observation. If we could surpass in its own way every thing which
displeased us, we should make short work of it, and instead of showing
what fatal blemishes deform our present society, we should present a
specimen of perfection, directly.

[Illustration]

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 criticising 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