University of Virginia Library

17. XVII.
Squire Bodgers' Mourners.

MR. BODGERS being dead, was mourned
over. Most dead men become great favorites
in society. It is an old story, but worth telling
again in this connection, that nothing so much helps
a man's reputation as—dying. I do not mean to
commend it to my friends, lest I might be thought
invidious and ungenerous. But yet I could lay my
hands upon the shoulders of a great many capital
fellows, whose hopes do certainly lie largest in that
direction, and whose names will scarce be currently
known, or on the lips of men for a week together,

or, indeed, make any deep impression whatever,
until they are cut in marble.

I do not mean, however, to say aught in crimination
or to the discredit of Truman Bodgers. There
were those who spoke in praise of him before,
and with much good reason. But now, all Newtown
repeated his enlogy. The old housekeeper,
who could hardly have survived a week without
some bickering with Truman, now put on as honest
bombazine as ever grew tawny with wear, and said,
with cambric to her eyes, “N'erry a man can fill
the Squire's place.”

And the wicked carpenter next door, who had
often with his plane-iron whisked off a curling
“D—n the old Square!” was now grave and
thoughtful, and said that “few men, in the long
run, were cleverer than Uncle Truman.”

It is well and natural that these honors should
gather about the dead. For what we do that is
wrong and envious springs, for the most part, from
the temptations and bedevilments that belong to
our weak, frail bodies; and when once these are
shaken off, and we have given our low-lived mortality
the go-by, why, pray, should we not be credited
the goodness which belongs to us, and which pertains,
and will pertain evermore, to the ethereal
part that is gone? The hand that smote us, and

the tongue that belied us, and the eye that rebuked
us, are dead: they cannot harm us any longer; nor
any longer can they hurt him who held them, and
who used them with earthy appetites. But the
essence that shone in charity, and that kindled
generous emotion, and that bowed the Man in
silent worship of Deity and goodness, is living still
(who knows how near?) and claims, by all human
sympathy and all spirit-bonds, that we recognize it
kindly.

The country clergyman improved the occasion in
an elaborate sermon; commending the Christian
worth and dignity of the old gentleman who had
been nipped in the flower of his days; making
Squire Bodgers, in short, only less eminent in the
Christian graces and charity than the Napoleon of
Mr. Abbott's history.

The newspapers, moreover—those hasty and
impassioned eulogists of nearly all dead men—
came boldly to the support of Mr. Bodgers' reputation.
“We have again to record,” said they, on
the day succeeding the event, “one of those terrible
calamities which succeed each other with frightful
rapidity, and which call for something far more
effective than a mere outburst of popular indignation.
We trust that an example will at length be
made of those who thus trifle wantonly with human

life. There seem to us, in the present instance, no
palliating circumstances. It is downright murder!
The country demands a thorough investigation; and
woe be to the reckless men who have thus put all
considerations of humanity at defiance! Among
the unfortunate victims, we are pained to notice
the name of that highly respectable citizen of Newtown,
Truman Bodgers, Esq., a most worthy and
valuable member of society. His loss, to his family
and the country, is irreparable. Again we say,
shall the abettors of this infamous outrage be
brought to justice? We pause for a reply.”

Two days thereafter, the newspaper qualifies its
remarks thus: “We understand, from a highly
respectable gentleman who chanced to be on board
at the time of the recent unfortunate casualty to
the steamer Eclipse (we speak of Mr. Blimmer, of
Blimmersville, whose advertisement may be found in
another column), that the boat was making only its
usual speed, and that the fire was one of those
untoward accidents which no human foresight could
possibly have prevented.

“Mr. Blimmer, having exerted himself in a noble
manner on the occasion alluded to, is still suffering
severely. We are informed through him, that Mr.
Bodgers maintained his presence of mind to the
last, and intrusted to him (Mr. Blimmer) sundry

commissions of considerable importance. All the
efforts of Mr. Blimmer to secure the safety of the
old gentleman proved unavailing. We are happy
to learn that Mr. Blimmer is in a fair way of
recovering from the effect of his efforts in behalf of
the unfortunate deceased.

“The paragraph characterizing the accident as
murder, we beg to state, was written in the absence
of the senior editor of this journal.”

