The following notice from a Berlin (National?) newspaper, of February, 1884, which fell into my hands by accident, seems suited to show something of the life and customs of urnings:—
"The Woman-Haters' Ball.—Almost every social element of Berlin has its social reunions,—the fat, the bald-headed, the young,—and why not the woman-haters? This species of men, so interesting psychologically and none too edifying, had a great ball to-day. 'Grand Vienna Mask-Ball,'—so ran the notice. The sale of tickets was very rigorous; they wish to be very exclusive. Their rendezvous was a well-known dance-hall. We enter the hall about midnight. The graceful dancing is to the strains of a fine orchestra. Thick tobacco-smoke, veiling the gas-lights, does not allow the details of the moving mass to become obvious; only during the pause between the dances can we obtain a closer view. The masks are by far in the majority; black dress-coats and ball-gowns are seen only now and then.
"But what is that? The lady in rose-tarletan, that just now passed us, has a lighted cigar in the corner of her mouth, and puffs like a trooper; and she also wears a small, blonde beard, lightly painted out. And yet she is talking with a very décolleté 'angel' in tricots, who stands there, with bare arms folded behind her, likewise smoking. The two voices are masculine, and the conversation is likewise very masculine; it is about the 'd— tobacco, that permits no air.' Two men in female attire. A conventional clown stands there, against a pillar, in soft conversation with a ballet-dancer, with his arm around her faultless waist. She has a blonde 'Titus-head,' sharp-cut profile, and apparently a voluptuous form. The brilliant ear-rings, the necklace with a medallion, the full, round shoulders and arms, do not permit a doubt of her 'genuineness,' until, with a sudden movement, she disengages herself from the embracing arm, and, yawning, moves away, saying, in a deep bass, 'Emile, you are too tiresome to-day!' The ballet-dancer is also a male!
"Suspicious now, we look about further. We almost suspect that here the world is topsy-turvy; for here goes, or, rather, trips, a man—no, no man at all, even though he wears a carefully trained moustache. The well-curled hair; the powdered and painted face with the blackened eyebrows; the golden ear-rings; the bouquet of flowers reaching from the left shoulder to the breast, ornamenting the elegant black gown; the golden bracelets on the wrists; the elegant fan in the white-gloved hand,—all these things are anything but masculine. And how he toys with the fan! How he dances and turns, and trips and lisps! And yet kindly Nature made this doll a man. He is a salesman in a great millinery store, and the ballet-dancer mentioned is his 'colleague.'
"At a little corner-table there seems to be a great social circle. Several elderly gentlemen press around a group of décolleté ladies, who