elations of sorrow
and of crime.

THE BAL MASQUE,

In foreign lands, we are told, is something refined and delicate. I have
been to some abroad which certainly were nothing of the kind; but in
England, or rather in London, they are low, blackguard places, whether in
the Holborn Casino, or Covent Garden, or the Grecian Saloon, or Vauxhall,
or at Drury-lane. In 1723 they were put down by government. Steele
wrote of them, that in his time, "the misfortune of the thing is, that
people dress themselves in what they have a mind to be--and not what they
are fit for." I have seen the French men and women at Vauxhall, and if
they do in Paris what they do there--why, then I doubt somewhat of the
superiority even of French Bal Masques. But in England a public Bal
Masque is a disgusting exhibition, to enjoy which every moral sense must
be deadened, and then a man must be drunk and have his pockets well
lined. The rustic flower-girls and simple hay-makers with whom you dance
will drink champagne as if it were ginger-beer, and consume all the
delicacies of the season as if they cost no more than bacon and beans.

The fun, as it is termed, generally commences about 11 P.M., by an
immense mob of costermongers, tag-rag and bob-tail, forming themselves in
a row under the _surveillance_ of the police, to watch and criticise the
appearance of the maskers, and specially to regale themselves with jokes
should any unfortunate do the economical and arrive on foot. I hear
people say they like London--they can do anything they like without being
observed. I doubt that much. I advise the strong-minded female who
tells me that, to walk down Cheapside in a Bloomer costume, and I will
warrant she will have as great a mob accompanying her as followed Kossuth
or any other hero to Guildhall. But to return to the Bal Masque. I
presume the company are arriving and the little boys are cheering, as
only little boys can, right under cab wheels and in between the horses'
legs. Some of the company, to borrow an ancient witticism, go disguised
as gentlemen--some buy a mask at the door for fourpence--others delight
in monstrous noses and fearful moustache--others, especially those who
have fancy dresses, appear as Charles II.s, Cardinal Wolseys,
Shakspeares, Henry VIII.s, Scotch Highlanders, Australian Diggers, Monks,
and look far better when they enter than they do when they make their
exit in the early light of a summer morning. The sam