University of Virginia Library

6. VI.
Other Fudges.

I HAVE already spoken of Mrs. Fudge, the
widow, and of her daughters, Jemima and
Bridget Fudge. I now take the liberty of introducing
them more particularly. I feel sure they
will appreciate the honor. They admire literary
people. They adore sonnets. And if the two Misses
Fudge were not rather old girls, there would be no
safety for stray unmarried poets. They would be
carried by storm; particularly by Miss Jemima.

To Miss Bridget, as I have already observed, I
have recommended a cheerful, retired, retail man,
of an opposite lodging. The affair, however, does
not progress beyond the opera-glass already mentioned.

They live humbly, in a street little known. Their
parlors are dingy, but furnished in recherché style.
There is a plaster cast, full length, of Juno; another
of Hebe; attractive figures, both of them. There
is very much crewel-work, for which cousin Bridget
is famous.

Asking my readers up stairs, I beg to present
them to the Misses Fudge, in their chamber. The
thought of this will spread blushes upon their
cheeks. They are seated by the window, commanding
a view of the grocer's window, already
alluded to.

Bridget is busy with her embroidery, relieved by
occasional somewhat frigid glances over the way;
where, presently, the identical grocer and opera-glass
do, singularly enough, make their appearance.
Jemima wonders that her sister can give any countenance
to such awkward attentions. To which
Bridget insists very strongly that such a thought
had never entered her head; that she would not
show enough notice of the gentleman to leave the
window; wonders her sister could have imagined

such a thing; breaks her crewel in her mortification;
hunts over her basket for the right color;
pricks her finger, and relieves herself by an indignant
look at her sister, and another furtive glance
ever the way.

Jemima, meantime, having disposed a stray curl,
which “gives” (as the French say) upon the street
in a killing manner, rests her brow upon her fore-finger
(the ring is a row of pearls), and continues
her reading of Tupper on Love.

The grocer improves the occasion to convey his
hand to his mouth, and to waft what may possibly
be a kiss across the way. Miss Bridget is, of
course, horribly scandalized, blushes very deeply,
glances at Jemima, lights up with a ray of sisterly
affection, and without one thought of meeting opposite
gallantries, conveys her hand innocently to her
mouth, for the sake of drawing her crewel a little
farther through the eye of her needle.

Jemima, meantime, sighing over some exquisite
passage of Martin Farquhar, slightly changes the
position of her fore-finger, so as to smooth the hair
at its parting, employing the opportunity for a very
virtuous glance over the way. The poor grocer
was just then unfortunately returning in a vehement
way what he considered the advances of Miss
Bridget. Jemima is very naturally shocked in her

turn, and vents her excess of indignation upon Miss
Bridget.

The quarrel would undoubtedly have ended—as
such sisterly quarrels usually do—in tears, if at
that very moment the maid had not made her
appearance with a letter for the Misses Fudge.

I know nothing, so far as my own limited experience
of the society of maiden ladies extends, which
so sets in motion the blood of a prudish damsel
upon the wrong side of the marrying age, whether
it be twenty, twenty-five, or thirty (for these things
are regulated more by character than by age), than
the announcement of a letter. Whether it is that
the frail residuary hope seems to lie in that imaginary
form, or what may be the reason, I will not
undertake to say. It is a singular fact.

The letter here in question was addressed in a
manly hand—a strange hand; but, unfortunately,
to the sisters in common. It could, therefore, contain
no express proposal. Much as the sisters were
attached to each other, I cannot but think that this
indefinite mode of address was a source of regret to
both.

Bridget had no doubt of its being from the gentleman
opposite, who had availed himself of this ruse to
open communication with herself. Jemima doubted
as little that it was a waif of praise from some

admirer of her poems, who was desirous of a personal
interview.

After a pleasant sisterly quarrel, it was agreed
that Jemima, being the more literary of the two,
should have the opening of the mysterious paper,
while Bridget should keep an eye over her shoulder,
to see that all went off properly.

“My dear cousins!”

The surprise of such commencement compelled
instant reference to the close of the letter.

“Pshaw!” said Jemima.

“Faugh!” exclaimed Bridget.

The name at the close of the letter was none
other than that of Truman Bodgers.

The letter did not contain the slightest hint of
any elopement; nothing of the kind. It was a
business letter, yet arranged with tact and affection.
I shall give the burden of it in my own way.

I have already spoken of Kitty Fleming, living in
the same town with Truman Bodgers, and niece of
Mrs. Solomon Fudge. I have expressed some
admiration for the young lady named. It is needless,
therefore, to remark upon her attractions: she is
pretty. Mr. Bodgers knows it, and partly out of
real kindness—for he is a man of the old stamp—
and partly out of spite at cousin Phœbe, who has
discountenanced his views, he is desirous of giving

to Kitty a sight of the world, and a little “top-dressing,”
as he calls it, of city life.

With this intent he makes appeal to Misses
Bridget and Jemima, thinking, I dare say, and with
a great deal of discretion, that Miss Kitty will be
eminently safe under their guardianship. Mr. Bodgers
is a shrewd man, and, fancying that opposition
to the plan would come chiefly from the “girls,”
has addressed the daughters rather than the mother:
thinking, very plausibly, that if he could but open
their hearts, the old lady, in virtue of a postscript
relating to “compensation”—“feeling of delicacy”
—“his own lack of family”—“no hesitation, etc.,”
would cheerfully comply.

“It's very odd!” said Miss Bridget.

“Very,” said Jemima.

“Can he think of marrying her, Minny?”

“Nonsense, Bridget: he's forty.”

“Forty's not very old, Minny, dear.”

“I wonder if she's pretty?” said Jemima.

“They say she is: quite pretty, for a country-girl,”
said Bridget, despondingly.

Jemima's face lengthened in the slightest perceptible
degree.

“How can we take her, Bridget dear?” said she.

“To be sure, how can we?” said Bridget, glancing
over the way.

“Possibly she may be a belle,” said Jemima.

“Who knows?” said Bridget, with an air of
resignation.

“That would mortify Aunt Solomon,” said
Jemima, reviving.

“And Wilhelmina,” said Bridget, cheerfully.

“Bridget, dear, I think she had better come.”

The last view of the matter was decisive. The
pretty Kitty Fleming is to be transferred from the
quiet shades of Newtown to the small front chamber
of the Widow Fudge.

Thus, upon one side we have the cheerful Wash.
Fudge in plaid tights, coquetting with the heroines
of the Mabille, while the elegant Miss Jenkins looks
on coldly from the distance.

Upon the other, we have the timid Kitty, making
her entrée upon New York life, supported by the
affectionate sisters, Jemima and Bridget, while the
dashing Wilhelmina appears in the back-ground,
covering gracefully the retreat of Mrs. Solomon
Fudge.