e fancy
balls of the period, and the Gilbert-Sullivan opera "Patience," supplied
many a costume. My brother "special" on this occasion--Lewis
Wingfield--was a Crichton of eccentricity. The son of an Irish peer, an
officer in the Guards, he dressed as a ballet-girl and danced on the
stage; was a journalist and wrote for Charles Dickens when that great
novelist edited _Household Words_. Wingfield never did anything by
halves, so in writing a series of articles for Dickens on the casual
wards of London he personated a street photographer (having delicate
hands he could not pretend to be a labourer), and wrote his experiences
of the dreadful state of affairs existing in those days under the rule
of Bumbledom. The last he sought relief at was situated close to Golden
Square. Here he was very harshly treated, and when he left he rapidly
changed into his usual clothes, drove up to the establishment as one of
the life patrons (all his family had for years supported the charity),
and had the satisfaction of dismissing the overbearing overseer, to the
wretch's chagrin. Wingfield related this incident with great glee.

[Illustration: AT A FANCY DRESS BALL.]

Anxious to find out the amount niggers made on the Derby Day, he decided
to go as a burnt-cork nigger himself; but it is impossible to do this
unless you are of that ilk, for like the business of the beggars and
street performers, everything is properly organised; there is a proper
system and superintendent to arrange matters. After some difficulty he
managed to get introduced as the genuine article, and at 4 in the
morning had to stand with the other Ethiopian minstrels at "Poverty
Junction," between Waterloo Bridge and Waterloo Station, while lots were
drawn for positions on the course. As luck would have it, Wingfield drew
a pitch opposite the Grand Stand, where at least he would be among his
own acquaintances. All the niggers had to walk to Epsom, unless it
happened some friendly carter could be induced to offer a seat. Had
four-in-hands come along Wingfield might have been saved a walk, but
costers were to him unknown. By lunch-time he was heartily sick of his
new life. However, he was determined to carry it through. In the
evening, after his long, hot day's work, he found he had to wait for the
policeman's train. After the half-million people had returned to London,
he was allowed to crawl into a carriage, and being thoroughly tired he
fell asleep in a corner of the com