more'n six munfs, an' don't reckon I'll be much use any more, nohow. Vina's tuk car' ob me more'n two year now. She's had a sight ob beaux, but she's allus tole 'em she couldn't leab her ole fader. Las' one was dat spruce yaller schoolmarster from Oberlin. Says I, 'Vina, why don't yer git married? 'Pears like yer'd feel less onsettled an' lonesome ef yer had an ole man.' Says she, 'I'se got one ole man: dat's 'nuff.' Says I, 'But don't yer nebber t'ink yer'd like to git married, Vina?' An' says she, 'Yes, Fader Abram, I do. How does you feel 'bout it?' and wid dat she—Beg yer pardon, sah, I didn' know you war dar, sah, but if yer've brought dem ar papers we was speakin' 'bout dis mornin', sah, I t'ink Vina 'll let dis day's washin' go toward payin' for 'em, sah, an' I'll come down to de office an' tote up yer winter's coal for de balance ob de damages."

Lizzie W. Champney.

TO SLEEP

THE PARIS CAFÉS.

they talk only of literature, their nurse, and speak disparagingly—it is a peculiarity of the place—of all the fellow-beings she has suckled. It is the typical French café, in the central salon of which, in majestic repose, sits the dame de comptoir, who has a little gray moustache—the French like a little hair upon the upper lip of ladies—whilst overhead, forming a part of the extraordinary decoration, is a Madonna, goddess, angel—I can't say what—copied from one of the old masters in the palace of the Luxembourg. Gold-dust blown across a blue oval, with white-and-rose angels in the midst, shuts off the upward gaze in one of the other salons, whilst all around medallions large and small of heads and figures, male, female and infantile, with a variety of vine-wreathed Bacchuses and bow-drawing Cupids, which are considered especially fit to decorate cafés, cluster along the mouldings, encumber the panels or fill up the niches. Huge mirrors reflect the pea-green walls, the crystal chandeliers, the gilding, glass and divans; cats perambulate the apartments; people come and go—black, elegant fellows, with broad-rimmed hats, pretty canes, good clothes, good fits; absinthe-drinkers, with heavy jaws and dreamy, evil eyes. Billiard-balls are clicking in the back room; cards and dominoes are being played; cold-blooded, demoralized people lean forward, gossip and gesticulate—men who would man a barricade on occasion or put a sword-blade through a stomach.

With a very few exceptions, all the leading cafés of Paris have become restaurants. You breakfast, dine and sup there; and in place of coffee being the sole or leading article of consumption, an infinite variety of drinks is now at the disposal of the thirsty wayfarer. Mocha, that product of the East the preparation of which, like the making of bread, is the stumbling-block of housekeepers in both hemispheres, is served in three ways—as a capucin, a mazagran or a demi-tasse. A capucin (the name is but little used) is our cup of coffee—coffee with milk in it; a mazagran is coffee in a glass, accompanying which a decanter of water is brought. The name is derived from a village in Africa where the French had a brilliant feat of arms, and where the soldiers, in the absence of milk or brandy, had to water their coffee or drink it au naturel. The coffee itself is precisely the same as that furnished for the demi-tasse, which is served in a small china cup, accompanying which is a little decanter of cognac, with a fairy glass for measuring it; for the French, in place of cream, take brandy with coffee and rum with tea—to us an incomprehensible mixture. After breakfast and dinner the Frenchman desires coffee, and if he does not get it at home he goes to the café for it. To do without it, or to do without claret at meals, would be a dreadful alternative to which he would not long submit without, it might be, losing his reason and taking his life. Strong, black and fragrant, he would die without that beverage for which—and for Racine, by the way—Madame de Sévigné prophesied an ephemeral popularity. Taken immediately after meals, it removes the fumes of the claret and champagne he has drunk, and leaves him feeling as clear-headed as Plato and grateful as a pensioner of the king.

Just before meal-time the cafés are crowded with people indulging in one of the renowned trio of appetizers, one of the great triumvirate of anteprandial potations—bittère, vermouth and absinthe. Bittère is a clear grateful drink of Hollandic derivation, considered more wholesome than either of its fellows; vermouth is a wormwood wine the drinker does not like at first (please draw the inference that he becomes immensely fond of it at last); whilst absinthe—what shall we say of it? It is execrable stuff—the milk of sirens mingled with sea-water. Of a dirty-green color, pungent, all-powerful, it heats up the stomach, expending itself at the extremities in half-developed throbs, perpetual wavelets of rankling sting that break upon the shores of flesh. It mounts to the hair-roots, fills the entrails with a furnace-glow, goes everywhere. It is the worst of French drinks, representing and standing for what is worst in French character, worst in France. It cannot be tossed off at a throw: it must be toyed with, sipped. Stimulating, enervating, poisonous, horrible—all the more so perhaps because it is not intoxicating exactly—God has put a barrier against its use by making it distasteful; but, strange to say, all those things men run after: rum, tobacco, opium, absinthe, are always distasteful at first, if not for a long time afterward.

