University of Virginia Library

34. XXXIV.
Our Social Republicanism.

WE are all capital republicans—Fudges, Pinkertons,
Spindles, and all of us. Of course
we are. Who doubts it? And there is not a people
on earth who show such tender regard for those
who have the misfortune to be born under a different
regiment, and to wear titles. I may say that
American ladies are conspicuous for this sort of
charity. Orphan-asylums are very well in their
way, and so are schools for the blind; but compare
these objects of benevolence with what is due to a
Baron, or a Count, or a Prince? Think of a man

who has been the slave of courts, who has not
dared to murmur against the smile of a queen! how
our graceful feminine charities flow out towards him,
envelop him, sustain him, and soothe him! Gentleness
forgets itself in a tempest of sympathy, and
modesty flings away its veil in the earnestness of
the sweet alms-giving.

What a brilliant and tenderly-remembered epoch
in the family annals was that, when Lord Morpeth
attended the Pinkerton ball; or when the Baron
of Strelitz-Schwerin took Miss Spindle by the hand
and taught her how to pronounce his aristocratic
name; or when the Prince of Heligoland, in lightish
pantaloons, with a stripe (for all the world just
such as a common man might have worn, so humble
was the Prince), consented to a drive in our family
carriage, and afterwards took tea with the Fudges!

I was once accidentally interested in a poor peasant
family that came from Paisley in Scotland, and
landed in New York with scarce a penny, and three
sick children to provide for. I brushed about among
the wealthy people with whom I was on speaking-terms,
with the hope of raising money for them;
but nobody thought me serious. A happy idea
occurred to me. I dropped a paragraph in a morning-paper,
stating that a poor gentleman of a distinguished
Scotch house, and wearing the title of

Lord Glenartney, had arrived in town, and was,
with his sick family, in extreme want. I brought
the paragraph to the notice of my aunt Phœbe.
She thanked me kindly, and asked if I thought it
would be comme il faut to call, and was particular
to learn the proper hour.

I told her I thought his lordship might consider
it a little brusque, and hinted that, being really in
want, he would not object to a little money coming
from an unknown source. The money was sent;
and my aunt insisted that he should be invited to
dine on his very first going out, with herself. He
did; but being an honest, plain-spoken fellow, the
truth came out. I think my aunt never wholly forgave
me; and never thought a charity or attention
so ill-timed as that to poor Glenartney.

The Pinkertons arranged a little fête at their
“fine country-place,” two miles out, for the Countess
de Guerlin. The invitations were very numerous.
People who were not invited wondered who the
Countess really was; people who were invited, did
not wonder at all. The ladies who had not already
enjoyed that distinction, were crazy to see her.
They had heard she was so elegant, and modest
withal—ready to chat with anybody; replied, it was
understood, with rare condescension, to questions
that were put to her. She had even thrummed an

air on Miss Spindle's piano with the Æolian attachment;
and such playing!

But hours passed, and the Countess did not come.
Could the Countess be ill? It was wondered, in
that event, what physician would be honored with a
call. People talked of what house she would probably
occupy upon the Avenue, in the event of her
remaining. It was hoped she would remain. “What
an accession,” said Miss Spindle, “to our circle!”

Still the Countess did not come. It was remarked,
moreover, that the Fudges, who had been thrown
by accident into relations with the Countess, were
also away. People wondered very much what it
could mean. Miss Pinkerton said she was intriguée
horribly.

Twelve o'clock sounded, and there was no Countess—no
Fudges. A buzzing, vulgar lawyer, whom
people were surprised to see at the fête, and who, it
was understood, had some time acted as professional
adviser of Mr. Quid, hinted in corner groups that
she wouldn't come, in a way that greatly incensed
people.

And the lawyer was right. The Countess did
not come at all. The Pinkertons found the next
day, to their amazement, that the Countess had
sailed under another name in the steamer which
left port on the very noon preceding the fête.

There were other people, trades-people, among
them, who shared the amazement and concern of
the Pinkertons. Mr. Brazitt, however, was cheery
and vivacious. He had “touched” a considerable
proportion of the funds which had been advanced
to the Countess on the strength of her claims to the
large Bodgers estate.

Had Mr. Quid bought off the Countess? Not
he. But he had received a valuable and interesting
paquet per steamer, from his old friend, Mr. Jenkins.
A portion of the contents of this paquet had been
communicated in a quiet way to the Countess, and
had been laid before the Fudges.

