NEAR the end of a recent December Bishop received a note signed "A. Herbert Thomp-kins," written at the HÔtel de l'AthÉnÉe, saying that the writer was in Paris for four days with his wife before proceeding to Vienna to join some friends. It closed by asking, "Could you call at the hotel this evening, say at seven?"

This note created great excitement at our studio early one morning, the facteur having climbed six flights of stairs (it being near to New Year) to deliver it; for Mr. Thompkins was one of Bishop's warmest friends in America. His unexpected arrival in Paris at this unseasonable time of the year was indeed a surprise, but a most agreeable one. So Bishop spent the whole of the afternoon in creasing his best trousers, ransacking our trunks for a clean collar to wear with my blue-fronted shirt, polishing his top-hat, and getting his Velasquez whiskers trimmed and perfumed at the coiffeur's. It was not every day that friends of Mr. Thompkins's type made their appearance in Paris.

Bishop, after hours spent in absorbing mental work, at last disclosed his plan to me. Of course he would not permit me to keep out of the party, and besides, he needed my advice.

Here was Mr. Thompkins in Paris, and unless he were wisely guided he would leave without seeing the city,—except those parts and phases of it that tourists cannot keep from stumbling over. It would be both a duty and a pleasure to introduce him to certain things of which he might otherwise die in ignorance, to the eternal undevelopment of his soul. But here was the rub: Would Mr. Thompkins care to be so radically different here for one night—just one night—from what he was at home? I could not see how any harm could come to Mr. Thompkins or any one else with sense, nor how Bishop could possibly entertain him in anyway that would be disagreeable to a man of brains. But Bishop was evidently keeping something back. For that matter, he never did explain it, and I have not bothered about inferences. What Mr. Thompkins was at home I do not know. True, he was very much confused and embarrassed a number of times during the evening, but one thing I know,—he enjoyed himself immensely. And that makes me say that no matter what he was at home, he was a gentleman and philosopher while exploring an outlandish phase of Parisian Bohemian life that night under our guidance. He had a prim, precise way of talking, and was delightfully innocent and unworldly. My! it would have been a sin for him to miss what he saw that night. So I told Bishop very emphatically that no matter what Mr. Thompkins was at home, nobody who knew him was likely to see him in Paris at that time of the year, and that it was Bishop's duty as a friend to initiate him. Bishop was very happy over my advice; but when he insisted that we should take a cab for the evening's outing, I sternly reminded him of the bruises that our funds would receive on New Year's, and thus curbed his extravagance. He surrendered with a pang, for after all his preparation he felt like a duke, and for that night, while entertaining his friend, he wanted to be a duke, not a grubbing student.

We met Mr. Thompkins at the hotel, and I found him a delightful man, with a pleasant sparkle of the eye and a certain stiffness of bearing. It was his intention to have us dine with him, but Bishop gently took him in hand, and gradually gave him to understand that on this night in a lifetime he was in the hands of his friends, to do as they said, and to ask no questions. Mr. Thompkins looked a little puzzled, a little apprehensive, and withal not unwilling to be sacrificed.

The first thing we did was to introduce Mr. Thompkins to a quiet restaurant famous for its coquilles St.-Jacques; it is in the old Palais Royal. This is the dinner that Bishop ordered:

HuÎtres Portugaises.

Sauterne. MÉdoc.

ConsommÉ.

Coquilles St.-Jacques.

Macaroni À la Milanaise.

Filet de bouf.

Pommes nouvelles sautÉes.

CrÈme petit Suisse.

Eclairs.

CafÉ.

Mr. Thompkins's enjoyment of the meal was as generous as his praise of Bishop's skill in ordering it, and he declared that the wines particularly were a rare treat. By the time that dinner had been finished he was enthusiastic about Paris. He said that it was a wonderful city, and that he was entirely at our disposal for the night.

"I suppose, gentlemen," he suggested, "that you are going to invite me to the opera. Now, I have no objections to that, and I am sure I shall be delighted,—it is only one evening in a lifetime, perhaps. But I shall insist that you go as my guests."

Bishop laughed merrily, and slapped his friend on the back in a way that I never should have employed with a man of so much dignity.

"The opera, old man!" cried Bishop. "Why, you blessed idiot, you act like a tourist! The opera! You can go there any time. To-night we shall see Paris!" and he laughed again. "The opera!" he repeated. "Oh, my! You can fall over the opera whenever you please. This is an opportunity for a tour of discovery."

Mr. Thompkins laughed with equal heartiness, and declared that nothing would delight him more than to be an explorer—for one night in a lifetime.

"The Boul' Mich' or Montmartre?" Bishop whispered to me.

"Montmartre," I replied; "Heaven, Death, Hell, and Bruant."

Never had the Avenue de l'OpÉra appeared so brilliant and lively as on that cold, crisp December night, as we strolled towards the boulevards. Its thousands of lights, its dashing equipages with the jingling harness of horses drawing handsome women and men to the OpÉra, its swiftly moving cabs and heavy 'buses rolling over the smooth wooden pavement, the shouts of drivers and the cracking of whips, the throngs of gay people enjoying the holiday attractions, the endless rows of gaudy booths lining the street, the flood of light and color everywhere, the cuirassiers of the Garde Municipale mounted on superb horses standing motionless in the Place de l'OpÉra, their long boots and steel breastplates and helmets glistening,—these all had their place,—while the broad stairs of the OpÉra were crowded with beautifully gowned women and fashionable men pouring in to hear Sibyl Sanderson sing in "Samson and Delilah,"—all this made a wonderful picture of life and beauty, of color, motion, vivacity, and enjoyment. Above the entrance to the OpÉra red marble columns reflected the yellow light of the gilded foyer and of the yellow blaze from the CafÉ de la Paix across the way.

We mounted a Montmartre 'bus and were pulled up the hill to the Boul' Clichy, the main artery of that strange Bohemian mountain with its eccentric, fantastic, and morbid attractions. Before us, in the Place Blanche, stood the great Moulin Rouge, the long skeleton arms of the Red Mill marked with red electric lights and slowly sweeping across the heavens, while fanciful figures of students and dancing girls looked out the windows of the mill, and a great crowd of lively, chatting, laughing people were pushing their way toward the entrance of this famous dance- hall of Paris. Mr. Thompkins, entranced before the brilliant spectacle, asked somewhat hesitatingly if we might enter; but Bishop, wise in the ways of Montmartre, replied,—"Not yet. It is only a little after nine, and the Moulin does not get wide awake for some hours yet. We have no time to waste while waiting for that. We shall first visit heaven."

