The atmosphere of the ballroom was infused with the perfumed aroma of the many floral bouquets, and filled with the surpassingly mellifluous sounds emanating from the instruments of a group of elegantly garbed musicians, to whose high-spirited melodies a number of the revellers were already dancing a merry quadrille. Everywhere one gazed, the eye was dazzled with the splendor—the color—the sheer ingenious novelty—of the various costumes. There were richly dressed courtiers and knavish brigands—picturesque Alsatian peasant girls escorted by grinning harlequins—Parisian damsels chatting gaily with portly monks—pig-tailed dairy maids cavorting with moustachioed pirates. Now a Highland lassie would trip past, arm in arm with a jolly sailor; next a plumed and painted Osage warrior would stroll by in the company of a handsome Tripolitan noblewoman. Hamlet, the melancholy Dane, engaged in lively repartee with Julius Caesar; Torquemada stood laughing with King Henry VIII. Pretty feminine costumes of Poland and Italy were much in evidence—the former consisting of bright satin skirts, trimmed with ermine and heavy bullion fringe; the latter of cherry satin, profusely adorned with gilt ornaments, small bows, and tassels.

And seated in the midst of all—occupying her massive throne (which had evidently been transported into the ballroom for this occasion)—was the hostess herself, Mrs. Henrietta Nicodemus, elaborately coiffed, costumed, and made up to resemble a (somewhat overfed) facsimile of the beauteous, if illfated, French queen Marie Antoinette.

The vast ballroom, aswirl with so much life, color, and diversity, offered a singular spectacle, one guaranteed to elicit both wonder and admiration in the observer. Even the most fanciful—the most fantastical—of the costumes, however, did not create the sensation produced by the appearance of my brawny companion in his roughhewn, buckskin garb. From the moment of our entrance, a stir of excitement rippled through the assembled masqueraders, who paused in their activities to gape at the frontiersman in undisguised awe. As we made our way across the floor, I could distinctly hear the delighted gasps—excited murmurs—and awed ejaculations issuing from the lips of the crowd:

“Look!—It is him!—Davy Crockett himself!—The King of the Wild Frontier!”

Within moments, we found ourselves standing before the throne-like chair of Mrs. Nicodemus, who—upon becoming aware of our presence—arose from her seat and regally extended her plump right hand towards the frontiersman, as though offering it for a kiss.

Reaching out and seizing it with his own—far larger—and exceedingly powerful right hand, Crockett gave it an energetic shake. “Evenin’, Miz Nicodemus,” he drawled. “I wish my rifle may hang fire forever if this ain’t a plumb rip-roarious shindig. And don’t you look as purty as a morning glory on a fine, sunshiny day!”