Esther; Caractacus and Iphigenia; Napoleon and Hermione; The Man in the
Iron Mask and Sappho; Garibaldi and Boadicea; an Arab sheikh and Joan of
Arc; Mahomet and Casablanca; Cleopatra and Hannibal--a resurrected world.
But the illusion is short and slight. This world is very sordid--of
shreds and patches, after all. It is but a pretty masquerade, in which
feminine vanity beats hard against strangely-clothed bosoms; and
masculine conceit is shown in the work of the barber's curling-irons and
the ship-carpenter's wooden swords and paper helmets. The pride of these
folk is not diminished because Hamlet's wig gets awry, or a Roman has
trouble with his foolish garters. Few men or women can resist mumming;
they fancy themselves as somebody else, dead or living. Yet these seem
happy in this nonsense. The indolent days appear to have deadened
hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness. They shall strut and fret
their hour upon this little stage. Let that sprightly girl forget the
sudden death which made her an orphan; the nervous broker his faithless
wife; the grey-haired soldier his silly and haunting sins; the bankrupt
his creditors.

"On with the dance, let joy be unconfined!" For the captain is on the
bridge, the engineer is beneath; we have stout walls, and a ceaseless
sentry-go. In the intervals of the dance wine passes, and idle things
are said beside the draped and cushioned capstan or in the friendly gloom
of a boat, which, in the name of safety, hangs taut between its davits.
Let this imitation Cleopatra use the Cleopatra's arts; this mellow Romeo
(sometime an Irish landlord) vow to this coy Juliet; this Helen of Troy--
Of all who walked these decks, mantled and wigged in characters not their
own, Mrs. Falchion was the handsomest, most convincing. With a graceful
swaying movement she passed along the promenade, and even envy praised
her. Her hand lay lightly on the arm of a brown stalwart native of the
Indian hills, fierce and savage in attire. Against his wild