They have fulfilled a duty. But we have not arrived in Brussels to loiter in churches or discuss theology. "Monsieur and the ladies will go to the ball to-night," said their obliging host to our party. "It is an annual ball," he continued, "given by the Philanthropical Society for the benefit of the poor. Their Majesties, the king and the queen, will honour it with their presence, and it is especially patronised by your fair countrywomen. "Enough," said Mr Bloomfield; "we will certainly go to the ball. To be in the same room with a living king and queen--it is an opportunity by no means to be lost." "And then," said Miss Bloomfield, "it is an act of charity." This species of charity is very prevalent at Brussels. You dance there out of pure commiseration. It is an excellent invention, this gay benevolence. You give, and you make no sacrifice; you buy balls and concerts with the money you drop into the beggar's hat; charity is all sweetness. Poverty itself wears quite a festive air; the poor are the farmers-general of our pleasures; it is they who give the ball. Long live the dance! Long live the poor! They drive to the ball-room in the Rue Ducale. They enter an oblong room, spacious, of good proportions, and brilliantly lit up with that gayest of all artificial lights--the legitimate wax candle, thickly clustered in numerous chandeliers. Two rows of Corinthian columns support the roof, and form a sort of arcade on either side for spectators or the promenade, the open space in the centre being, of course, devoted to the dance. At the upper end is a raised dais with chairs of state for their Majesties. What, in day-time, were windows are filled with large mirrors, most commodiously reflecting the fair forms that stand or pass before them. How smooth is the inlaid polished floor! and how it seems to foretell the dance for which its void space is so well prepared! No incumbrance of furniture here; no useless decorations. Some cushioned forms covered with crimson velvet, some immense vases occupying the corners of the room filled with exotic plants, are all that could be admitted of one or the other. The orchestra, established in a small gallery over the door, strikes up the national air, and the royal party, attended by their suite, proceed through the centre of the room, bowing right and left. They take their seats. That instant the national air changes to a rapid waltz, and in the twinkling of an eye, the whole of that spacious floor is covered thick with the whirling multitude. The sober Mr Bloomfield, to whom such a scene is quite a novelty, grows giddy with the mere view of it. He looks with all his might, but he ought to have a hundred pairs of eyes to watch the mazes of this dance. One couple after another appear and vanish as if by enchantment. He sees a bewitching face--he strives to follow it--impossible!--in a minute fifty substitutes are presented to him--it is lost in a living whirlpool of faces.