“Come, Peter,” said the young nabob, introducing his friends, “sit down and tell us what you call the protective scandals. We are all green at Newport.”
“That is a new expwession to me,” said Sir Com, gaspingly as usual. “Pwotective scandals—what does it mean?”
“Strangers,” explained Peter oracularly, “before they are up to trap, are apt to put their foot in it. They need someone to inform them who are the people they must know, whom they may know, whom they may know under penalties, and whom they must not know. They need also a general guide to conversation—to know to whom they shall say, ‘Man is the architect of his own fortunes,’ and to whom, ‘It is a noble thing to be descended from a long line of proud and noble ancestors.’”
“Must we learn the pedigwee of evewybody here?” demanded Ambient, in consternation. “I shall have to cwam like a fellow going up for his gweat go.”
“Ah, there you’ve hit it,” replied Peter. “The actual pedigrees are almost none, thanks to republican institutions. Except a very few families, who have managed to hold together and keep pelf to their names, there are no pedigrees to remember. As a Nation, we have buried our grandfather. Parentage only of everyone is what you must know. We are a religious people,” and he turned his eyes upward whither the ceiling was between him and heaven, and motioned as if to cross himself. “Yes, fervently religious, and have read in Holy Writ that labour was a curse. We have agreed that it ought to be expunged. But as it is almost impossible in general powwow to avoid alluding to some trade or business, the great protective scandal is to know the individual one not to mention to each of these people. They do not wish to be reminded by what especial class of curse their papas were made miserable and millionaire.
“For example,” continued Peter, delighted to have the floor and so select an audience, “that rather long girl, walking with a race-horse stride, is Miss Peytona Fashion. Her parent began his fortune by betting against his own horse. It would be deemed uncivil if you, Sir Comeguys, should stand before her, and with a whiff at her circumambient atmosphere of odours, should ask her if her favourite perfume was Jockey Club.
“So there is hardly one subject that is not taboo with someone. Mrs. De Flournoy Budlong loves not to hear of flowery meads or breakfast called a meal—it seems to let the cat out the bag. Old Flirney, you know, began as a deck-hand on a barrel-barge, and has, turned to the wall in a lock-up in his garret, a portrait of himself shouldering a cask of flour; that portrait is her closet skeleton.
“Ah, I see you have spotted the Southern belle,” added he to Ambient, who was gazing at a dark, luxurious beauty opposite him.
“Spotted her!” echoed the youth, blushing pinkly. “I wouldn’t do it for the wowuld.”
“Oh, I mean remarked her. You’ll learn the language by-and-by. You’re looking at her foot—that’s the pretty one; the other’s enlarged in the joint by dancing. Well, that is Miss Saccharissa Mellasys, the creole belle from Louisiana. You’re an abolitionist, I suppose?”