The facts made known were not flattering to the
distinguished émigrée. It appeared from the communication
of Mr. Jenkins that the so-called Countess
de Guerlin had been long under the eye of the
Paris police, and was strongly suspected of certain
swindling operations to a large amount, in connection
with a professor of French in the Rue St.
Honoré, and a Colonel Duprez, which last-named
individual was now in custody.

Her history was not a little romantic. She wore
her father's name (excepting the title), although
without any legal claim to it. Her mother, it
appeared, was femme de chambre to the wife of Monsieur
de Guerlin. This maid-servant of Madame de

Guerlin had previously served that lady when she
bore the name of Madame Bodgers, and had superintended
the toilet of the little Mademoiselle Bodgers,
who came, in time, to be Mrs. Quid.

At what precise epoch the escaping Countess
came into the world, whether after or before the
death of Madame de Guerlin, was not known. It
was natural enough, however, that a man of the
catholic social views of de Guerlin, should treat with
a more tender regard his own daughter, though
wrongfully born, than his step-daughter, who traced
her origin to the old scion of the Bodgers house.
And this tenderness will perhaps explain how the
artful Countess was in possession of those pretty
trinkets which told so cleverly upon the sympathies
of my cousin Wash, and which once adorned the
bosom of the widow Bodgers.

Mr. Quid did not grieve over the evidences of
dissoluteness in the character of Mrs. Quid's stepfather;
or, if he did, he found abundant consolation
in other papers accompanying that evidence, to wit:
full testimony from the mairie of the commune, of his
marriage to Miss Bodgers, daughter of the deceased
Samuel Bodgers, late of Newtown, United States
of America.

Mr. Jenkins had executed his task in a business-like
way, and Mr. Quid was grateful.

The Pinkertons, who had bespoken through a
third party (who was to communicate on his own
responsibility with a graceful small writer) a short
sketch of their fête champêtre, countermanded the
wish. The Joneses, who had not been invited, never
ceased their inquiries, through common friends,
about the disposition of the fête; and even carried
their ill-will so far as to speak of it to the Pinkertons
themselves. Of course the Joneses knew what
the character of the Countess was from the beginning.
“Any one who had seen the world must have
known what she was.”

The Spindles removed the Æolian attachment
from their piano. Miss Spindle abandoned French
and pursued German.

Mr. Brazitt, as I have remarked, was cheery and
vivacious; he was the only man, indeed, who seemed
seriously to have enjoyed the visit of the Countess;
and he made use of the whole affair at a political
dinner which came off shortly after, in a strong
speech, illustrating in an exceedingly happy manner
the tendency of true democratic and republican
principles. He was cheered vociferously throughout;
and Mr. Quid, who was present, but somewhat
maudlin with wine, cried out lustily, “Go it,
Brazitt.”

As for our family, they did not bear the departure

of the Countess with the composure they should
have shown. Miss Jemima recalled her little conversazione
with considerable rancor. The old lady,
her mother, said the thought of it made her “kind
o' sickish-like.”

My aunt Phœbe would have borne the sorrow
better, and have shared her mortification quietly
with Wash, if my uncle Solomon had not insisted
vexatiously upon the topic. He regretted the
Countess—exceedingly. He feared Phœbe would
be lonely. He thought the Joneses had not shown
her so much attention as they should have done,
and appealed to Phœbe. He was surprised that
she had not left her cards at leaving; but he supposed
“it was the French way.” He asked if
Phœbe intended to write the Countess; and if so,
in English or in French?

As for Mr. Quid, he did not suffer the cheerful
aspect of affairs to divert his mind from business.
Nothing now lay between him and the full enjoyment
of the Bodgers estate but the will in the
hands of Mr. Blimmer. He did not feel so anxious
for the preservation of that document as upon the
recent occasion of his visit to the office of Mr.
Bivins.

He called his son Adolphus into consultation. In
the course of it, allusion was made to Miss Kitty

Fleming. Adolphus expressed himself sportively,
to the effect that “it was a dull run to pursue that
game any further.”

His father urged great caution until it could be
known what might be done with Blimmer. He was
determined to make a vigorous effort to possess himself
of the paper now in that gentleman's hands.
In case he should fail, Adolphus must perceive that
his chance still lay with Miss Kitty, and, to tell
truth, “she was a pretty enough girl, and he
thought that he might do worse.”

Adolphus thought “perhaps he might.” He
drove out with Arabella Spindle the next day; a
thing he had not done before for a month. She
entirely agreed with him that the Countess was an
odious woman; nothing lady-like about her. They
made themselves, in fact, quite merry in recalling
her vulgarities. They drove until dark. But Mr.
Quid was very agreeable.

“Such a piquant young man!” said she to her
mother.

Mrs. Spindle said he was—very.