University of Virginia Library

9. IX.
Kitty and her New Friends.

IT is pleasant to revert again to the modest and
gentle face of our little friend Kitty. My
inclination will draw me toward her, away from the
soberer subjects of my story, very often.

For three or four days she has been in the great
city, wondering, admiring, half sorrowing through
it all. It is so new; it is so strange! The noise
is so great, the people so many, the houses are so
tall!

The Fudges have received her kindly. At least
the widow Fudge, who is such a neat, quiet, old
lady, in black bombazine, with such white collar
and cuffs; and her hair, half grey, is so neatly

parted under a very snowy cap; and then she has
such a kind way—kissing little Kitty first upon the
forehead and then upon the cheek; and then, as if
that were not enough, taking her head between her
hands, and kissing her fairly and honestly, just
where such a face as Kitty's should be kissed.

Beside all, the widow Fudge is such a house-keeper,
with such capital servants, and everything
seems just in the place it should be in, and as if dirt
and disorder could not possibly come near the prim
widow Fudge!

It has frequently struck me that such ladies of
the old school of house-keepers are always in the
luck of finding good servants; whereas, your slatternly,
half-and-half people are always quarrelling
about their slut of a Betty, or a filthy serving-man.

The girls, Jemima and Bridget (rather old girls,
to be sure), are delighted with Kitty. They frolic
around her like playful cats, one seizing her mantilla,
and the other her hat; and again, her gloves,
and her little fur-trimmed over-shoes, and her muff,
until nothing is left of Kitty but her grey travelling-dress
and her own sweet face and figure.
Thereupon nothing is to be done but to kiss over
again (they were not to be blamed), and again and
again, until Kitty was perfectly exhausted of kisses;

utterly rifled, with no strength to receive kisses any
longer; much less to kiss back again.

Whether a little of all this was not undertaken
to pique the worthy Truman Bodgers, Esquire, who
stood by with a very lackadaisical expression—
sometimes screwing up his mouth, from very sympathy,
into a kissing shape—I cannot tell. I know it
is not an unusual artifice to tease quiet bachelors.

Then, Kitty must be shown the room, and the
house, and the little garden in the rear, and the
new books, and the last year's presents, and the fall
style of bonnet, and a new Kossuth work-bag, and
a bottle of Alboni salts, besides a rich bit of crewel-work
of Bridget's, which Jemima classically calls
her magnum opus.

The new masters for Kitty are to be talked over.
There is Monsieur Petit, a Parisian, who is a
delightful little man, and always so cheerful. But
he is not, perhaps, so good a teacher (at least
Jemima, who is a judge of French, thinks so) as
Mademoiselle Entrenous, who has been unfortunate;
was of a noble family; is reduced: and so lady-like,
and with such a melancholy expression of countenance,
that really Jemima quite pitied her, and had
at one time conceived a sort of Damon-and-Pythias
friendship for her, and written sonnets to her, which
Mademoiselle, not being able to read, wept over.

As for music, there was Monsieur Hanstihizy, a
delightful pale Pole, who sang bewitchingly, and all
the girls were dying (so said Bridget) of love for
him. He had been wounded, too—in some action,
at some time, for some very patriotic cause. He
was so conciliating, too; and explained the European
pictures so well. Besides, he had been spoken
of in the Home Journal, and was in the very best
society.

Mrs. Solomon Fudge and Wilhelmina, perhaps to
humor the regard of Mr. Bodgers, and perhaps
from a sense of duty, made an early call upon
Kitty in the claret carriage, with the white horses.
The cousins had not met since they were girls
together, years ago. Kitty could not but admire
the step and manner of Wilhelmina, as she skipped
from the carriage. The aunt and cousin dropped
very elegant, patronizing kisses upon Kitty's forehead
as they met her; hoping she was well, and
thinking she looked very well; and hoping her
mamma was well, interrupted by a sigh from Mrs.
Fudge, and a melancholy ejaculation of “Poor
Susy!” in a tone which might have led a stranger
to suppose that her sister Susy was indeed a very
miserable creature.

