tucked in his belt. Behind the Druids is the
fat ox, gaily decorated, and led by three
attendants, one of whom is a butcher in his
working dress. The procession is closed by a
grand car, in which a number of ladies and
gentlemen are seated, dressed to represent
Industry and other virtues, followed by some
cavalry, to keep the crowd off.

This procession is marshalled in the courtyard
of the palace; a lively air is played by
its band: a present is made or expected,—
and then it files off, amid the cries of the
crowd, down the Rue de Tournon, on its way
through the Champs Elysées to the slaughterhouse,
near the Barrière de Roule. Yes, to
the slaughter-house! For, after all, those
noble cavaliers with their dancing plumes;
those classic Druids with their solemn looks;
those representatives of virtues, in the car,
are butchers and butchers' daughters! The
procession consists entirely of butchers—and
starts from and returns to a slaughter-house.
The pageant owes its existence to the spirit of
advertising, even at this expensive rate, shown
by a famous butcher in the Rue St. Honoré.
It is he who generally bids the highest for the
prize ox; and the fact that it is his ox which
is generally paraded through the streets
during the carnival days, is said to bring him
considerable custom. It is also reported that
he generally presents the choice parts of this
famous animal to his important customers.

The fun of the old carnival, however, has
now retired from the open streets. The police
still annually issue stringent regulations,
prohibiting all manner of indecorum, and
restraining the old humourists who used to throw
their yearly bag of flour from their window
upon the crowd below. Men will not mask
in the streets with a policeman at their heels.
But, give them free way in a dancing hall,
and it soon becomes obvious that the old
spirit of masked revelry exists still in great
vigour. From the Empress at the Tuileries to
the dame de la halle—free for the day from the
cares of her stall near the fountain—the people
of Paris array themselves in fancy dresses for
the evening dance. This year, for instance,
the Empress wore a Greek costume; the
hotel waiter was, for the night, Richelieu at
least. And thus, when night has fairly closed
in, Paris presents a remarkable aspect. People
of all degrees are flitting about quickly, in
every conceivable variety of costume. The
better classes are seen only through citadine
windows; the poorest, in their white calico
trimmed with red ditto, trudge rapidly on
foot. Balls are going on everywhere, and the
morrow's sunrise will reveal hundreds of
dukes and princes returning to their apartments
on the fifth story with pale faces
and wild hair. The French understand
masks. They generally act well. They take
a joke good-humouredly, and even enjoy it.
We have to add that they are thoroughly
accustomed to masks—and nowhere is life
more wildly burlesqued behind them than in
one of those out-of-the-way balls frequented
by the poorer and less conventional classes.

The room in which the ball is held, has
been described as a curious combination of the
style disinterred from Herculaneum, of the
cave of Ali Baba, the accessories of Paul
Veronese, and the cheap dining salons of the
Palais Royal. On all sides, are flags and
curtains of different colours—on all sides
ludicrous devices, associating the classic with the
modern—an umbrella and a sword being
gracefully hung across a shield, for instance!
In this ball-room are assembled crowds of
people, dressed in costumes the most
incongruous—in caricatures the most absurd.
Here is a pair of cavalry trousers walking
gravely about, surmounted by a helmet; the
hands of the wag inside protruding through the
pocket-holes. This figure is named Colonel of
Carbineers in Lapland . The crowd presents so
many ridiculous figures that it is difficult to
select illustrations. But here is a man who
has confined his attention solely to his hat.
Certainly it is a wonderful affair. Worked
upon it, the student may trace a rich course
of philosophy. Here, as a central design, are
the Death's head and cross bones, and around
are grouped the four aces, knuckle-bones, a
pipe culottée, and a portrait of Henry the
Fourth. In the neighbourhood of this
remarkable hat, wanders one of the many
Mesdames de Genlis figuring about Paris on these
festive nights, with her hands in her trousers
pockets. The Hospodar of Wallachia
approaches (almost buried under the folds of
his enormous turban) the Bride of
Lammermoor, who repulses his advances with
becoming dignity. The pale bride is dressed
in black velvet. A young Albanian goes
quietly about with a pair of false moustaches,
to judge of the effect of the natural pair he
hopes to enjoy some day. He jostles the
Mameluke, who is troubled with a huge pair of
gendarme's boots. This masker growls, then
presses his way forwards through the dense
throng of pierrots, hussars, Knights of Malta
in formidable numbers, Trojan warriors,
troubadours without voices, and statesmen of
all ages without places! The ladies, however,
do not offer that variety of costume which
their cavaliers present. With the exception
of a stray milkmaid or two, and the
discreet dominoes, the fair ladies are generally
pierrettes or débardeurs. The reader may
imagine this wonderful carnival company
forming the first cold quadrille. Here is the
Hospodar of Wallachia leading off the Bride
of Lammermoor; and Count d'Aubusson arm
in arm with the Domino Noir, and Madame
de Geulis takes her hands out of her pockets
to enjoy a quadrille with the Mameluke.

The first quadrille is aquiet affair; the gentlemen
confine their attention to a few heavy steps
by way of testing the floor;—but wait for
the third or fourth quadrille, when carnival
humour is at its height. The pas seul is then
the great opportunity. One gentleman throws