Mr. Thompkins looked surprised, but made no response. Presently we reached the gilded gates of Le Cabaret du Ciel. They were bathed in a cold blue light from above. Angels, gold-lined clouds, saints, sacred palms and plants, and other paraphernalia suggestive of the approach to St. Peter's domain, filled all the available space about the entrÉe. A bold white placard, "Bock, i Franc," was displayed in the midst of it all. Dolorous church music sounded within, and the heavens were unrolled as a scroll in all their tinsel splendor as we entered to the bidding of an angel.

Flitting about the room were many more angels, all in white robes and with sandals on their feet, and all wearing gauzy wings swaying from their shoulder-blades and brass halos above their yellow wigs. These were the waiters, the garÇons of heaven, ready to take orders for drinks. One of these, with the face of a heavy villain in a melodrama and a beard a week old, roared unmelodiously,—"The greetings of heaven to thee, brothers! Eternal bliss and happiness are for thee. Mayst thou never swerve from its golden paths! Breathe thou its sacred purity and renovating exaltation. Prepare to meet thy great Creator—and don't forget the garÇon!"

A very long table covered with white extended the whole length of the chilly room, and seated at it, drinking, were scores of candidates for angelship,—mortals like ourselves. Men and women were they, and though noisy and vivacious, they indulged in nothing like the abandon of the Boul' Mich' cafÉs. Gilded vases and candelabra, together with foamy bocks, somewhat relieved the dead whiteness of the table. The ceiling was an impressionistic rendering of blue sky, fleecy clouds, and stars, and the walls were made to represent the noble enclosure and golden gates of paradise.

"Brothers, your orders! Command me, thy servant!" growled a ferocious angel at our elbows, with his accent de la Villette, and his brass halo a trifle askew.

Mr. Thompkins had been very quiet, for he was Wonder in the flesh, and perhaps there was some distress in his lace, but there was courage also. The suddenness of the angel's assault visibly disconcerted him,—he did not know what to order. Finally he decided on a verre de Chartreuse, green. Bishop and I ordered bocks.

"Two sparkling draughts of heaven's own brew and one star-dazzler!" yelled our angel.

"Thy will be done," came the response from a hidden bar.

Obscured by great masses of clouds, through whose intervals shone golden stars, an organ continually rumbled sacred music, which had a depressing rather than a solemn effect, and even the draughts of heaven's own brew and the star-dazzler failed to dissipate the gloom.

Suddenly, without the slightest warning, the head of St. Peter, whiskers and all, appeared in a hole in the sky, and presently all of him emerged, even to his ponderous keys clanging at his girdle. He gazed solemnly down upon the crowd at the tables and thoughtfully scratched his left wing. From behind a dark cloud he brought forth a vessel of white crockery (which was not a wash-bowl) containing (ostensibly) holy water. After several mysterious signs and passes with his bony hands he generously sprinkled the sinners below with a brush dipped in the water; and then, with a parting blessing, he slowly faded into mist.

"Did you ever? Well, well, I declare!" exclaimed Mr. Thompkins, breathlessly.

The royal cortÈge of the kingdom of heaven was now forming at one end of the room before a shrine, whereon an immense golden pig sat sedately on his haunches, looking friendly and jovial, his loose skin and fat jowls hanging in folds. Lighted candles sputtered about his golden sides. As the participants in the pageant, all attachÉs of the place, formed for the procession, each bowed reverently and crossed himself before the huge porker. A small man, dressed in a loose black gown and black skull- cap, evidently made up for Dante, whom he resembled, officiated as master of ceremonies. He mounted a golden pulpit, and delivered, in a loud, rasping voice, a tedious discourse on heaven and allied things. He dwelt on the attractions of heaven as a perpetual summer resort, an unbroken round of pleasures in variety, where sweet strains of angelic music (indicating the wheezy organ), together with unlimited stores of heaven's own sparkling fire of life, at a franc a bock, and beautiful goldenhaired cherubs, of la Villette's finest, lent grace and perfection to the scheme.

The parade then began its tour about the room, Dante, carrying a staff surmounted by a golden bull, serving as drum-major. Angel musicians, playing upon sacred lyres and harps, followed in his wake, but the dolorous organ made the more noise. Behind the lyre angels came a number of the notables whom Dante immortalized,—at least, we judged that they were so intended. The angel garÇons closed the cortÈge, their gauzy wings and brass halos bobbing in a stately fashion as they strode along.

The angel garÇons now sauntered up and gave us each a ticket admitting us to the angel-room and the other delights of the inner heaven.

"Youarre Eengleesh?" he asked. "Yes? Ah, theece Eengleesh arre verra genereauz," eyeing his fifty-centime tip with a questioning shrug. "Can you not make me un franc? Ah, eet ees dam cold in theece laigs," pointing to his calves, which were encased in diaphanous pink tights. He got his franc.

Dante announced in his rasping voice that those mortals wishing to become angels should proceed up to the angel-room. All advanced and ascended the inclined passage-way leading into the blue. At the farther end of the passage sat old St. Peter, solemn and shivering, for it was draughty there among the clouds. He collected our tickets, gave the password admitting us to the inner precincts, and resented Bishop's attempts to pluck a feather from his wings. We entered a large room, all a glamour of gold and silver. The walls were studded with blazing nuggets, colored canvas rocks, and electric lights. We took seats on wooden benches fronting a cleft in the rocks, and waited.

Soon the chamber in which we sat became perfectly dark, the cleft before us shining with a dim bluish light. The cleft then came to life with a bevy of female angels floating through the limited ethereal space, and smiling down upon us mortals. One of the lady angel's tights bagged at the knees, and another's wings were not on straight; but this did not interfere with her flight, any more than did the stationary position of the wings of all. But it was all very easily and gracefully done, swooping down, soaring, and swinging in circles like so many great eagles. They seemed to discover something of unusual interest in Mr. Thompkins, for they singled him out to throw kisses at him. This made him blush and fidget, but a word from Bishop reassured him,—it was only once in a lifetime!

After these angels had gyrated for some time, the head angel of the angel-room requested those who desired to become angels to step forward. A number responded, among them some of the naughty dancing-girls of the Moulin Rouge. They were conducted through a concealed door, and presently we beheld them soaring in the empyrean just as happy and serene as though they were used to being angels. It was a marvel to see wings so frail transport with so much ease a very stout young woman from the audience, and their being fully clothed did not seem to make any difference.