Mr. Blimmer, I have already remarked, is a
wide-awake man, and part-proprietor of the steamer
Eclipse. Mr. Blimmer was not familiar with the
family of Mr. Bodgers. The paper in his hands
might be of service—to himself. The hint thrown
out in the “Daily Beacon” might induce some
advances on the part of those interested. It seemed
to him an ingenious way of conducting observations.

Mr. and Mrs. Solomon Fudge lamented the fate
of Mr. Bodgers. And having recovered from their
lamentation, discoursed in this way over the breakfast-table
(Cousin Wilhe being in bed):

Aunt Phœbe.—“Do you know, Soly, if Truman
leaves a large estate?”

Solomon.—“Mrs. Phœbe, I think it must be
large—quite large. The tan-works were profitable,
very. He has a house or two in town, and considerable
stock in our bank.”

“And—Solomon—who—do you think, dear, are
his heirs?”

“Nonsense, Phœbe! as if you didn't know that
you and your sister Fleming were the nearest kin.”

“But if he made a will, Soly?”

“Why, then, he did, my dear.”

“La, Solomon! do you think he did make a
will?”

“How should I know what to think?”

“There, now! so short, and I”—(handkerchief to
face forbids distinct utterance).

“You can't alter the will, if it's made, can you,
Phœbe?” says Uncle Solomon, relenting, and helping
himself to a chicken-leg.

“No, Solomon; who said that I could?”

“Nobody.”

“Well?”

“Well!”

“I hope he didn't, Solomon!”

“So do I, Phœbe, for your sake. You were
never much a favorite with Truman.”

“But he was so vulgar, Solomon.”

“Ah, yes: Newtown man, Phœbe.”

“There now, Solomon!”

The colloquy, however, finally ends in a promise
on the part of Soly to visit Newtown and investigate
matters.

Poor Kitty, with her best friend (saving only her
mother) gone, is quieter and sadder. To her comes
up the thought that she will not see again the kind
old face that smiled on her; that she will not hear
again the kind voice that called down blessings on
her; that she would never welcome him, nor thank
him, nor watch for him, nor meet him, ever
again. Not once, as yet, comes up to her girlish
thought, the reflection that both she and her
mother had been almost dependent on his bounty;
nor once does the sense of any approaching want
disturb her.

Is not the old homestead there, with her hopeful
and welcoming mother, and the trees and sunshine,
and God's providence over each and all?

Our best mourners will prove, ten to one, the
quietest ones; and they whose tears will be better
than masses performed for the gentle rest of our
souls, will weep silently and out of sight.

But it did flash over Kitty, as she struggled with
her grief, that she could stay no longer in the town,
but must go back now to cheer the old homestead.
And there were unpleasant thoughts joined to this
leave-taking. The town grows strangely upon the
affections of an impulsive, enthusiastic girl. Even
its glitter and show flatter the eye, and woo the
fancy strongly.

The Mr. Quids are not wholly despicable characters;
far from it. They possess considerable tact
and grace, and very great knowledge of dress.
They are not unfrequently possessed of an easy and
trifling amiability, such as finds an approach to the
hearts of innocent girls.

It must be borne in mind, moreover, that the
spinster cousins, the amiable Miss Jemima and Miss
Bridget, were naturally enamored of young men in
fashionable life, or of those who appeared to be in
fashionable life; and it is not hard to believe that
they should have transferred a portion of this
enamored feeling into the bosom of pretty Kitty
Fleming.

Nor, to tell truth, was Kitty very hard-hearted;
she had a great deal of kindness in her composition—kindness
to Uncle Solomon, kindness to me,
kindness to young men in general. It was not
altogether strange that she should feel kindly, then,
toward a genteel young fellow who left bouquets at
her door, such as would have utterly astonished the
whole village of Newtown, and who, on one or two
occasions had been instrumental, as she learned, in
a very pretty serenade, which quite startled the
spinster cousins, and which was the means of giving
the grocer opposite an unusual view of Miss Bridget
in her night-cap. I would not give a fig for a girl

who has not her own share of pride; and Kitty had
this; and she had felt it mortified sometimes by the
bearing of Aunt Phœbe and Wilhelmina; and it
was a good offset to this hurt feeling to have
stolen away the most stylish of Cousin Wilhe's
admirers.

Not that she would really harm Cousin Wilhe:
but then there was a little gratification, when walking
with Adolphus Quid, to meet with her showy
cousin: and pray, what young girl of eighteen
would not have felt the same?

