When a man has not been provided by Nature with more than an average share of personal advantages, that same process of dressing for a ball after a bachelor’s dinner-party is an affair of considerable trouble and dissatisfaction. To devote those minutes, that are wont to pass so pleasantly in the enjoyment of conviviality or repose, to the cares of the toilet, is in itself a sufficient infliction; but the contrast is rendered all the more aggravating by abortive efforts to eradicate the effluvia of tobacco-smoke, to disguise the appearance of satiety, not to say repletion, attendant on four courses and a dessert, with champagne and claret at discretion, and to achieve that general aspect of light and airy gaiety which even middle-aged gentlemen of spherical proportions consider most captivating in the eyes of the fair.

All these difficulties had Mr. Sawyer to encounter on the night of the Harborough Ball.

Yes, the important event had arrived at last, after much discussion by stewards and lady patronesses, and general differences of opinion amongst all concerned. After protestations from some that they could by no means fill their houses, and assurances from others that nothing would induce them to travel such distances by night in bad weather, and declarations from all that, for their own part, they voted the whole thing a bore, the day was at length fixed, the musicians engaged, the supper ordered, and the room prepared.

“It was to be a capital ball,” said one, “comprising the élite of three counties, and at least as many beautiful débutantes.” “There would be nobody there,” vowed another, “but the M.F.H., and the M.P., and old Mrs. Halfcaste, with a bevy of the townspeople.” The room would be cold, prophesied the malcontents; the supper scanty, the roads slippery, and the moon obscured. Miss Cecilia Dove, in talking the matter over with her mamma, inclined first to one, and then the other of these opinions; supporting each in turn with vigour and tenacity. Under any circumstances, however, she had determined to go.

Behold Mr. Sawyer then, in his little smoky bedroom, struggling into a white neckcloth, about ten P.M., and contemplating a pale face and heavy eyes; the unattractive appearance of which he could not wholly attribute to the bad glass which adorned his dressing-table. He was nervous, too, was our friend John Standish Sawyer; unquestionably nervous. Of all nights in his life this was the one when he would fain have borrowed, if he could, the exterior of another hunting-man, a very different-looking person, whom painters strive to represent as worthy to be the Queen of Beauty’s choice, in their embodiment of the hapless loves of Venus and Adonis. Alas! Mr. S. could not conceal from himself that he was anything but a good-looking fellow.

Nevertheless, a plain exterior, like a bad farm, must equally be cultivated at the proper season. Dress works wonders, and the tailor, if you employ Poole, doubtless helps to make the man. Like Brummel, our friend spoilt a good many white neckcloths before he effected the desired tie. At last, however, he got it to his liking, swung himself into a roomy dress-coat—scarlet, with silk lining—and proceeded, not without trepidation, to the scene of action.

Is there any penalty or disgrace attached to the solecism of being earlier than one’s neighbours at ball, concert or other public occasion of festivity? It is wonderful what pains people will take to avoid this appearance of over-punctuality. I cannot call to mind any occasion on which I have thus had the room entirely to myself; nor did I ever meet any one who would confess that he had enjoyed this monopoly of vacuity. And yet somebody must arrive first! I wonder how that desolate one employs the long leaden moments. Does he wander about with his hands in his pockets, trying to look as if he expected something, and scanning the decorations with critical sang froid! Does he fraternise with the musicians, who, drawn up in a row, must present, indeed, a formidable array of eyes to a person of moderate apprehensions, and win their eternal goodwill by performing a pas seul to their voluntary strains? or does he give way to a cowardly despair, and, retreating in disorder, retire incontinently to bed? Probably not the latter, or the ball would never begin.

Mr. Sawyer had none of this to confront single-handed. Loitering about the cloak-room door, he came upon Struggles, Brush, Savage, and Co.; all equally averse with himself to plunge prematurely into the festive scene, and was greeted by the conclave, from whom he had parted about an hour previously, with a boisterous cordiality born of their potations.

“He’s meant!” said one, talking of our friend as if he were a racehorse in strong training, whom each had backed heavily to win. “Got-up to the nines!” exclaimed another, scanning him from top to toe, as an adjutant scans a recruit. “Hang it! Sawyer, you’ve done it to-night!” laughed a third; “they won’t let you out of this alive!” And Mr. S., who rather flattered himself the general effect was favourable, did not quite know whether to be pleased with their approbation or to take huff at their familiarity. Meanwhile carriages were setting down with increasing frequency. The clatter was quite alarming in the paved streets of the little country town; the steam of horses almost obscured the carriage-lamps, and sweet little satin-slippered feet stepped daintily from inside, over an interregnum of wet straw, on to a soppy foot-cloth. When ankles are neatly turned, but not otherwise, it is surprising what a deal of holding-up is required by the compressible and expansive crinoline. Warm greetings and affectionate pressures of the hand were exchanged between such swains as were lucky enough to intercept them and their own peculiar damsels in the passage to the cloak-room, whither the ladies betook themselves forthwith, there to leave their becoming and coquettish little burnouses ere they shook out their canvas and got under sail in all the splendour of fall dress.

Mammas looked approvingly at their bridling daughters, as the latter tripped into the ball-room before them; mammas, the very counterpart of those blooming beauties, had you rolled up two or three into one, but fair-shouldered, brown-haired, and comely yet, as English matrons are, up to a very uncertain period. Papas, with white gloves and red faces, slapped each others’ backs, and talked about yesterday’s gallop. The musicians struck up the prettiest waltz of the last season but one; Major Brush, with unexampled temerity, dashed into the enchanted ring with Lady Barbara Blazer in his arms; Bob Blazer followed suit with flirting Miss Tiptoes. A whirling maze of tulle, and wreaths, and sparkling gems, and perfumed floating tresses pervaded the magic circle; louder pealed the cornet-à-piston, brighter glanced the eyes, faster flew the dancers, the top of the room began to fill, and the ball might now be said to have fairly begun.

It is only your habitual ball-goer, however, who can thus, like some consummate swimmer, dash in with a header and strike out at once into the flood. Less experienced performers may be excused for shivering awhile on the brink. Shy gentlemen congregating round the doorway fitted their gloves on with tedious accuracy, looking over their collars meanwhile at their future partners, with an air of melancholy defiance; the weaker-minded ones informing each other confidentially that it was “going to be a capital ball!” The ranks of these waverers thinned perceptibly though, as the dance wore on, and Mr. Sawyer, who did not waltz, found himself ere long stranded high and dry at the top of the room amongst the grandees; a little bewildered, truly, and lost in such a crowd of strangers, but greatly sustained, nevertheless, by Hope and Bordeaux.

These stimulants, as might be expected, waned simultaneously. Fresh arrivals blocked the doorway; and still she didn’t come! Not she, indeed! Catch Miss Cissy doing anything half so green as arriving early or staying late. No, no; if you want to be sought after, ladies, you must be sparing of your presence and economical of your smiles. There is no dog so obedient as the one you keep sitting up on his hind legs, to beg for a crumb of biscuit at a time.

Mr. Sawyer was in despair. As a stranger, however, he was presented to the grandees, and found himself, he scarcely knew how, engaged to dance “The Lancers” with Lady Barbara Blazer, a formidable beauty, of dashing, not to say, overwhelming manners, and who attributed to extraordinary forwardness, for which she rather liked him, our friend’s confused and half-unconscious request that she would favour him with her hand.

Now dancing was not Mr. Sawyer’s forte, and he had never before attempted “The Lancers.” It is no wonder, then, that the intricacies of that measure should have utterly bamboozled him, or that h............