But the French do not drink rum, gin, whiskey or water to any great extent. With the exception of absinthe and considerable brandy, their drinking occupies a middle ground. They revel in a multitude of subtile, delightful mixtures—liqueurs, crêmes and sirops. Very dear to the heart of refined sensualists is the famous monks' liquor called chartreuse, which deservedly ranks at the head of the long list of liqueurs—anisette, curaçao, maraschino, rosolio, alkermès, ratafia, genièvre, etc. It is made by the monks of the Grande Chartreuse, near Grenoble, of certain aromatic herbs and brandy, the former gathered by them in their summer wanderings amongst the Jura Mountains. It is a sticky, sweet compound of a green or yellow color, and of such a fiery nature that it must be sipped, not drunk. Many a hater of the priesthood, holding up one of the little thimbleful glasses in which it is served, has exclaimed, "Blessed be monks for making thee! Compound of devil, dew and honey! in thee have they sought to indemnify themselves for lack of wife, and partially have they succeeded."

All these liqueurs, indeed, are rather ladies' drinks. So too are the crêmes—mocha, tea, noyau, cumin, mint, ether, etc.; also the sirops, including orgeat, very refreshing in the summer-time. Masculine preferences are for beer, immense quantities of which are drunk, especially in the evening, or for fine champagne, the name bestowed upon superior brandy. However, ladies and gentlemen unite in disposing of half-frozen punch (sorbets) or eating ices—say a tutti frutti at the Café Napolitain—ravishing mixtures of cold and passion, the fruits of the tropics imbedded in a slice of the North Pole.

French drinks are, like French dishes, artistic preparations, and the French cafés artistic, pretty places, indispensable to the scenic completeness of things in France, if not to the comfort and well-being of the people. A landscape without water, a bride without a veil, a house without windows, would be something like France (Paris especially) without cafés. To take away its cafés would be to pluck out its eyes, to leave it dull and dead—food without appetite, marriage without love or the honeymoon. Its industries may give it sinew, muscle, bone and nerve; the Institute may give it brains; but the cafés—they are its life-blood and its pulse.

The French cultivate even a love of home in going to the café. For what is a love of home? It is certainly not a mere local attachment, such as the cat has for the particular hearth-rug where she dozes by day or the particular tiles and water-spouts where she howls by night. It is rather the love of family and friendly union, in which the French take especial delight, gathering together in little knots by the open window, in the garden, on the sidewalk, or, it may be, in the café, talking in the leaping, emancipated, touch-and-go style, in the merry, vaulting style in which they excel, on all the lighter topics.

But the desire to economize keeps away a great many people, for the French are very economical. In the great army of the bourgeois, as well as in the great army of the blouses—many of whom could be bourgeois if they chose—whole families, husbands, fathers, brothers, sons, abstain from going to the café, either alone or accompanied, from Christmas to New Year's and New Year's to Christmas. Neither would you find MacMahon, Thiers or Victor Hugo at the café. The recognized great, the nobility and high officials, contrary to what perhaps is commonly supposed, are rarely to be seen there. They meet in some more private way.

But the café is nevertheless a very charming place. It is a place where it is permitted to you to surrender yourself to the most delicious reflections. You are in the presence of humming-birds, not ostriches or owls. The people are smoking cigarettes, or cigars at worst, not meerschaums. The establishment itself is a dazzle of decoration, a little corner of the Louvre. There is no shouting or swearing, but a pleasing hum. The calls of messieurs and the replies of garçons resolve themselves into a confused lulling sound. If you are well, and your conscience does not trouble you—and even if it does—you can select a quiet corner and dream away the livelong day. The air is nerve-slackening. You feel perfectly at your ease. You can think of nothing to apprehend—no incursion of your lady friends designing to reason with the proprietor and perhaps hold a prayer-meeting on the sidewalk; no incursion of the police, no row. Everybody is placable and quiet—preserves indeed a sort of deferential attitude toward his neighbor—and not only when he comes in, but again when he goes out, salutes the dame de comptoir—the lady superintendent, that is (not unfrequently the wife of the proprietor)—who sits enthroned in a little boxlike place superintending the delivery of drinks and making change. This matter of saluting, as the reader knows, is a deference which every Frenchman considers due to the great man or woman who, at the particular time of his entrance or exit, may chance to be in a particular apartment; and in the case of cafés, if the dame de comptoir were not in her place, he would salute the guests; and if there were but one guest, that one would be expected to return the salute, it being meant for him alone.

