One wonders that fancy dress balls are not more popular in this grey
age of ours. The childish instinct to "dress up," to "make
believe," is with us all. We grow so tired of being always
ourselves. A tea-table discussion, at which I once assisted, fell
into this:- Would any one of us, when it came to the point, change
with anybody else, the poor man with the millionaire, the governess
with the princess--change not only outward circumstances and
surroundings, but health and temperament, heart, brain, and soul; so
that not one mental or physical particle of one's original self one
would retain, save only memory? The general opinion was that we
would not, but one lady maintained the affirmative.

"Oh no, you wouldn't really, dear," argued a friend; "you THINK you
would."

"Yes, I would," persisted the first lady; "I am tired of myself.
I'd even be you, for a change."

In my youth, the question chiefly important to me was--What sort of
man shall I decide to be? At nineteen one asks oneself this
question; at thirty-nine we say, "I wish Fate hadn't made me this
sort of man."

In those days I was a reader of much well-meant advice to young men,
and I gathered that, whether I should become a Sir Lancelot, a Herr
Teufelsdrockh, or an Iago was a matter for my own individual choice.
Whether I should go through life gaily or gravely was a question the
pros and cons of which I carefully considered. For patterns I
turned to books. Byron was then still popular, and many of us made