The aunt and cousin were glad to see Kitty,
they said; and hoped she would enjoy herself—in a

way that made Kitty very much fear she never
should. Never had Kitty seen such a silk as her
Aunt Solomon was wearing: Aunt Solomon surmised
this, at least, from the expression of Kitty's eyes,
and it pleased her. She felt her heart warming
toward Kitty. Never had Kitty seen such a magnificent
bonnet as her cousin happened to be wearing;
and although she contained her admiration, Wilhelmina
saw it, and felt an inclination toward Kitty in
consequence.

It was a matter of additional surprise to our
country friend that Bridget and Jemima wore a
very subdued and dignified air in the presence of
Aunt Solomon: and furthermore, that they were by
no means so empressées in their manner toward
Wilhelmina as toward herself; a fact which will
puzzle her very much less when she comes to see
more of the world. Mrs. and Miss Fudge would be
very happy to see Kitty at their house, and if convenient,
Bridget and Jemima. At all which,
Kitty, in her naïve manner, expressed herself very
thankful, and “would surely come.” The Misses
Fudge, on the other hand, “would be very happy,”
but looked as if they meant quite differently.

Now, with all the love that Kitty feels she
ought to bear toward her Aunt Solomon and Wilhelmina,
she certainly does experience relief at

their leave-taking; and she thinks of them, thinking
as kindly as she can, “Elegant ladies:” nothing
more can come to Kitty's thought. Courage! Mrs.
Fudge and daughter; you are driving hard in your
claret carriage toward elegant society!

There are neighbors of the Misses Bridget and
Jemima, to whom I have already alluded; especially
the retired grocer opposite. Neither of the young
ladies speak of this gentleman to Kitty—a remarkable
and significant fact.

Their landlord, however, and next-door neighbor,
Kitty has met. He was said at one time to show
attention to Jemima: he probably did not continue
such attention for a long time, as will be inferred
from his usual very characteristic dispatch, herein
exhibited.

His name is Blimmer. Mr. Blimmer is an enterprising,
indefatigable, middle-aged, voluble man.
He is the founder and chief proprietor of that
elegant new town, called Blimmersville, “delightfully
situated upon the shores of Long Island Sound,
at an easy distance from the business part of the
city, and offering a quiet rural home to those whose
avocations or inclinations induce them to leave
behind them, for a while, the dust and heat of the
city, and to enjoy the salubriousness of a rarefied
country air, convenient to accessible salt-water

bathing.” (I have ventured to quote, in this connection,
a few paragraphs from Mr. Blimmer's own
programme.) “A town, it may be remarked,
which is yet honored with but two small and
tasteful suburban residences, but which is on the
highway to prosperity, and will soon be adorned
with a multitude of desirable houses, from the costly
mansions of the opulent to the tasteful humility of
the small trader, interspersed with graceful churches,
and with shops, for all such as prefer to buy their
groceries in the country.”

Mr. Blimmer is an active man—a very active
man. He is never easy, unless under pressure.
He keeps the steam up. If he sits down, he twirls
the chair next him, and talks. If he stands, he
gesticulates violently, and talks. If he rides, he
threshes the reins upon his beast, emphasizes with
his elbows, and talks. He has no charity and no
fellow-feeling for men who sit still. He has always
a pocket full of papers, half of them programmes,
and has always a fuller schedule, more satisfactory,
at the office. He is always on the way to Blimmersville,
or just arrived from Blimmersville. He
cuts his beefsteak into town-lots, and dines and
digests Blimmersville. He is familiar with many
subjects, and talks with great glibness; he makes
every subject bear on Blimmersville. His main

object in life is to interest people in Blimmersville;
not for the sake of profit, but because satisfied that
no man in the world can be thoroughly happy
without buying a lot and building a suburban
mansion (plans furnished gratis) at Blimmersville.
His advertisements are in every ferry-boat, and his
longings are in every breeze that wafts toward
Blimmersville.