Sanctified in this way by the presence of a lady, the café does not seem such a very bad place; and it isn't. Even the estaminets and brasseries, which are but second-rate cafés, and the ordinary wine-shops, still lower in the scale, in which the coachman and commissionnaire regale themselves, taking a canon across the counter in the morning and playing a game of cards in the back shop at night, are by no means the hideous gulping-down places in which our land abounds. Drinking in public places in France is not so completely separated from all respectability and refinement as it is with us. It involves none of that horrid nomenclature, "slings," "punches," "cocktails," "smashes," which carry with them all the terror and awfulness of oaths. The French have pretty names for drinks, as well as a rather pretty, poetic way of alluding to a man's inebriation. "He is a little gray;" "He has a little corner in his head;" "He is in a condition for beating the wall;" "He is heading pins," etc., etc., are favorite expressions. Of course, the delicacy or waggishness with which we allude to an evil is no excuse for it, but the French have little absolute drunkenness to excuse. They are emphatically a sober people (being a good deal like intoxicated Yankees or Dutchmen, anyway), and even in their cups neither rude nor quarrelsome. Of the few French people I ever saw drunk (except peasants), all were begging pardon of the owners of imaginary toes, and making various other polite concessions to the people whom they believed to be around them. And yet they drink prodigiously. The customary allowance of every man who can afford it is a pint of claret at meals, themselves prefaced generally speaking by an appetizer, and supplemented almost invariably by a cup of coffee and cognac. He would be quite likely also in the course of the day to assist in the destruction of a bottle of champagne (almost certain to do so if a bon vivant), and during the afternoon and evening to drink several glasses of beer, perhaps taking a "night-cap" of hot wine before going to bed. All this would not necessarily make him drunk, but continued day by day it keeps him under the influence of a continual stimulus, which in time becomes indispensable and contributes to form the Hotspur character of which we hear so much. Strange it should not make drunkards outright, but it does not seem to produce that effect; and Paris, with all its luxuries in drink, is not a drunken city. You see more drunken people in a week in New York than in a year in Paris, and more people who, if not drunk, are unmistakable topers. They drink hard in Brittany (it is no unusual thing there to see a woman drunk), and so too in the manufacturing places of Normandy and other parts of France, especially those that produce no wine; and Champney, who doubtless studied from life, painted at Ecouen the picture of an old peasant-woman hauling her husband home in a hand-cart dead drunk; but, for all that, the French are emphatically a sober people, either constitutionally or from climatic or other reasons: I do not pretend to say which.

On the whole, therefore, the picture of the French cafés is a pleasant one, and it is a pity the bar-rooms of America and the gin-shops of England were not more like them. They are a compromise, it is true, but that is better than the prohibitionist's vain fight.

Tortoni's, the last survivor of whose founders died only the other day, has its historical reminiscences. Therein is to be found the salon, known as the "blue salon," once hallowed by the occupancy of M. de Talleyrand. The window is still pointed out at which the eminent diplomatist used to sit surveying the crowds that thronged the Boulevards, with his usual fine and cynical smile, like a Mephistopheles of the nineteenth century. A little later, and one has a vision of a young man of short stature, elegantly dressed, who every day or two rides up to door or window, springs from his horse, calls for a particular kind of ice, which he imbibes with a sort of nervous haste, and then disappears. This little dandy, always in a hurry, alert, nervous and sharp-eyed, is a future ruler of the nation: it is M. Thiers. Around Tortoni's there hovers too the souvenir of that other gracious and graceful dandy, king of fashion in his day, the count D'Orsay. It was at a breakfast at Tortoni's that the preliminaries were arranged for the famous duel wherein D'Orsay appeared as the champion of the Virgin Mary. Some irreverent jester having made some slighting remark respecting the Virgin, D'Orsay took the matter up and called the speaker to account. "For," said the count, "the Virgin is a woman, and as such ought not to be slandered with impunity."

The cafés chantants of Paris form a division by themselves. The most noted of these is the Eldorado, which has given more than one prominent performer to the Parisian stage—Theresa, who, once a dishwasher in a hotel, left her soap-suds and mop to become a Parisian celebrity, the instructress of a princess, and now a really talented comic actress and bouffe singer; Judic and Theo, the rival beauties of the Opera Bouffe; and lively little Boumaine, now one of the stars of the Variétés. The career of Madame Theo has been a strange one. She was originally a failure at the Eldorado, and used to cry her eyes out behind the scenes at her own ill-success. Finally, Offenbach discovered her and wrote for her his Jolie Parfumeuse. The little beauty cut off her hair, put on a blonde wig, and bloomed out a full-blown genius. Without voice, without talent, by dint of a lovely figure, a face of babyish prettiness and an innocent way of uttering speeches of atrocious naughtiness, she has become one of the theatrical successes of the hour, has brought back a harvest of diamonds from her recent Russian trip, and will probably retire into private life with a fortune before she is thirty.