Mr. Thompkins had sat in a singularly contemplative mood after the real angels had quit torturing him, and surprised us beyond measure by promptly responding to a second call for those aspiring to angelhood. He disappeared with another batch from the Moulin Rouge, and soon afterwards we saw him floating like an airship. He even wore his hat. To his disgust and chagrin, however, one of the concert-hall angels persisted in flying in front of him and making violent love to him. This brought forth tumultuous applause and laughter, which completed Mr. Thompkins's misery. At this juncture the blue cleft became dark, the angel-room burst into light, and soon Mr. Thompkins rejoined us.

As we filed out into the passage Father Time stood with long whiskers and scythe, greeted us with profound bows, and promised that his scythe would spare us for many happy years did we but drop sous into his hour- glass.

There was no conversation among us when we emerged upon the boulevard, for Mr. Thompkins was in a retrospective frame of mind. Bishop embraced the opportunity to lead us up the Boulevard Clichy to the Place Pigalle. As we neared the Place we saw on the opposite side of the street two flickering iron lanterns that threw a ghastly green light down upon the barred dead-black shutters of the building, and caught the faces of the passers-by with sickly rays that took out all the life and transformed them into the semblance of corpses. Across the top of the closed black entrance were large white letters, reading simply: "Cafe du NÉant"

The entrance was heavily draped with black cerements, having white trimmings,—such as hang before the houses of the dead in Paris. Here patrolled a solitary croque-mort, or hired pall-bearer, his black cape drawn closely about him, the green light reflected by his glazed top- hat. A more dismal and forbidding place it would be difficult to imagine. Mr. Thompkins paled a little when he discovered that this was our destination,—this grisly caricature of eternal nothingness,—and hesitated at the threshold. Without a word Bishop firmly took his arm and entered. The lonely croque-mort drew apart the heavy curtain and admitted us into a black hole that proved later to be a room. The chamber was dimly lighted with wax tapers, and a large chandelier intricately devised of human skulls and arms, with funeral candles held in their fleshless fingers, gave its small quota of light.

Large, heavy, wooden coffins, resting on biers, were ranged about the room in an order suggesting the recent happening of a frightful catastrophe. The walls were decorated with skulls and bones, skeletons in grotesque attitudes, battle-pictures, and guillotines in action. Death, carnage, assassination were the dominant note, set in black hangings and illuminated with mottoes on death. A half-dozen voices droned this in a low monotone:

"Enter, mortals of this sinful world, enter into the mists and shadows of eternity. Select your biers, to the right, to the left; fit yourselves comfortably to them, and repose in the solemnity and tranquillity of death; and may God have mercy on your souls!"

A number of persons who had preceded us had already pre-empted their coffins, and were sitting beside them awaiting developments and enjoying their consommations, using the coffins for their real purpose,—tables for holding drinking-glasses. Alongside the glasses were slender tapers by which the visitors might see one another.

There seemed to be no mechanical imperfection in the illusion of a charnel-house; we imagined that even chemistry had contributed its resources, for there seemed distinctly to be the odor appropriate to such a place.

We found a vacant coffin in the vault, seated ourselves at it on rush- bottomed stools, and awaited further developments.

Another croque-mort—a garÇon he was—came up through the gloom to take our orders. He was dressed completely in the professional garb of a hearse-follower, including claw-hammer coat, full-dress front, glazed tile, and oval silver badge. He droned,—"Bon soir, MacchabÉes! * Buvez les crachats d'asthmatiques, voilÀ des sueurs froides d'agonisants. Prenez donc des certificats de dÉcÈs, seulement vingt sous. C'est pas cher et c'est artistique!"

* This word (also Maccabe, argot Macabit) is given in Paris by sailors to cadavers found floating in the river.

Bishop said that he would be pleased with a lowly bock. Mr. Thompkins chose cherries À l'eau-de-vie, and I, une menthe.

"One microbe of Asiatic cholera from the last corpse, one leg of a lively cancer, and one sample of our consumption germ!" moaned the creature toward a black hole at the farther end of the room.

Some women among the visitors tittered, others shuddered, and Mr. Thompkins broke out in a cold sweat on his brow, while a curious accompaniment of anger shone in his eyes. Our sleepy pallbearer soon loomed through the darkness with our deadly microbes, and waked the echoes in the hollow casket upon which he set the glasses with a thump.

"Drink, MacchabÉes!" he wailed: "drink these noxious potions, which contain the vilest and deadliest poisons!"

"The villain!" gasped Mr. Thompkins; "it is horrible, disgusting, filthy!"

The tapers flickered feebly on the coffins, and the white skulls grinned at him mockingly from their sable background. Bishop exhausted all his tactics in trying to induce Mr. Thompkins to taste his bran-died cherries, but that gentleman positively refused,—he seemed unable to banish the idea that they were laden with disease germs.

After we had been seated here for some time, getting no consolation from the utter absence of spirit and levity among the other guests, and enjoying only the dismay and trepidation of new and strange arrivals, a rather good-looking young fellow, dressed in a black clerical coat, came through a dark door and began to address the assembled patrons. His voice was smooth, his manner solemn and impressive, as he delivered a well-worded discourse on death. He spoke of it as the gate through which we must all make our exit from this world,—of the gloom, the loneliness, the utter sense of helplessness and desolation. As he warmed to his subject he enlarged upon the follies that hasten the advent of death, and spoke of the relentless certainty and the incredible variety of ways in which the reaper claims his victims. Then he passed on to the terrors of actual dissolution, the tortures of the body, the rending of the soul, the unimaginable agonies that sensibilities rendered acutely susceptible at this extremity are called upon to endure. It required good nerves to listen to that, for the man was perfect in his rÔle. From matters of individual interest in death he passed to death in its larger aspects. He pointed to a large and striking battle scene, in which the combatants had come to hand-to-hand fighting, and were butchering one another in a mad lust for blood. Suddenly the picture began to glow, the light bringing out its ghastly details with hideous distinctness. Then as suddenly it faded away, and where fighting men had been there were skeletons writhing and struggling in a deadly embrace.

A similar effect was produced with a painting giving a wonderfully realistic representation of an execution by the guillotine. The bleeding trunk of the victim lying upon the flap-board dissolved, the flesh slowly disappearing, leaving only the white bones. Another picture, representing a brilliant dance-hall filled with happy revellers, slowly merged into a grotesque dance of skeletons; and thus it was with the other pictures about the room.

All this being done, the master of ceremonies, in lugubrious tones, invited us to enter the chambre de la mort. All the visitors rose, and, bearing each a taper, passed in single file into a narrow, dark passage faintly illuminated with sickly green lights, the young man in clerical garb acting as pilot. The cross effects of green and yellow lights on the faces of the groping procession were more startling than picturesque. The way was lined with bones, skulls, and fragments of human bodies.

