BORROWING.
Any article you are likely to want on more than one occasion, it is
better to buy than to borrow. If your own, you can have it always at
hand: you will lay yourself under no obligation to a lender, and incur
no responsibility as to its safety while in your possession. But when
you _do_ borrow, see that the article is speedily returned. And, under
no consideration, take the liberty of lending it to any person whatever,
before restoring it to the owner. Apologies and expressions of regret
are no compensation, should it be out of your power to replace it if
injured or lost.
When you ask to borrow a thing, do not say, “Will you _loan_ it to me?”
The word “loan” is, by good talkers, and good writers, never used but as
a substantive: notwithstanding that Johnson gives it as a verb also, but
only on one obscure authority—and Johnson is not now regarded as
infallible. To _lend_, not to _loan_, is the usual and proper
expression. As a substantive it is generally employed in a commercial
and political sense, or to denote a large sum borrowed for a public and
important purpose. It is true you can say, “May I request the loan of
your fan?” “Will you permit me to ask the loan of this book?” But it is
much easier and smoother to say simply, “Will you lend me your fan for a
few minutes?” “Will you be kind enough to lend me this book?”
No articles, perhaps, are more frequently borrowed than umbrellas, and
none are returned with so little punctuality. Frequently, a borrowed
umbrella is never thought of by the borrower, till after the weather
clears up; the lender, most probably, suffering inconvenience for want
of it. Often it is detained till the next rain, when the lender has to
take the trouble of sending for it. And then it is very possible it may
not be found at all; some person in the mean time having nefariously
carried it off. In such a case, it is a matter of common honesty for the
careless borrower to replace that umbrella with a new one; as she is not
to suppose that empty expressions of regret or unmeaning apologies will
be sufficient compensation for a substantial loss.
To avoid any difficulties concerning umbrellas, it is safest, in cloudy
weather, not to leave home without one. Many persons venture out beneath
a threatening sky, unwilling to encumber themselves with an umbrella,
which (possibly) they may not chance to require before they got home.
Their dependance is on stopping in at the house of a friend, and
borrowing one there. But is it not better to incommode yourself a little
by carrying a closed umbrella, even if you should _not_ find occasion to
use it, than to hasten rapidly through the street to reach a shelter
when you find the rain beginning to drop; and afterwards to deprive your
friend, even temporarily, of an article which the wet weather may render
it inconvenient to spare. Also, you may be caught by a sudden shower, at
a considerable distance from the dwelling of the person with whom you
are acquainted, and you may find the omnibuses all full, (as they
generally are when it rains,) and no other vehicle in sight. Therefore,
when the wind is in a rainy quarter, and the sky louring, be always on
the safe side, and take an umbrella with you on leaving home.
Every lady should own a small light umbrella, or else a very large
parasol, of extra size, covered with strong India silk that will not
easily tear or fade, and that may be used, on occasion, for either sun
or rain; and that will not be cumbrous to carry, though quite large
enough to shelter _one_ person. In truth, we have found but few
umbrellas, however large, that could effectually cover _two_ persons
(unless they were people of very small size) so that the rain did not
drop upon the off-shoulder of one or the other. You cannot be well
screened by an umbrella, unless you carry it all the time steadily in
your _own_ hands, and over yourself alone. And politeness requires that
you should give your companion the best of the shelter. So when two
ladies go out together, the clouds portending rain, let each take an
umbrella for herself, and then much injury to bonnets and shawls may be
avoided.
These small light umbrellas are excellent to travel with, and especially
useful in the transit from car to steamboat, or even from the house to
the carriage. When not in “actual service,” keep this umbrella beside
you with your shawl and your travelling satchel. It will be useful
during the journey, if packed away in a trunk.[15]
When you purchase an umbrella, desire that, before sending it home, your
name be engraved on the little plate at the termination of the handle,
or else on the slide. “To make assurance doubly sure,” you may get the
name painted in full in small white or yellow letters on the _inside_ of
one of the gores of silk. These letters will not be conspicuous on the
outside, but they will always serve to identify the umbrella. Your
residence (if permanent) may be added. When about to travel, sew a small
card with your address near the bottom of one of the gores inside. This
card may be changed when staying at a new place. With these precautions,
and a little care, (unless you are habitually thoughtless and
forgetful,) you may carry an umbrella from Maine to Florida without
losing it.