Pass to the Café Anglais, that hypocrite of the Boulevards, whitewashed, decent, outwardly respectable, yet whose windows are ablaze all night long in the Carnival season, and whose latest legend is the tradition of "Big 16." "Big 16" is a private cabinet in the entresol, numbered after the fashion that has given it its title, and famed as being the scene of the orgies of the young duke de Grammont-Caderousse, that maddest of the mad viveurs of the Second Empire, and his friend the prince of Orange. The latter still maintains his reputation in Paris as the most dissipated of European princes. Twice has he essayed to win the hand of an English princess, or rather his high-minded and virtuous mother made the effort in his behalf, but neither his prospective heirship to the crown of Holland nor his Protestantism has availed to gain for him a royal English bride. He is known among the society that he most affects by the sobriquet of Citron (Lemon), bestowed upon him by the duke de Grammont-Caderousse at one of the little suppers of the day. The duke continued to call the prince Monseigneur, to which His Royal Highness objected, declaring that he wished all formality to be laid aside respecting his birth and title.

"Is that so?" cried the duke gayly. "Then, Citron, pass me the cheese."

And the nickname has survived the duke who gave it and the government under which it was given. Sometimes, after one of the masked balls, a pink domino at the Café Americain will call for champagne, with the announcement, "M. Citron pays," without for a moment imagining that she is speaking of the heir to a throne.

To take a final survey, let us enter the Café de la Paix, the most imperial, cosmopolitan and stylish of cafés. That well-preserved man sitting by himself is playing solitaire—a group of one. That white-haired old gentleman sitting in the alcove yonder is drinking sweetened water—surely not a beverage calculated to pollute the palate. Those round-headed men, whose bald pates are fringed with gray, are now settling up their score. It is only a franc or two, but each one pays his share, "treating" not being common. You are often asked to drink, and left to pay for what you drink—an arrangement greatly to be preferred, provided it be understood. That stylish-looking man reading the Figaro is drinking a green chartreuse, and every time he stoops to sip from the little goblet that stands before him, his huge moustache, folding over it, looks like two great black wings. That pale-faced man is probably a professor. He has just sweetened his coffee, and is now pocketing the lumps of sugar remaining over in the little dish (considered a perfectly proper thing to do); and that stripling from the province, he is taking account of everything—the velvet, marble, silver, glass, the flowers, vases, pictured panels, the waiters in their white aprons, the water-bottles in which the ice is frozen by artificial process, the crinkle-crankle, gilding, glare, the plants in the doorway and the queen behind her box.

Looking out upon the sidewalk, all the world is passing by—Guadeloupe negroes with white servants at their heels; artillerymen with dangling sabres; cocottes, Englishmen, zouaves; washerwomen and their daughters carrying skirts suspended from the tops of poles; old men with goggles and young men with canes and great show of cuffs; multitudes of distinguished-looking people, Français à l'outrance; people with beaked noses and olive complexions; clerks and shop-girls, gamins and bonnes; policemen of inferior stature, who though armed with swords, look incapable of dealing with desperate men; laborers in blouses and old ladies in caps.

Sitting once in front of the Café de la Paix at five o'clock in the afternoon, and looking through a line of promenaders such as that, I counted two hundred 'busses, private carriages and hacks, most (or many at least) of whose occupants were presumably bent on pleasure, to sixteen carts and other vehicles devoted exclusively to business—eight of which, by the way, were hand-carts. Oh the gay and happy town! I thought. Where the turn-outs bear such a proportion to the drays, no wonder cafés thrive, exquisite drinks are served, and a corky people, who have a happy faculty, as illustrated by the late war, of coming up the quicker the farther they are pressed down, find the thing enjoyable.

A café-front indeed is better than an omnibus-top for studying Paris, and the café itself is a club for everybody. People go to it to gossip and regale themselves, play games, talk politics, read the newspapers, write letters, transact business it may be, sit, think, dream, and rest themselves. To the Anglo-Saxon the life that is led in it seems a good deal like walking about in a botanical garden during the day and sleeping in an observatory at night—a decidedly artificial existence; but so long as we must drink or be amused at all, we shall do well to study the ways of the French. They alone know how to eat and drink properly and amuse themselves in a rational way.

Gilman C. Fisher.

FOG.