"O MacchabÉes, nous sommes devant la porte de la chambre de la mort!" wailed an unearthly voice from the farther end of the passage as we advanced. Then before us appeared a solitary figure standing beneath a green lamp. The figure was completely shrouded in black, only the eyes being visible, and they shone through holes in the pointed cowl. From the folds of the gown it brought forth a massive iron key attached to a chain, and, approaching a door seemingly made of iron and heavily studded with spikes and crossed with bars, inserted and turned the key; the bolts moved with a harsh, grating noise, and the door of the chamber of death swung slowly open.

"O MacchabÉes, enter into eternity, whence none ever return!" cried the new, strange voice.

The walls of the room were a dead and unrelieved black. At one side two tall candles were burning, but their feeble light was insufficient even to disclose the presence of the black walls of the chamber or indicate that anything but unending blackness extended heavenward. There was not a thing to catch and reflect a single ray of the light and thus become visible in the blackness.

Between the two candles was an upright opening in the wall; it was of the shape of a coffin. We were seated upon rows of small black caskets resting on the floor in front of the candles. There was hardly a whisper among the visitors. The black-hooded figure passed silently out of view and vanished in the darkness.

Presently a pale, greenish-white illumination began to light up the coffin-shaped hole in the wall, clearly marking its outline against the black. Within this space there stood a coffin upright, in which a pretty young woman, robed in a white shroud, fitted snugly. Soon it was evident that she was very much alive, for she smiled and looked at us saucily. But that was not for long. From the depths came a dismal wail:

"O MacchabÉe, beautiful, breathing mortal, pulsating with the warmth and richness of life, thou art now in the grasp of death! Compose thy soul for the end!"

Her face slowly became white and rigid; her eyes sank; her lips tightened across her teeth; her cheeks took on the hollowness of death,— she was dead. But it did not end with that. From white the face slowly grew livid... then purplish black.... The eyes visibly shrank into their greenish-yellow sockets.... Slowly the hair fell away.... The nose melted away into a purple putrid spot. The whole face became a semi- liquid mass of corruption. Presently all this had disappeared, and a gleaming skull shone where so recently had been the handsome face of a woman; naked teeth grinned inanely and savagely where rosy lips had so recently smiled. Even the shroud had gradually disappeared, and an entire skeleton stood revealed in the coffin.

The wail again rang through the silent vault:

"Ah, ah, MacchabÉe! Thou hast reached the last stage of dissolution, so dreadful to mortals. The work that follows death is complete. But despair not, for death is not the end of all. The power is given to those who merit it, not only to return to life, but to return in any form and station preferred to the old. So return if thou deservedst and desirest."

With a slowness equal to that of the dissolution, the bones became covered with flesh and cerements, and all the ghastly steps were reproduced reversed. Gradually the sparkle of the eyes began to shine through the gloom; but when the reformation was completed, behold! there was no longer the handsome and smiling young woman, but the sleek, rotund body, ruddy cheeks, and self-conscious look of a banker. It was not until this touch of comedy relieved the strain that the rigidity with which Mr. Thompkins had sat between us began to relax, and a smile played over his face,—a bewildered, but none the less a pleasant, smile. The prosperous banker stepped forth, sleek and tangible, and haughtily strode away before our eyes, passing through the audience into the darkness. Again was the coffin-shaped hole in the wall dark and empty.

He of the black gown and pointed hood now emerged through an invisible door, and asked if there was any one in the audience who desired to pass through the experience that they had just witnessed. This created a suppressed commotion; each peered into the face of his neighbor to find one with courage sufficient for the ordeal. Bishop suggested to Mr. Thompkins in a whisper that he submit himself, but that gentleman very peremptorily declined. Then, after a pause, Bishop stepped forth and announced that he was prepared to die. He was asked solemnly by the doleful person if he was ready to accept all the consequences of his decision. He replied that he was. Then he disappeared through the black wall, and presently appeared in the greenish-white light of the open coffin. There he composed himself as he imagined a corpse ought, crossed his hands upon his breast, suffered the white shroud to be drawn about him, and awaited results,—after he had made a rueful grimace that threw the first gleam of suppressed merriment through the oppressed audience. He passed through all the ghastly stages that the former occupant of the coffin had experienced, and returned in proper person to life and to his seat beside Mr. Thompkins, the audience applauding softly.

A mysterious figure in black waylaid the crowd as it filed out. He held an inverted skull, into which we were expected to drop sous through the natural opening there, and it was with the feeling of relief from a heavy weight that we departed and turned our backs on the green lights at the entrance.

What a wonderful contrast! Here we were in the free, wide, noisy, brilliant world again. Here again were the crowds, the venders, saucy grisettes with their bright smiles, shining teeth, and alluring glances. Here again were the bustling cafÉs, the music, the lights, the life, and above all the giant arms of the Moulin Rouge sweeping the sky.

"Now," quietly remarked Bishop, "having passed through death, we will explore hell."

Mr. Thompkins seemed too weak, or unresisting, or apathetic to protest. His face betrayed a queer mixture of emotions, part suffering, part revulsion, part a sort of desperate eagerness for more.

We passed through a large, hideous, fanged, open mouth in an enormous face from which shone eyes of blazing crimson. Curiously enough, it adjoined heaven, whose cool blue lights contrasted strikingly with the fierce ruddiness of hell. Red-hot bars and gratings through which flaming coals gleamed appeared in the walls within the red mouth. A placard announced that should the temperature of this inferno make one thirsty, innumerable bocks might be had at sixty-five centimes each. A little red imp guarded the throat of the monster into whose mouth we had walked; he was cutting extraordinary capers, and made a great show of stirring the fires. The red imp opened the imitation heavy metal door for our passage to the interior, crying,—"Ah, ah, ah! still they come! Oh, how they will roast!" Then he looked keenly at Mr. Thompkins. It was interesting to note how that gentleman was always singled out by these shrewd students of humanity. This particular one added with great gusto, as he narrowly studied Mr. Thompkins, "Hist! ye infernal whelps; stir well the coals and heat red the prods, for this is where we take our revenge on earthly saintliness!"

"Enter and be damned,—the Evil One awaits you!" growled a chorus of rough voices as we hesitated before the scene confronting us.

Near us was suspended a caldron over a fire, and hopping within it were half a dozen devil musis dans, male and female, playing a selection from "Faust" on stringed instruments, while red imps stood by, prodding with red-hot irons those who lagged in their performance.

