We went to the brilliant ball. There was too much of everything. Too
much light, and eating, and drinking, and dancing, and flirting, and
dressing, and feigning, and smirking, and much too many people. Good
taste insists first upon fitness. But why had Mrs. Potiphar given this
ball? We inquired industriously, and learned it was because she did not
give one last year. Is it then essential to do this thing biennially?
inquired we with some trepidation. "Certainly," was the bland reply, "or
society will forget you." Everybody was unhappy at Mrs. Potiphar's,
save a few girls and boys, who danced violently all the evening. Those
who did not dance walked up and down the rooms as well as they could,
squeezing by non-dancing ladies, causing them to swear in their hearts
as the brusque broadcloth carried away the light outworks of gauze and
gossamer. The dowagers, ranged in solid phalanx, occupied all the chairs
and sofas against the wall, and fanned themselves until supper-time,
looking at each other's diamonds, and criticizing the toilettes of the
younger ladies, each narrowly watching her peculiar Polly Jane, that she
did not betray too much interest in any man who was not of a certain
fortune.--It is the cold, vulgar truth, madam, nor are we in the
slightest degree exaggerating.--Elderly gentlemen, twisting single
gloves in a very wretched manner, came up and bowed to the dowagers, and
smirked, and said it was a pleasant party, and a handsome house, and
then clutched their hands behind them, and walked miserably away,
looking as affable as possible. And the dowagers made a little fun of
the elderly gentlemen, among themselves, as they walked away.

Then came the younger non-dancing men--a class of the community who wear
black cravats and waistcoats, and thrust their thumbs and forefingers in
their waistcoat-pockets, and are called "talking men." Some of them are
literary, and affect the philosopher; have, perhaps, written a book or
two, and are a small species of lion to very young ladies. Some are of