Adolphus, too, was rather a pretty name. Not
so bluff-sounding as Harry Flint, for instance; nor
so honest-sounding, perhaps: but, as Bridget said,
a “sweet name.” In French, too, which she was
studying, it rendered up gracefully into Adolphe,
which agreed with that of a good many lively
heroes of novels, with which girls studying French
are apt to become acquainted.

Now I do not positively affirm that all this train
of thinking passed through the mind of little Kitty,
as she mourned and speculated upon her uncle's
death: but association is a strange thing, and sets
our imagination gadding often in strange quarters,
and often breeds fancies which sooner or later turn
into feelings and resolves. I do not think any such
matter of Kitty. I am sure that she was very discreet;

and that she mourned heartily and bitterly;
and paid very little heed to the next bouquet from
Adolphus; and did not triumph so much over Wilhelmina;
and tried harder than ever to love her
aunt Phœbe; and looked sweetly in her black
bonnet; and cried like a child at the grave of poor
Truman Bodgers.

Mr. Quid, Senior, bore the family bereavement
differently: I say family bereavement, meaning our
Fudge bereavement. Mr. Quid, Senior, appeared,
however, much interested in the lamentable event.

“Gad!” said Mr. Quid, as he read the announcement
of Mr. Bodgers' name in the list of the lost;
“the old man is gone at length. Good!”

“It's an ill wind,” says the proverb, “that helps
nobody.” Mr. Quid appeared excited, and walked
his little room, ruminating deeply. Not that the
demise of Mr. Bodgers brought home to him any
thought of his own possible death: he was not the
man for such imaginative forays.

He did, however, set about a very earnest examination
of certain packages of letters which lay in
an odd corner of an old secretary that equipped his
chamber. Some few of these he laid aside with
much evident glee; now and then rubbing his
hands, as he met, perhaps, with some special phrase
of endearment; and throwing aside others which,

if truth were known, showed even more tenderness
of expression, with a shrug of indifference.

After spending a good half day in this sort of
mourning over the luckless souls who had gone to
the other world under command of Captain —,
Mr. Quid, Senior, dropped a little note to Mr.
Quid, Junior, asking him, in an affectionate way,
to come and see him quietly on very important
affairs.

I shall not undertake to say here what was the
result of this interview, save that Mr. Adolphus
left in very cheerful spirits, and taking a buggy
next morning, drove out to the quiet country village
of Newtown.

Nothing was more natural than that a young
gentleman of Mr. Quid's brilliant exterior should
make a stir in the little village of Newtown; and
when it was understood that he was making inquiries
in regard to the business and habits of the late
Squire, curiosity and expectation were on tip-toe.

Good Mrs. Fleming was not without her conjectures
upon the subject: and they were such as
might naturally have been expected from a very
worthy old lady, who loved her daughter worthily,
and was very ignorant of the world. Now Miss
Kitty's letters to mamma had not been without
their mention of Mr. Adolphus Quid, “an elegant

young man, who was very kind, and who visited
frequently the Misses Fudge.” It is true there
was no enumeration of the bouquets which he had
sent, or, indeed, of those particular attentions which
Kitty (natural-acting girl that she was) chose to
keep the record of in her own bosom.

Nevertheless, good old Mrs. Fleming, associating
the name in Kitty's letters with the elegant young
gentleman who, upon the report of Miss Mehitable
Bivins, had just come out to Newtown, had no
manner of doubt that, being deeply interested in
Kitty, and foreseeing that Kitty would be interested
in the settlement of Mr. Bodgers' estate, he had
come to Newtown to confer with herself, and to do
whatever might be needful and gentlemanly and
son-in-law-like under the circumstances.

Acting on this suggestion, Mrs. Fleming arrayed
herself in her best bombazine, new-dusted her little
parlor, reärranged the books upon the teapoy, and
waited the arrival of Mr. Quid.

Mr. Quid, in utter innocence of these motherly
arrangements was meantime making inquiries after
the legal adviser of the late Squire Bodgers, and
presently after called a most extraordinary blush to
the cheek of the somewhat lean Mehitable Bivins,
by appearing, with his short, ivory-headed cane, at
the gate of her father's yard. Mehitable accomplished

her Sunday-school toilet in an incredibly
short time, but to very little purpose. Mr. Quid
desired only to see the Squire on business, and was
directed to the office previously described.