Crevices in the walls of this room ran with streams of molten gold and silver, and here and there were caverns lit up by smouldering fires from which thick smoke issued, and vapors emitting the odors of a volcano. Flames would suddenly burst from clefts in the rocks, and thunder rolled through the caverns. Red imps were everywhere, darting about noiselessly, some carrying beverages for the thirsty lost souls, others stirring the fires or turning somersaults. Everything was in a high state of motion.

Numerous red tables stood against the fiery walls; at these sat the visitors. Mr. Thompkins seated himself at one of them. Instantly it became aglow with a mysterious light, which kept flaring up and disappearing in an erratic fashion; flames darted from the walls, fires crackled and roared. One of the imps came to take our order; it was for three coffees, black, with cognac; and this is how he shrieked the order:

"Three seething bumpers of molten sins, with a dash of brimstone intensifier!" Then, when he had brought it, "This will season your intestines, and render them invulnerable, for a time at least, to the tortures of the melted iron that will be soon poured down your throats." The glasses glowed with a phosphorescent light. "Three francs seventy- five, please, not counting me. Make it four francs. Thank you well. Remember that though hell is hot, there are cold drinks if you want them."

Presently Satan himself strode into the cavern, gorgeous in his imperial robe of red, decked with blazing jewels, and brandishing a sword from which fire flashed. His black moustaches were waxed into sharp points, and turned rakishly upward above lips upon which a sneering grin appeared. Thus he leered at the new arrivals in his domain. His appearance lent new zest to the activity of the imps and musicians, and all cowered under his glance. Suddenly he burst into a shrieking laugh that gave one a creepy feeling. It rattled through the cavern with a startling effect as he strode up and down. It was a triumphant, cruel, merciless laugh. All at once he paused in front of a demure young Parisienne seated at a table with her escort, and, eying her keenly, broke into this speech:

"Ah, you! Why do you tremble? How many men have you sent hither to damnation with those beautiful eyes, those rosy, tempting lips? Ah, for all that, you have found a sufficient hell on earth. But you," he added, turning fiercely upon her escort, "you will have the finest, the most exquisite tortures that await the damned. For what? For being a fool. It is folly more than crime that hell punishes, for crime is a disease and folly a sin. You fool! For thus hanging upon the witching glance and oily words of a woman you have filled all hell with fuel for your roasting. You will suffer such tortures as only the fool invites, such tortures only as are adequate to punish folly. Prepare for the inconceivable, the unimaginable, the things that even the king of hell dare not mention lest the whole structure of damnation totter and crumble to dust."

The man winced, and queer wrinkles came into the corners of his mouth. Then Satan happened to discover Mr. Thompkins, who shrank visibly under the scorching gaze. Satan made a low, mocking bow.

"You do me great honor, sir," he declared, unctuously. "You may have been expecting to avoid me, but reflect upon what you would have missed! We have many notables here, and you will have charming society. They do not include pickpockets and thieves, nor any others of the weak, stunted, crippled, and halting. You will find that most of your companions are distinguished gentlemen of learning and ability, who, knowing their duty, failed to perform it. You will be in excellent company, sir," he concluded, with another low bow. Then, suddenly turning and sweeping the room with a gesture, he commanded, "To the hot room, all of you!" while he swung his sword, from which flashes of lightning trailed and thunder rumbled.

We were led to the end of a passage, where a red-hot iron door barred further progress.

"Oh, oh, within there!" roared Satan. "Open the portal of the hot chamber, that these fresh arrivals may be introduced to the real temperature of hell!"

After numerous signals and mysterious passes the door swung open, and we entered. It was not so very hot after all. The chamber resembled the other, except that a small stage occupied one end. A large green snake crawled out upon this, and suddenly it was transformed into a red devil with exceedingly long, thin legs, encased in tights that were ripped in places. He gave some wonderful contortion feats. A poor little white Pierrot came on and assisted the red devil in black art performances. By this time we discovered that in spite of the halfmolten condition of the rock-walls, the room was disagreeably chilly. And that ended our experience in hell.

Bishop then led us to the closed, dark front of a house in front of which stood a suspicious-looking man, who eyed us contemptuously. Bishop told him that we should like to enter. The man assented with a growl. He beat upon the door with a stick; a little wicket opened, and a villanous face peered out at us.

"What do you want?" came from it in gruff tones.

"To enter, of course," responded Bishop.

"Are they, all right, do you think?" asked the face of the sentinel.

"I think they are harmless," was the answer.

Several bolts and locks grated, and the stubborn door opened.

"Enter, you vile specimens of human folly!" hissed the inside guard as we passed within. "D———all three of you!"

We had no sooner found ourselves inside than this same person, a short, stout man, with long hair and a powerful frame, and the face of a cutthroat, struck a table with the heavy stick that he carried, and roared to us,—"Sit down!"

Mr. Thompkins involuntarily cowered, but he gathered himself up and went with us to seats at the nearest table. While we were doing this the habituÉs of the place greeted us with this song, sung in chorus:

"Oh, lÀ lÀ! c'te gueule—

C'te binette.

Oh, lÀ lÀ, c'te gueule,

Qu'il a."

"What are they saying?" asked Mr. Thompkins; but Bishop spared him by explaining that it was only the latest song.

The room had a low ceiling crossed by heavy beams. Wrought-iron gas lamps gave a gloomy light upon the dark, time-browned color of the place. The beams were loaded with dust, cobwebs, and stains, the result of years of smoke and accumulation. Upon the walls were dozens of drawings by Steinlen, illustrating the poems of low life written by the proprietor of the cafÉ; for we were in the den of the famous Aristide Bruant, the poet of the gutter,—Verlaine had a higher place as the poet of the slums. There were also drawings by ChÉret, Willett, and others, and some clever sketches in oil; the whole effect was artistic. In one corner was an old fireplace, rich in carvings of grotesque heads and figures, grilled iron-work, and shining copper vessels. The general impression was of a mediaeval gun-room.

Near the fireplace, upon a low platform, was a piano; grouped about it were four typical Bohemians of lower Bohemia; they wore loads of hair; their faces had a dissipated look, their fingers were heavily stained by cigarettes; they wore beards and nÉgligÉ black cravats. These were all minor poets, and they took their turn in singing or reciting their own compositions, afterwards making a tour of the crowded tables with a tin cup and collecting the sous upon which they lived, and roundly cursing those who refused to contribute.

