He invites
his departing guests to call again and bring their friends, desiring to
know whether they are pleased; telling that he had a thousand people on
the 4th of July, and that they were all perfectly satisfied. He talks
with the female visitors, remarking on Ellen Jewett's person and dress to
them, he having "spared no expense in dressing her; and all the ladies
say that a dress never set better, and he thinks he never knew a
handsomer female." He goes to and fro, snuffing the candles, and now and
then holding one to the face of a favorite figure. Ever and anon,
hearing steps upon the staircase, he goes to admit a new visitor. The
visitors,--a half-bumpkin, half country-squire-like man, who has
something of a knowing air, and yet looks and listens with a good deal of
simplicity and faith, smiling between whiles; a mechanic of the town;
several decent-looking girls and women, who eye Ellen herself with more
interest than the other figures,--women having much curiosity about such
ladies; a gentlemanly sort of person, who looks somewhat ashamed of
himself for being there, and glances at me knowingly, as if to intimate
that he was conscious of being out of place; a boy or two, and myself,
who examine wax faces and faces of flesh with equal interest.
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