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Updated: April 30, 2025
It was not Sunday to the throng of masqueraders filling the streets, or the multitude of spectators crowding the balconies and windows of the tall houses on either side of the way.
The streets were rainbow with motley wear and thunderous with the roar and laughter of the crowd, recruited by a vast inflow of strangers; from the windows and roofs, black with heads, frolicsome hands threw honey, dirty water, rotten eggs, and even boiling oil upon the pedestrians and cavaliers below. Bloody tumults broke out, sacrilegious masqueraders invaded the churches.
She thought, too, that the men who did these things the midnight masqueraders were rebels still in their hearts. She called them so in hers at least enemies of the country, striving dishonorably to subvert its laws. She did not keep in mind that to every Southern man and woman, save those whom the national act brought forth to civil life, the Nation is a thing remote and secondary.
The Greek word for goat is "tragos" and the Greek word for singer is "oidos." But how, you will ask, did this noisy chorus of masqueraders, stamping around like wild goats, ever develop into the noble tragedies which have filled the theatres of the world for almost two thousand years? The connecting link between the goat-singer and Hamlet is really very simple as I shall show you in a moment.
They became a race of jesters, moonlight masqueraders, personators of the dead. They instituted clubs and paraded by hundreds, the trained cavalry of a ghostly army organized into companies, battalions, divisions, departments, having at their head the "Grand Wizard of the Empire."
"Bravo!" said the count. "It's like a fête-champêtre! And hear the mandolins! Tra-la-la-la-la! Why, what is it?" She had given a sudden cry and stood staring toward the right at the back of the balcony. Within, the orchestra once more began to play, and, as the strains of music were wafted to them, a host of masqueraders started toward the ball-room.
At a signal agreed upon in the evening the masqueraders come in from the mountains, with the vessels of pitch flaming on their heads, and with all the frightful accessories of noise, motion, and costume which the savage mind can devise in representation of demons.
Under the stairs in a sort of deep cupboard she kept a little bar, whither the supers were wont to descend for drinks between the acts, and seeing that just at that moment there were five or six tall lubbers there who, still dressed as Boule Noire masqueraders, were dying of thirst and in a great hurry, she lost her head a bit.
His mask was a cunning rabbit's head that was drawn down and fastened at the neck by a funny soft tie. Who "Peter Rabbit" was and where he had managed to lay hands on his costume was a matter for discussion that night. The suspense of not knowing who was who ended with the unmasking after the eighth dance, and amid exclamations and little shrieks of laughter the masqueraders stood face to face.
Meek little Oliver Twist, with his big porridge bowl decorated by a wide white band bearing the legend, "I want some more," was also easy to guess. So were "Evangeline," "Carmen," "The Little Lame Prince," "Ivanhoe," "Janice Meredith," and scores of other book ladies and gentlemen. There were a few masqueraders, however, whose fictitious identity was shrouded in mystery.
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