Bishop was so delighted with the pictures on the walls that he proceeded to examine them, but the bully with the stick thundered,—"Sit down!" and shook his bludgeon menacingly. Bishop sat down.

Then the brute swaggered up to us and demanded,—"What the devil do you want to drink, anyway? Speak up quick!" When he had brought the drinks he gruffly demanded, "Pay up!" Upon receiving the customary tip he frowned, glared at us with a threatening manner, and growled, "Humph! c'est pas beaucoup!" and swept the money into his pocket.

"Goodness! this is an awful place!" exclaimed Mr. Thompkins under his breath. He seemed to fear being brained at any moment. Retreat had been rendered impossible by the locking of the door.

We were prisoners at the will of our jailer, and so were all the others.

The great Bruant himself sat with a party of congenial Bohemians at a table near the piano and fireplace; they were drinking bocks and smoking cigarettes and long-stemmed pipes. On the wall behind them was a rack holding the pipes of the habituÉs of the cafÉ, mostly broken and well browned. Each pipe was owned by a particular Bohemian, and each had its special place in the rack. The other tables held a general assortment of lesser Bohemians and sight-seers, all cowed and silent under the domination of the bawling ruffian with the stick. Whenever he smiled (which was rare, a perpetual frown having creased a deep furrow between his eyes) they smiled also, in great relief, and hung upon every word that his occasional lapses into an approach to good nature permitted him to utter.

The poets and singers howled their productions in rasping voices, and put a strain upon the strength of the piano; and the minor Bohemians applauded them heartily and envied them their distinction.

In the midst of this performance there came a knock upon the door. The bully walked up to the wicket, peered out, and admitted an elderly gentleman, accompanied by a lady, evidently his wife. These the habituÉs greeted with the following song:

"Tout les clients sont des cochons—

La faridon, la faridon donne.

Et surtout les ceux qui s'en vont—

La faridon, la faridon donne."

The gentleman, somewhat abashed by this reception, hesitated a moment, then sought seats. The two had hardly seated themselves when the burly ruffian with the stick began to recite a villanous poem reflecting upon the chastity of married women, emphasizing it with atrocious side remarks. The gentleman sprang from his seat in a rage and advanced threateningly upon the brute, who stood leering at him and taking a firmer hold upon his stick; but the visitor's wife caught the outraged man by the arm and restrained him. A wordy war ensued (for the gentleman was a Frenchman), in which the choicest argot of Montmartre and La Villette was exhausted by the ruffian. He closed by shouting,—"You were not invited to enter here. You asked the privilege of entering; your wish was granted. If you don't like it here, get out!"

The gentleman flung down a franc upon the table, the bolts were withdrawn, and he and his wife passed out while the roysterers sang,—

Tout les clients sont des cochons," etc.,

amid the laughter of the smaller Bohemians.

Aristide Bruant now rose from his table and strode to the centre of the room. A perfect silence fell. He is rather a small man, slender, and of delicate build; he has a thin, sallow face, with piercing black eyes, prominent cheek-bones, and long raven-black hair falling over his shoulders from beneath a broad black slouch hat down over his eyes. His unbuttoned coat showed a red flannel shirt open at the throat; a broad sash was about his waist; his trousers were tucked into top-boots,—the ensemble reminding one of Buffalo Bill. He glared sullenly round upon the people, and then sprang lightly upon a table. From that perch he recited one of his poems, selected from his book of songs and monologues. It does not bear reproduction here. For that matter, being written in the argot of Montmartre, it could hardly be understood even by French scholars unfamiliar with Montmartre.

Happily Mr. Thompkins understood not a word of it, smiling perfunctorily out of politeness while Bruant was uttering things that might have shocked the most hardened Parisians. There were several young women present, and while Bruant was reciting they ogled him with genuine adoration. The other poets hung reverently upon his every word.

A mighty burst of applause greeted the finish of the recitation; but Bruant slouched indifferently to his seat, ignoring the ovation. The bully with the stick immediately stopped the noise by yelling, "Silence!" This he followed up with the contribution-cup for the benefit of the idol of Montmartre. With the cup he brought the volume of Bruant's poems from which he had given the recitation,—a cheaply printed pamphlet. No one dared refuse to buy, and no change was returned. Was not this the great Aristide Bruant, the immortal of Montmartre?

He was followed by other poets with songs and the banging of the piano. We presently rose to leave, but the bully shouted,—"Sit down! How dare you insult the young poet who is now singing?" We submissively resumed our seats. After a while, in a lull, we respectfully rose again, and the bully, shouting, "Get out!" unbarred the door and we were free.

Mr. Thompkins was more deeply puzzled than he had been before that night. He could not understand that such a resort, where one is bullied and insulted, could secure patronage.

"But this is Paris, Mr. Thompkins," explained Bishop, somewhat vaguely; "and this particular part of Paris is Montmartre."

Midnight was now close at hand, but Montmartre was in the height of its gayety. Students, Bohemians, and cocottes were skipping and singing along the boulevard,—singing the songs of Bruant. The cafÉs were crowded, the theatres and concert halls only in the middle of their programmes. Cabs were dashing about, some stopping at the Moulin Rouge, others at the ElysÉe Montmartre, still others picking up fares for more distant attractions.

Bishop halted in front of a quiet-looking house with curtained windows, and bluntly asked Mr. Thompkins if he would like to go to church. Mr. Thompkins caught his breath, and an odd, guilty look came into his face. But before he could make reply Bishop was leading the way within. The interior of the place certainly looked like a church,—it was fitted to have that significance. The cold, gray stone walls rose to a vaulted Gothic ceiling; Gothic pillars and arches and carved wood completed the architectural effect; statues of saints appeared in niches, some surmounted by halos of lighted candles; and there were banners bearing scriptural mottoes.

The heavy oaken tables on the floor were provided with stiff, high- backed pulpit-chairs, beautiful in color and carving, and of a Gothic type, the whole scene suggesting a transept of Notre-Dame. Mr. Thomp- kins had reverently removed his hat. It was not long afterward that he quietly replaced it on his head. No notice was taken by us of these movements.

At the farther end, where the church altar belonged, was indeed a handsomely carved altar. Above it sprang a graceful arch, bearing a canopy beautifully painted in blue, with yellow stars. In the centre was a painting of Christ upon the cross. The altar was the bar, or caisse, of this queer cafÉ, and behind it sat the proprietress, quietly knitting and waiting to fill orders for drinks. The walls of the cafÉ were almost entirely covered with framed drawings by Rodel; all were portraits of well-known Bohemians of Montmartre in characteristic attitudes,—the star patrons of this rendezvous. Many women figured among them, all Bohemian to the bone.