All the members of a family should be provided with at least one
rain-umbrella of their own, and these should be kept up-stairs when not
likely to be wanted. There is always great danger of their being
purloined, or _borrowed_, if left in the hall. Persons who would not,
for the world, be known to pilfer a single cent, are by no means
particular with regard to detaining an umbrella or a book.
Umbrellas for the kitchen can now be had as low as seventy-five cents,
or one dollar. If of coloured cotton (brown or blue) and highly glazed,
they will turn off a moderate rain very well, but a drenching shower may
cause the dye or colouring to run in streams. For very common use,
though higher in price, the best are of oil-cloth, or of brown
unbleached linen. The handsomest umbrellas are of blue or brown India
silk, with steel frames, and a small silver name-plate on the handle. A
green silk umbrella will soon be spoiled by the rain, and none look so
badly in a short time. We have known a lady’s bonnet entirely ruined by
the drippings from a green parasol, hastily put up as a small screen
from a sudden shower. No colour stands the sun and damp so badly as
green.
After borrowing an umbrella, fail not to send it back immediately,
unless you have previously ascertained from the owner that it will not
be wanted for two or three hours. In that case, you will have time to
dry it before it goes home; and this should be done as soon as possible,
that it may be returned in good order. If left in the entry or hall, it
may be carried off; or, in plain words, stolen. Let it be dried under
your own inspection, spreading it wide open, and standing it on the
floor. If dried fast, and in an expanded position, the wetting will not
perceptibly injure it. But if left shut and standing up closed, with the
wet soaking into the umbrella, it will dry in discoloured streaks, and
be spoiled. If the spring or any other part of a borrowed umbrella gets
broken or injured while in your possession, be sure to have it repaired
before sending home. There is a meanness verging on dishonesty in
leaving this to be done by the owner.
If the cheap or common umbrellas are given up to the care of the
domestics, and kept in the kitchen, in all probability they will soon
disappear altogether, and be no longer forthcoming when wanted. They
will lend them to their friends, and lose them in various ways. The
umbrellas should be kept in some small room or closet up-stairs; and
when required, the servants should come and ask for them; bringing them
back when done with, and dried.
When you go out to tea, even in a summer evening, carry a shawl on your
arm to throw over your shoulders before coming out into the night air.
This will preclude the necessity of borrowing one of your friend, should
the weather have changed and grown cooler. Also, to prevent any risk
from damp pavements, take with you a pair of over-shoes, (India-rubber,
of course,) or else a pair of inside-soles, such as you can conveniently
slip into your pocket. We have found no inside-soles equal to those of
lamb-skin with the wool left on the upper-side; the under-side of the
skin being coated with India-rubber varnish to render them water-proof.
These soles are both warm and dry, and are far pleasanter than cork
soles covered with flannel, and more lasting. But if you are obliged to
borrow things to wear home, see that they are sent back next morning, if
not the same evening, and in good order—the shawl well-dried from the
damp, and folded smoothly, and the over-shoes cleaned nicely.
Always take a fan with you on going to a place of public amusement. You
will be sure to require it, and it is better than to depend on fanning
yourself with the bill or programme, or borrowing the fan of a more
provident friend, and perhaps forgetting to return it.
With regard to the practice of borrowing articles of household use, it
is generally a custom “more honoured in the breach than the observance,”
particularly when living in a place where all such things can be easily
obtained by sending to the shops. There are persons who, with ample
means of providing themselves with all that is necessary for domestic
service, are continually troubling their neighbours for the loan of a
hammer, a screw-driver, a gimlet, a carpet-stretcher, a bed-stead screw,
a fluting-iron, a preserving kettle, jelly-moulds, ice-cream freezers,
&c. &c. If these or any other articles _must_ be borrowed, let them be
returned promptly, and in good order.
If, in consequence of the unexpected arrival of company, any thing for
the table is borrowed of a neighbour, such as tea, coffee, butter, &c.,
see that it is punctually returned; equal in quantity, and in quality;
or rather superior. Habitual borrowers are very apt to forget this piece
of honesty, either neglecting to return the things at all, or meanly
substituting inferior articles—or perhaps laying themselves under such
an imputation without actually deserving it, should the lender be
ill-natured or untruthful. There is a homely proverb, “To go a-borrowing
is to go a-sorrowing.”
