“All the people did not dance the Polka,” continued Ellen; “and I was dazzled with the pretty faces, and the wise-looking heads.  Mr. Webster was there, with his deep voice, and solemn brow, and cavernous eyes; and close up to him, where she could not move or breathe, there was a young face, beautiful and innocent as a cherub’s, looking with unfeigned astonishment upon the scene.  There was Gen. Scott, towering above everybody; and Mr. Douglass, edging his way, looking kindly and pleasantly at every one.  There were artists and courtiers; soldiers and sailors; foolish men, beautiful women, and sensible women; though I do not know what they wanted there.  There were specimens of every kind in this menagerie of men and women.  Dear Mr. Weston, I have not quite done.  There was a lady writer, with a faded pink scarf, and some old artificial flowers in her hair.  There was a she Abolitionist too; yes, a genuine female Abolitionist.  She writes for the Abolition papers.  She considers Southerners heathens; looks pityingly at the waiters as they hand her ice-cream.  She wants Frederick Douglass to be the next President, and advocates amalgamation.  I am quite out of breath; but I must tell you that I looked at her and thought Uncle Bacchus would just suit her, with his airs and graces; but I do not think she is stylish enough for him.”

“But, my dear,” said Mrs. Weston, “you forget Bacchus has a wife and twelve children.”

“That is not of the least consequence, my dear madam,” said Ellen; “I can imagine, when a woman approves of amalgamation, she is so lost to every sense of propriety that it makes no difference to her whether a man is married or not.  Now, Alice, I resign my post; and if you have any thing to say I will give you the chair, while I run up to my room and write aunt a good long letter.”

CHAPTER XXIV.

“The afternoon is so delightful,” said Mr. Weston, “that we had better take our ride to the Congress burial ground.  Your time is short, young ladies; you cannot afford to lose any of it, if all your plans are to be carried out.”

The ladies gladly agreed to go, and were not long in their preparation.  Mark was a perfect prince of a driver.  When the ladies had occasion to go into the country, he entreated them to hire a carriage, but he was always ready to display his handsome equipage and horses in the city, especially on the Avenue.

He drove slowly this afternoon, and Mrs. Weston remembered, as she approached Harper’s, that she had one or two purchases to make.  Fearing it might be late on their return, she proposed getting out for a few moments.

A stream of gayly-dressed people crowded the pavements.  The exquisite weather had drawn them out.  Belles with their ringlets and sun-shades, and beaux with canes and curled moustaches.  Irish women in tawdry finery, and ladies of color with every variety of ornament, and ridiculous imitation of fashion.  Now and then a respectable-looking negro would pass, turning out of the way, instead of jostling along.