This was the CafÉ du Conservatoire, famous for its celebrities, the poets of Bohemian Paris, among whom Marcel Legay is eminent. It was evident that the habituÉs of the Conservatoire were of a much higher order than those whom we had seen elsewhere.

They looked more prosperous, were more amiable, and acted more as other people.

True, there was much long hair, for that is a disease hard to shake off; but when it did occur, it was well combed and oiled. And there were many flat-brimmed "plug" hats, as well as collars,—clean ones, too, an exceptional thing in Bohemia, laundering being expensive. But the poverty-haunted Bohemians in the Soleil d'Or are more picturesque. That, however, is in the Latin Quarter: anything exceptional may be expected at Montmartre.

When we had finished our coffee we approached the patronne behind the bar, and bought billets for the Salle des PoÈtes at two francs each. This was a large room crowded with enraptured listeners to Legay, who was at that moment rendering his song.

LES CLOCHES.

"Les cloches Catholiques,

Du haut de leur beffroi,

Voyaient avec effroi

La rÉsurrection des Grandes RÉpubliques.

Les cloches rÊvaient,

En quatre-vingt onze,

Les cloches de bronze

RÊvaient."

Legay had quite a distinguished appearance as he stood singing before the piano. He wore a generously cut frock-coat, and his waistcoat exposed a spacious show of white shirt-front.

His long hair was carefully brushed back, his moustaches neatly waxed; altogether he was dainty and jaunty, and the ladies in the room made no concealment of their adoration.

The accompanist was a picturesque character. He was forty-five or fifty years of age; he had long white hair and a drooping moustache, and his heavy protruding eyes were suffused with tears evoked by the pathos of the song. While he gazed up into the singer's face with tear-filled eyes he was in another life, another world, where there was nothing but music and poetry unalloyed to constitute his heaven. For Legay sang charmingly, with an art and a feeling that were never obtrusive; and his audience was aesthetic. When he had finished he was cheered without stint, and he clearly showed how much the attention pleased him.

His song was only one of the numbers on a very interesting programme. This was the training school of the young poets and song-writers of upper Bohemia; this was where they made their dÉbut and met the test of that discriminating criticism which decided them to advance upon the world or conceal themselves for yet a while from its cruel glare; and were they not but repeating the ordeal of the ancient Greeks, out of which so many noble things passed into literature? These critics were as frank with their disapproval as generous with their acceptance.

Among those who sang were Gustave Corbet, Marius Geffroy, Eugene Lemercier, Xavier Privas, Delarbre, and Henri Brallet, men as yet unknown, but likely to make a mark under the training, inspiration, and severe checks of the CafÉ du Conservatoire. One of the goals for which these writers strive, and one that, if they win it, means to them recognition, is to have their poems published in Gil Blas, with illustrations by the peerless Steinlen, as are the works of Legay, and also of Bruant, le Terrible.

Marcel Legay is a familiar figure on the boulevards, where his dainty person is often seen after nightfall, hurrying to one or another of his haunts, with a small roll of music under his arm, and his fluffy hair streaming over his shoulders. On certain nights of every week he sings over in the Latin Quarter, at the Cabaret des Noctambules, Rue Champollion, near the Chapel of the Sorbonne.

The other singers that night at the CafÉ du Conservatoire each affected his peculiar style of habit, gesture, and pose that he deemed most fetching. The entire programme was of songs: hence the name, CafÉ du Conservatoire.

After we had deft, Bishop bought some Brevas cigars; thus fortified, we headed for the Moulin Rouge.

It was evident that Mr. Thompkins had reserved his enthusiasm for the great dance-hall of Montmartre,—Le Moulin Rouge,—with its women of the half world, its giddiness, its glare, its noise, its naughtiness.

Here at last we should find all absence of restraint, posing, sordidness, self-consciousness, and appeals to abnormal appetites. Mr. Thompkins visibly brightened as we ascended the incline of the entrance and came within the influence of the life and abandon of the place. Indeed, it must have seemed like fairy-land to him. The soft glow of hundreds of lights fell upon the crowds in the ball-room and balconies, with their shifting streams of color from the moving figures of dancing women in showy gowns and saucy hats, and its many chatting, laughing, joyous groups at the tables along the passage and the balconies, enjoying merry little suppers and varied consommations that kept scores of garÇons continually on the move. A placard announced American Bar; American and English Drinks—as bald and unashamed as that. Here on high stools, American free-lunch fashion, ranged along the bar, were English and American tourists and French dandies sipping Manhattan cocktails with a cherry, brandy-and-soda, Tom-and-Jerry, and the rest. Along the walls hung vivid paintings of some of the famous dancing-girls of the Moulin, their saucy faces half hidden in clouds of lacy white skirts.

High up on a pretty balcony at the end of the huge ball-room were the musicians, enjoying their cigarettes and bocks between pieces. A small stage occupied the opposite end of the room, where a light vaudeville performance had been given; but that was all over now, and attention centred in the tables and the dancing.

The Moulin Rouge resembles very much the Bul-lier; but at the Moulin the cocottes are much more dashing and gaudy than over in the Quartier, because the inspector at the door of the Moulin maintains a more exacting standard on the score of the toilettes of the women whom he admits free of charge. Women, women, women! There seemed no end of them; and each was arrayed to the full limit of her means. And there were French dandies in long-white melton coats that were very tight at the waist, and that bore large brown-velvet collars; their hair, parted behind, was brushed toward their ears; they strolled about the place in numbers, twirling their moustaches and ogling the girls. And there were French army officers, Martinique negroes, longhaired students and Montmartre poets, artists, actors, and many three-days-in-Paris English tourists wearing knickerbockers and golf-caps, and always smoking bulldog pipes. There were also two parties of American men with their wives and daughters, and they enjoyed the spectacle with the natural fulness and responsiveness of their soil. For the Moulin is really now but a great show place; it has been discovered by the outside world, and, unlike the other quaint places mentioned in this paper, has suffered the change that such contact inevitably imparts. It is no longer the queer old Moulin, genuinely, spontaneously Bohemian. But the stranger would hardly realize that; and so to Mr. Thompkins it seemed the brilliant and showy side of Bohemian Paris. By reason of its change in character it has less interest than the real Bohemian Paris that the real Bohemians know, enjoy, and jealously guard.