We have been told of a very aristocratic but very economical lady, in
one of our large cities, who was in the almost daily practice of
borrowing things of a neighbour to whom she never condescended to speak.
On one occasion she borrowed the use of that neighbour’s fire to roast a
pair of fowls.
Avoid borrowing change, or small sums. It is possible that you may
really forget to repay them; but then it is also possible that you may
be suspected of forgetting wilfully. So do not trust much to your
memory. It is a true remark, that there are few instances of a borrower
being so oblivious as to offer twice over the return of a small loan,
forgetting that it had been paid already.
In borrowing a dress as a pattern, it is safest not to try it upon
yourself, lest some part of the body should be stretched or frayed.
Also, in trying on a bonnet or cap that is not your own, refrain from
tying the strings; as every tying will give them additional wrinkles or
rumples, and perhaps somewhat soil them. Never put on another person’s
gloves.
Should you be staying at a boarding-house, do not depend on “the lady in
the next room,” or any other lady, to lend you things which you can
procure quite as easily as she can. Keep yourself always provided with
pen, ink, and paper, envelopes, wafers, sealing-wax, pencils,
post-office stamps, &c. Also with sewing implements.
When a friend lends you a handkerchief, a collar, or any other washable
article, see that it is nicely washed, and done up, before returning it
to her,—and do so promptly. If an article of jewellery, carry it back to
her yourself, and put it into her own hand, to preclude all risk of
loss. She will not be so ungenerous as to tell any person that she has
lent it to you; and will for a while afterward, refrain from wearing it
herself, in any company where it may be recognized.
Should a visiter accidentally leave her handkerchief at your house, have
it washed and ironed before restoring it to her.
On borrowing a book, immediately put a cover upon it—and let the cover
be of clean, smooth, white or light-coloured paper. What is called
nankeen paper is best and strongest for this purpose. Newspaper, or any
paper that is printed, makes a vile book-cover. Beside its mean and
dirty appearance, the printing-ink will not only soil your own hands
while reading, but will do more injury to the binding than if it was
left uncovered.
To cover a book neatly—take a sheet of nice paper of more than
sufficient size, and lay the book open upon it. Cut a notch or
indentation at the top and bottom of this paper, so as to admit the back
of the book, making the notch exactly the width of the back, and two or
three inches deep. Fold down the edges of the paper straightly,
smoothly, and evenly, over the edges of the binding or cover. Fold the
corners of the paper nicely underneath, (trimming off the superfluous
paper that turns under,) making them lie as flat as possible. You may
secure all the folds at the corners with small wafers, pins, or
paste-cement. If you use pins, take care to stick them so as not to
scratch the inside of the binding, or to prick and tear the fly-leaves.
The paper cover should not only be strong, but smooth also; if coarse
and rough, it will injure the binding. When you send the book home, put
it up neatly, so as to make a well-looking package; secured with either
a string or a seal, and direct it to the owner.
If the book is a pamphlet, and the sewing-thread gives way, sew it
again, with a large needle and a strong brown thread—not white cotton.
If not sewed immediately, it will fall apart, and some leaves may drop
out, and be lost. If, by any unlucky accident, a leaf is torn, lay the
two pieces nicely together, and sew them, lightly, with a rather fine
thread. But if one side of the torn page is blank, it will be best to
mend it by pasting a small narrow slip of white paper underneath, so as
to unite the torn edges neatly.
You may have excellent paste or cement, continually at hand, by buying
at a druggist’s an ounce of the _best and cleanest_ gum tragacanth, with
a little bit of corrosive sublimate not larger than a grain of corn, and
dissolving them in a large half-pint of clear water, either warm or
cold. Pick the gum tragacanth very clean, freeing it carefully from all
dust and impurities. Put it with the corrosive sublimate into a white or
queensware vessel having a close cover, and holding a pint, to allow for
swelling. Pour on the water; cover it closely; and stir it _with a
stick_, several times during the day. When sufficiently dissolved, the
paste will be smooth throughout. The corrosive sublimate will cause it
to keep good for a year or more; and it is an excellent and most
convenient cement for all purposes, from wall-paper to artificial
flowers. It must on no account be kept in a metal vessel or be stirred
with a metal spoon, as it will then turn black. No house should be
without this paste—and it should find a place in every library and
office. When it is nearly used up, and becomes dry at the bottom, pour
on a little water, and it will dissolve again.
