ning them, inventing them, and, above all, wearing them with grace. We have passed the days and nights when we yearned to represent some tragic figure—when to appear as Marie Antoinette or Mary Queen of Scots seemed the pinnacle of delight. Gone too are the times when the representation of the lamp-shade would exhaust the inventive power of the many, and fled are our desires to coquette as a Columbine or flit as a fairy in white tulle.
In an assembly where none are masked, a masked girl may attract conspicuous attention, a monk who never draws cowl from his face may have a following of the curious; she who would dress as Money, in gold or yellow satin, jingling with golden coins, may be assured that she will be run after, and she who represents Cleopatra, or some other Oriental queen, blazing with jewels, will not be allowed to sit in a corner.
An audacious selection is the costume of the Wallflower in gold and brown, which looks its best when made in chiffon and velvet.
As a rule, it must be admitted that the finest fancy dress looks the best, and however charming may be the effects arrived at with muslin, cotton, crepe, and calico, she who stands out in the vast crowd will be she who has the most magnificent clothes. The glories of brocade and satin and velvet will always hold supreme sway, allied to some distinctively grand head-dress elevated from the head on a frame and banded with jewels, with a long diaphanous veil flowing into a sumptuous length of train. The splendidly glorious is only rivalled by the darkly mysterious, and the maiden of the Yashmak, if only she has the liquid