Many light-footed young women were amusing circles of on-lookers with spirited dancing and reckless high-kicking; and, being adepts in their peculiar art, were so flashing and illusory that an attempt to analyze their movements brought only bewilderment. No bones seemed to hamper their swiftness and elasticity. The flash of a black stocking would instantly dissolve into a fleecy cloud of lace, and the whirling air was a cyclone; and there upon the floor sat the dancer in the "split," looking up with a merry laugh, flushed cheeks, and sparkling eyes, twinkling from the shadow of a twisted toque; then over her would sweep a whirlwind of other dancers, and identities would become inextricably confused.

An odd-looking man, with a sad face and marvellously long, thin legs in tights, did incredible things with those members; he was merely a long spring without bones, joints, or hinges. His cadaverous face and glittering black eyes, above which rose a top-hat that never moved from place, completed the oddity of his appearance. He is always there in the thickest of the dancing, and his salary is three francs a night.

We suddenly discovered Mr. Thompkins in a most embarrassing situation. A bewitching chemical blonde of the clinging type had discovered and appropriated him; she melted all over him, and poured a stream of bad English into his ear. She was so very, very thirsty, she pleaded, and Monsieur was so charming, so much a gentleman,—he was beautiful, too. Oh, Monsieur would not be so unkind as to remove the soft, plump arm from round his neck,—surely it did not hurt Monsieur, for was it not warm and plump, and was not that a pretty dimple in the elbow, and another even prettier in the shoulder? If Monsieur were not so charming and gracious the ladies would never, never fall in love with him like this. And oh, Monsieur, the place was so warm, and dancing makes one so thirsty!

Mr. Thompkins's face was a picture of shame and despair, and I have never seen a more comical expression than that with which he looked appealingly to us for help. Suppose some one in the hall should happen to recognize him! Of course there was only one thing to do. Mademoiselle Blanche's thirst was of that awful kind which only shipwrecked sailors, travellers lost in a desert, and cafÉ dancing-girls can understand. And so four glasses of beer were ordered. It was beautiful to see the grace and celerity with which Mademoiselle Blanche disposed of hers, the passionate eagerness with which she pressed a long kiss upon Mr. Thompkins's unwilling lips, and the promptness with which she then picked up his glass, drained it while she looked at him mischievously over the rim, kissed him again, and fled.

Mr. Thompkins sat speechless, his face blazing, his whole expression indescribably foolish. He vigorously wiped his lips with his handkerchief, and was not himself again for half an hour.

Innumerable bright little comedies were unconsciously played in all parts of the room, and they were even more interesting than the antics of the dancers.

We presently strolled into the garden of the Moulin, where a performance is given in the summer. There stood a great white sheet-iron elephant, remindful of Coney Island. In one of the legs was a small door, from which a winding stair led into the body of the beast. The entrance fee was fifty centimes, the ticket-office at the top of the stair. It was a small room inside the elephant, and there was a small stage in the end of it, upon which three young women were exercising their abdominal muscles in the danse du ventre. Mr. Thompkins, dismayed at this, would have fled had not Bishop captured him and hauled him back to a conspicuous seat, where the dancing-girls, quickly finding him, proceeded to make their work as extravagant as possible, throwing him wicked glances meanwhile, and manifestly enjoying his embarrassment. Of course the dancers came round presently for offerings of sous.

We returned to the dance-hall, for it was now closing-up time, and in order to feel a touch of kinship with America, drank a gin fizz at the American bar, though it seemed to be a novelty to Mr. Thompkins.

The streets were alive with the revellers who had been turned out by the closing of the cafÉs, dancehalls, and theatres, and the cries of cabbies rose above the din of laughter and chatter among the crowds. But the night was not yet quite finished. Said Bishop,—"We shall now have coffee at the Red Ass."

That was below the Place Pigalle, quite a walk down to the Rue de Maubeuge, through that suddenly quiet centre of artists' studios and dignified residences. At last we reached L'Âne Rouage,—the Red Ass. It has a small and unassuming front, except that the window-panes are profusely decorated with painted flowers and figures, and a red ass peers down over the narrow door. L'Âne Rouge has no special distinction, save its artistic interior and the fanciful sketches on its walls. It is furnished with heavy dark tables and chairs, and iron grilled into beautiful scrolls and chandeliers,—like the famous Chat Noir, near by. In fact, L'Âne Rouge resembles an old curiosity shop more than anything else, for it is filled with all imaginable kinds of antiques, blackened by age and smoke, and in perfect harmony. It, too, has its particular clientÈle of Bohemians, who come to puff their long pipes that hang in racks, and recount their hopes, aspirations, achievements, and failures, occasionally breaking into song. For this they bring forth their mandolins and guitars, and sing sentimental ditties of their own composition. There is a charming air of chez soi at the Red Ass; a spirit of good-fellowship pervades it; and then, the cafÉ is small, cosey, and comfortable, as well as artistic.

It was in a lively commotion when we crossed the threshold, the place being filled with littÉrateurs of the quarter. A celebration was in progress,—one of their number had just succeeded in finding a publisher for two volumes of his poetry. It was a notable event, and the lucky Bohemian, flushed with money, had settled his debts and was now treating his friends. Although we were strangers to him, he cordially invited us to share the hospitality of the occasion, and there was great applause when Bishop presented him with a Brevas cigar.

"Bravo, les Anglais! Ce sont des bons types, ceux-lÀ!" and then they sang in chorus, a happy, careless, jolly crowd.

There was a small, thin young sketch artist making crayon portraits of the successful poet and selling them to the poet's friends for fifty centimes apiece,—with the poet's autograph, too.

In response to a call for une chanson Anglaise, Bishop sang "Down on the Farm" as he had never sung it before, his shining top-hat pushed back upon his curly hair, his jovial face beaming. At its conclusion he proposed a toast to the successful poet, and it was drunk standing and with a mighty shout.

We looked in at the Cabaret des Quat'z' Arts,—a bright and showy place, but hardly more suggestive of student Bohemianism than the other fine cafÉs of the boulevards.

And thus ended a night on Montmartre. We left Mr. Thompkins at his hotel. I think he was more than satisfied, but he was too bewildered and tired to say much about it.

Montmartre presents the extravagant side of Parisian Bohemianism. If there is a thing to be mocked, a convention to be outraged, an idol to be destroyed, Montmartre will find the way. But it has a taint of sordidness that the real Bohemianism of the old Latin Quarter lacks,—for it is not the Bohemianism of the students. And it is vulgar. For all that, in its rude, reckless, and brazen way it is singularly picturesque. It is not likely that Mr. Thompkins will say much about it when he goes home, but he will be able to say a great deal in a general way about the harm of ridiculing sacred things and turning reverence into a laugh.