During the many years I have passed in Italy, I have never seen above three instances of drunkenness in the streets, but this evening I was unfortunate. My chair swayed about from side to side, as if I were in a steamboat, and at last came to a dead stop, and our faithful servant Henry, who was walking by my side, lifting up the top and opening the door, informed me of the reason, while turning to the chairmen he heaped upon them in his very best Italian a storm of indignant invectives, at the same time sending back the more sober of the two to the hotel, to summon another pair of bearers. Issuing from the sedan, in all the splendour and magnificence of a Turkish Sultana with an entire mask, I began to add my indignant rebukes to those of Henry, when the ludicrousness of the position came home so forcibly to me that I stopped in my harangue. Glittering with gold and silver and false jewels, and of the commanding stature of five foot nothing, I must have greatly impressed those guilty men. Remembering, however, that my “paper face,” as the Italians call an entire mask, was expressive of inane good humour and the blandest of smiles, I came down from my pinnacle of sublime virtue, and retreated into my chair until the appearance of my new bearers. Arrived at the theatre, and joined by our cavaliers, we mixed in the motley throng on mischief bent. [Sidenote: A MASQUERADE] My companion, being one of the leaders of society, who knew all about everybody and everything in that society, was of the greatest use in prompting my sallies and in enlightening me when I was at a loss. “Do you see,” I said, “that officer who is following us, and who looks at me every now and then in the most threatening manner? I do not know him, and he evidently takes me for somebody else.” “Yes,” replied Count Camille, “I think I can explain it? He is very much attached to a French lady, who is about your size, and I think he has mistaken you for her. She is a clever little women and writes poetry.”