He seeks to interest clergymen in the growth
of a new town, where the delights and purity of
Eden will be revived. He offers the clergymen
lots (very eligible) at half-price; and shows, upon
the diagram, the probable site of the church of
Blimmersville.

Mr. Blimmer meets Kitty gladly: he always
meets strangers gladly. He wishes to know if
her mother or father (if living) think of moving
into the neighborhood of the city? He should
be gratified, some pleasant day, in accompanying
her, with her friends Bridget and Jemima, to
Blimmersville. He thinks they would be interested
in viewing the site: “a lovely spot, embracing
wide ocean-views, charming expanse of lawn,
interspersed with diversified copses shading the
meadows, where may be seen at certain seasons
the lowing kine.”

Kitty conceives, from the character of Mr. Blimmer,

her first idea of metropolitan enterprise; very
superior to good, quiet Uncle Bodgers; very to
Harry Flint!

And Kitty is lost in admiration, after only
three days of city life; in admiration of the shops,
the people, the dresses—every thing!

Kitty leans in the twilight upon the back of
her chair, with the hum of the noisy world coming
in a great roar to her ear. And Kitty thinks:
yet very scattered, and wandering, and wayward
is Kitty's thinking.

She thinks of Bridget: how prettily she works
crewel: and if she is not old enough to be married;
and if so, why she has never married; and if
nobody ever loved her; and if nobody does love
in cities (for shame, Kitty!) as they love in the
country.

Kitty thinks of Jemima, the prim sister, and of
the beautiful verses she writes; and why she has
never heard of her verses in the papers; and if
Miss Bremer could write better; and why (if men
dared) Jemima too is not married.

Kitty thinks of Wilhelmina, and of her white
hat trimmed with gorgeous jonquils, and of the
sensation she would make in Newtown, and of the
small sensation she creates here; and she wonders
how much feeling (if any) is at the bottom of all

her manner, and if she could love a kind old mother
like hers, or the neighbors' little children, as she
loves them. Then, this thought seems wrong to
Kitty, and she tries to blot it out, but she cannot.

Kitty thinks of Mrs. Fudge in her morning-wrapper
of such extraordinary colors, and of her
hand buried in lace, and looking smaller for the
burial, and wonders if this is accidental; and she
thinks of her soft carpets, and of her evening-dress,
laced as it was painfully, and wonders if
Mrs. Fudge is, after all, so very, very happy.

Kitty thinks of her dignified Uncle Solomon,
with his white cravat, and his gold-bowed spectacles,
and his even, measured gait, and of his
grunted replies to his wife's questionings, and of
his champagne at dinner; and she tries hard to
fancy how grand it must be to become a great man
in the city.

Kitty thinks of her Uncle Truman, and of that
kind manner of his: always kind through all his
roughness. She recalls pleasantly his good-by;
and how he lingered, and pressed her hand very
hard, and said, “Kiss me, Kit.”

And how she did.

And how he said, “Kiss me again, Kit,” and
how she kissed him again; and after that, he
walked away slowly, always in that queer old

brown surtout; but it wrapped, she thought, the
warm heart of a good man. And she feels in
her pocket for the little purse he had filled so well;
and not for this, save only as a token, her heart
warms toward Truman Bodgers.

Then Kitty thinks of her mother, alone, in the
old house. Oh, sadly alone! Kitty's thought
dies here into a half-sob. The twilight deepens
in the room, and Kitty peoples the coming evening
with old friends;—wandering with them again
through the walks by the old homestead;—picking
roses, eyeing Harry Flint; twisting roses, talking
with Harry Flint; eating roses, listening to Harry
Flint; dropping roses,—all in the twilight, by
the dear old homestead!

And Kitty saddens with the floating thoughts,
and bows her head lower and lower upon the back
of her chair, until sleep creeps over her weary
eyes and brain; and a tangled vision drifts across
her dream, of Mr. Bodgers in a blue coat, with
heavy golden buttons; and of Harry Flint, in
Solomon Fudge's white cravat; and of Mrs. Fudge
and daughter, driving in a claret-colored coach, on
the way toward Heaven.