Make no remarks with pen or pencil on the margin of any book that does
not belong to yourself. Whatever may be your own opinion of certain
passages, you have no right to disturb other readers by obtruding upon
them these opinions, unasked for. The pleasure of reading a book from a
public library, is frequently marred by finding, as you proceed, that
some impertinent fools have been before you, and scribbled their silly
comments all through; or indulged in sneers and vituperations directed
at the author. You may lessen this annoyance by turning over all the
leaves before you begin reading, and erasing all the marginal remarks
with India-rubber; and this will also be an act of kindness to the next
reader after yourself. When written with ink, (as is often the case,)
there is no remedy; and you must endure the infliction of being annoyed
throughout the book by these gratuitous criticisms. In a book, even
belonging to yourself, it is well to use the pencil sparingly; and only
to correct an error of the press, or a chronological mistake of the
author. All readers like to form their own opinions as they go along,
without any prompting from those who have preceded them.
Never, on any consideration, allow yourself to lend a borrowed book. If
requested to do so, it should be a sufficient excuse to say that “it is
not your own.” But if still urged, persist in declining steadily; for it
is a liberty you have no right to take with any article belonging to
another. Even if the owner is your sister, you should lend nothing of
hers without first obtaining her permission. Whatever you borrow
yourself, should pass safely from your hands to those of the owner. If a
friend of yours is very desirous of reading a borrowed book, and has no
other means of obtaining it, and you think you can depend on her
carefulness and punctuality, (not else,) you may promise “to request for
her the favour.” And when the owner has consented, (and not till then,)
you may transfer the book to the new borrower with strict injunctions to
take great care of it, and to return it as soon as possible.
I have known a borrowed book travel round a whole circle of relations
and acquaintances, till, when sent home at last, it was literally worn
out by dint of use. And this when nearly the whole set were persons who
could well afford to buy all they were desirous of reading. Many ladies
like very well to read when they can do so at the cost of their friends;
but they seem to regard the purchase of any thing to improve the mind,
or amuse the fancy, as throwing away money which they would expend more
to their satisfaction in articles of personal decoration. And is it not
melancholy to see an intelligent child craving in vain for books, while
bedizened with finery to gratify the vanity of an ostentatious mother?
If, with the permission of the owner, you have lent a borrowed book to a
person who, having lost or injured it, still has the presumption to ask
you to intercede for the loan of another, you are bound to refuse the
request; and do so with civility but steadiness, assigning the true
reason. It may be a salutary lesson to that borrower.
Remember never to send home any article in a wrapper of newspaper. Keep
always in the house a supply of good wrapping-paper, bought for the
purpose, and also of balls of twine. For putting up small things, what
is called shoe-paper is very useful. It is both nice and cheap, selling
from fifty to sixty cents per ream, according to the size, and there are
twenty quires in a ream. There are varieties of stronger and larger
wrapping-paper for articles that require such, and for parcels that are
to be sent to far-off places, or to go by public conveyances. Such
packages are best secured by red tape and sealing-wax. At every
stationer’s may be purchased all varieties of paper.
Be particularly careful of borrowed magazines, as the loss of one number
spoils a whole set, and you may find great difficulty in replacing a
lost number. Even a newspaper should be punctually returned. The owner
may wish to file it, or to send it away to a friend. If lost or defaced
while in your possession, send to the publishing office and buy another.
It is unsafe to leave the book you are reading in the parlour of a
hotel. Always carry it away with you, whenever you quit the
room—otherwise you will be likely to see it no more.
In America, books are so cheap (not to mention the numerous public
libraries) that in most instances all who can afford it had better buy
than borrow, particularly such works as are worth a second reading. If
you find your books accumulating inconveniently, give away a portion of
them to some lover of reading, who, less fortunate than yourself, is
unable to expend much money with the booksellers.
I have often wondered to see a fair young stranger sitting day after
day, idle and listless in the drawing-room of a hotel, when she might
have known that there were bookstores in the immediate neighbourhood.
If, while in your possession, a borrowed book is irreparably injured, it
is your duty to replace it by purchasing for the owner another copy.
