thing else, powdered
with snow that tumbles silently and steadily upon the scene of riot. A
crush of revelers upon the staircase. Half-past eleven; all the most
important people having now entered--except myself--it is quite time for me
to follow to the ball-room.

A vast room. Think of the Great Exhibition, if you want a notion of it;
and take off a discount for exaggeration. Walk to the end of this room,
and a door opens into another ball-room, almost twice as large. In each of
these great halls, there are raised orchestras, in which the bands are
stationed; and when one band ceases playing, another is prepared
immediately to begin. Galleries, to which you ascend by flights of stairs
at each end, run round both the rooms; and into these galleries open
innumerable ice and supper-rooms, passages, and out-of-the-way cells,
wherein you may lose yourself, but not your company. Masks are to be found
sitting in every corner; wherever a mask is, there is mischief.

You see nothing vulgar, no rude costume, no monstrous noses, no absurd
pairs of spectacles, or woolly wigs. You hear no boisterous shouts of
mirth; beautiful music reigns incessantly supreme over all other sounds.
Only the ladies are disguised; their faces are hidden behind elegant
little black silk masks, and they vie with each other in the costliness
and beauty of their costumes and dominoes. The men are all in simple
evening dress; they walk about, defenseless game, and yield sport in
abundance to the dames and damsels. Most of the ministers are here--grave,
steady gentlemen, with bald heads or gray hair. Each of them is surrounded
by a swarm of masks--princesses, perhaps--milliners, perhaps--and some of
them are evidently making wry mouths at what they are obliged to hear.
This is the time for home truths. The ladies at a masked ball make good
use of their disguise, and scatter about their wholesome mischief
abundantly.

A vision in black and gold beckons to me. I place myself at her disposal.
"You are an Englishman," the vision says; "I know you." "How, madam?" "By
your awkwardness." "Are Britons awkward?" "Yes, and wearisome. Go, you are
not amusing. Take care of your gloves; they are so large that I fear they
will fall off." The vision laughs at me and vanishes. I have a secret or
two which I don't mean to print. I did think that those mysteries were
locked up in my bosom. If you ever happen to be at Vienna, with some
secrets in your keeping, and desire to