THE CAFÉ SWELL.
And here sits the Parisian, hour after hour, watching this human kaleidoscope, and thanking heaven that he is a Frenchman, and above all a Parisian.
THE RELIGIOUS AFRICAN.
The electric lights shine through the foliage of the trees, making figures of rare beauty upon the faultless sidewalks; there is the constant procession of vehicles more beautiful under this light than at noonday; opposite him are the brilliantly lighted shops with their wealth of beauty in the windows, and all around him is bustle, stir, and life. There is nothing dull or stagnant on the streets of Paris at night. The Parisian will not have it that way. The glitter may be very thin, but he will have the glitter. He lives upon it.
Paris by day is beautiful—Paris by night is superb.
The faro bankeress is getting ready to go home. She has well nigh done Europe, which is to say, she has explored every shop in Paris and London. She may go through Switzerland and Germany with us, but we hope not. We are praying that she will go home from Paris, and she can’t start any too quick. That she is making preparations for a start, she confesses. She is afraid of sea voyages; she has a mortal dread of water; she remarks that she always lives very correctly a week or so before she sails. She says her prayers regularly, attends church every service, and does nothing wrong that she knows of. She will not go to an Opera on Sunday; she declined to go to the Mabille at all; nor will she even play cards any day. This for ten days before sailing.
“And after you land safely in New York?”
“O, I ain’t on the water then, and it don’t differ so much.”
Which is very like a negro I once knew in Bucyrus, Ohio. He was very religious, of the African kind of religion, and was the loudest and most muscular man at a prayer meeting for many a mile around. A gentleman who had a piece of work to do that was not entirely legal offered Sam two dollars to do it for him.
“Massa Perkins, dis ting doesn’t adzackly squar wid my perfeshn, an’ it’s decidedly wicked. It’s suthin’ a perfessin’ Christian shouldn’t do, nohow. But two dollahs is a mi’ty heap ob money foh de ole man, and ain’t picked up ebery day. I’ll chance it. Bress de Lawd! It’s a sin, but I can ’pent. Bress de Lawd, I can ’pent.