And, if that cannot be procured, all you can do is to buy a work of
equal value, and to present _that_, as the only compensation in your
power. Observe the same rule with all borrowed articles, lost or
injured. The lender is surely not the person to suffer from the
carelessness of the borrower. Leave no borrowed books in the way of
children, and never give a young child a book to play with. Eat no cake
or fruit over an open book, lest it be greased or stained. And take care
not to blister or spoil the binding by putting it down in a wet place,
for instance, on a slopped table.
Some young ladies have a bad habit of biting their fingers, especially
if they rejoice in handsome hands; and the same ladies, by way of
variety, are prone to bite the corners of books, and the edges of closed
fans. So it is dangerous to trust these articles in their vicinity. We
have seen the corners of an elegant Annual nearly bitten off at a
centre-table in the course of one evening. And we have seen ice-cream
eaten and wine drank over an open port-folio of beautiful engravings.
By-the-bye, in taking up a print to look at it, always extend it
carefully with both hands, that the paper may be in no danger of
cracking or rumpling, which it cannot escape if held but in one hand,
particularly if there is a breeze blowing near it. To show a large
engraving without risk of injury, spread it out smoothly on a table;
keeping it flat by means of books or other weights, laid carefully down
on the corners, and, if the plate is _very_ large, at the sides also.
And let no one lean their elbows upon it.
It is an irksome task to show any sort of picture to people who have
neither taste, knowledge, nor enjoyment of the art. There are persons
(ungenteel ones, it is true) who seem to have no other pleasure, when
looking at a fine print or picture, than in trying to discover in the
figures or faces, fancied resemblances to those of some individuals of
their own circle: loudly declaring for instance, that, “Queen Victoria
is the very image of Sarah Smith;” “Prince Albert an exact likeness of
Dick Brown;” “the Duke of Wellington the very ditto of old Captain
Jones,” &c. &c. To those “who have no painting in their souls,” there is
little use in showing or explaining any fine specimen of that noblest of
the fine arts. We have heard a gentleman doubting whether a capital
portrait of Franklin was not General Washington in his everyday dress.
We could fill pages with the absurd remarks we have heard on pictures,
even from persons who have had a costly education put at them. There are
ladies who can with difficulty be made to understand the difference
between a painting and an engraving—others who think that “the same man
always makes both.” Some call a coloured print a painting—others
talk[16] of themselves _painting pictures_ in albums—not understanding
that, properly speaking, they are watercolour drawings when done on
paper and with transparent tintings—while _pictures_ are painted with
oil or opaque colours on canvas or board. Frescoes are painted on new
walls before the plastering is quite dry, so that the colours
incorporate at once with the plaster, and dry along with it; acquiring
in that manner a surprising permanency.
There is another very common error, that of calling a diorama a
panorama. A panorama, correctly speaking, is a large circular
representation of one place only, (such as Rome, Athens, Thebes, Paris,)
comprising as much as the eye can take in at a view. The spectators,
looking from an elevated platform in the centre, see the painting all
around them in every direction, and appearing the size of reality, but
always stationary. The panoramas exhibited successively in London by
Barker, Burford, Catherwood and others, are admirable and truthful views
of the places they represent; and after viewing them a few minutes, you
can scarcely believe that you are not actually there, and looking at
real objects. A few of these triumphs of perspective and colouring, have
been brought to America. It were much to be wished that an arrangement
could be made for conveying every one of these fine panoramas
successively across the Atlantic, and exhibiting them in all our
principal cities. It would be a good speculation.
It is difficult to imagine whence originated the mistake of calling a
diorama a panorama, which it is _not_. A diorama is one of those
numerous flat-surface paintings of which we have had so many, (and some
few of them very good,) and which, moving on unseen rollers, glide or
slide along, displaying every few minutes a new portion of the scenery.
The error has grown so common that persons fall habitually into it,
though knowing all the time that it _is_ an error. To correct it, let
the exhibitors of dioramas cease to call them _panoramas_, and give them
their proper name, both in their advertisements and in their verbal
descriptions. Sebron’s magnificent representation of the departure of
the Israelites, that looked so amazingly real, was not a diorama, for it
did not move, and not a panorama, for it was not circular. But it was a
colossal picture, so excellent that at the first glance it seemed to be
no picture at all, but the real scene, with the real people.