The Squire received his city visitor after his
usual manner, and relieving himself of a considerable
excess of tobacco-juice, he beckoned to a chair
opposite.

Mr. Quid. (with the ivory head of his stick at his
lips).—“Mr. Bivins, I believe, sir.”

Squire.—“That's my name, sir; yes, sir” (raises
his spectacles to the top of his head, and pats his
wig behind).

Quid.—“I believe, sir, you were legal adviser of
Mr. Bodgers?”

“Did some bizness for the Squire; yes, sir”
(looking now very narrowly and curiously at the
stranger).

“He leaves, I understand, a large property?”

“Well, yes; the Squire was a fore-handed man—
well off.” (Tobacco-juice among the ashes.)

“He left no direct heirs, I believe?” says Mr.
Quid, interrogatively.

Bivins stirs himself slightly in his chair, pats his
wig, seems to possess himself of a new idea, and
resumes the colloquy, thus:

“Well, no, I guess not; not, as you might say,

in a direct line!” And Mr. Bivins, perhaps at
thought of the stately Mehitable, winces at his own
joke.

“Ha! ha!” says Mr. Quid; “very good, Mr.
Bivins, very good!” Upon the strength of that
complimentary sally, and the encouraging twinkle
in Mr. Bivins's eye, he goes on to say to Mr. Bivins
that he is interested to some extent in the estate,
and as he shall have occasion for the professional
services of Mr. Bivins, he begs to hand him now a
small retaining fee.

Mr. Bivins, in a little wonderment, removes his
spectacles from his head and lays them in a careless
way upon the top of the bill which Mr. Quid has
placed upon the table, as a sort of conditional
retainer on his part—of the money.

“And now, Mr. Bivins,” says Quid, “will you
be kind enough to tell me if Mr. Bodgers made any
Will, to your knowledge?”

Mr. Bivins looks carefully at Quid, at his cane,
his moustache, pats his wig, considers for a
moment, and—is interrupted by a smart but
formal rap at his office-door.

The new-comer was no less a personage than
Mr. Solomon Fudge. Mr. Bivins knew him at
a glance: he dusted his arm-chair with his pocket-handkerchief,
and begged the Squire would be seated.

“Perhaps you are engaged, Mr. Bivins?” said
Uncle Solomon, in his stately way, at the same
time giving a formal nod of recognition to young
Quid.

“Oh dear me, not at all, Squire; glad to see
you. Sad thing this, about Uncle Truman.” And
he removes his spectacles from the bill of Mr. Quid,
as a kind of tacit relinquishment of claim until he
shall have understood the business of the rich
Mr. Fudge.

Now Mr. Solomon Fudge has occasionally caught
sight of Mr. Quid within his own door, and has
heard, moreover, somewhat of his wife's gossip
about his attentions to their country-cousin, Kitty.
Hence, it occurs to him that he must be making
private inquiries about Kitty's chances in the old
gentleman's estate; and acting upon this thought,
he enters formally upon his business with Mr.
Bivins—“presuming that Mr. Quid, from some
reports that he has heard in connection with Miss
Fleming, is kindly looking after her interest in the
estate of his kinsman, Mr. Bodgers.”

A new light suddenly illumines the countenance
of the cautious Mr. Bivins; and replacing his
spectacles upon the bill, he prepares to give the
gentlemen just so much of intelligence in respect to
Mr. Bodgers and his property, as will pique their

curiosity and make his exertions desirable and
necessary throughout.

“A large estate, gentlemen, very large; and the
Squire consulted me freely; indeed, I may say that
I drew up some papers of importance, with
reference to his estate, which I guess we shall find
at the homestead. What do you say, gentlemen,
to calling down at the old place?”

And Mr. Bivins, throwing the bill adroitly into
the table-drawer, and turning his key, accompanies
Mr. Solomon Fudge and Adolphus Quid to the late
home of Truman Bodgers.

They are the two last men in the world that the
old gentleman would have chosen for such a visit of
inquiry. But in dying, we have to give up not only
our characters, but our papers, to the prying eyes
and the careless hands of the world: it is well
to keep both in order. Death, as Cicero says, in
the motto I have put at the beginning of the
chapter, is a very bad matter: both for those who
have gone through it, and for those who have it to
go through.