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Title: The behaviour book
A manual for ladies
Author: Eliza Leslie
Release date: December 14, 2024 [eBook #74899]
Language: English
Original publication: Philadelphia: W.P. Hazard
Credits: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BEHAVIOUR BOOK ***
THE
BEHAVIOUR BOOK:
=A Manual for Ladies.=
BY
MISS LESLIE.
AUTHOR OF PENCIL SKETCHES, COMPLETE COOKERY, THE HOUSE BOOK, MORE
RECEIPTS, ETC.
=Third Edition.=
PHILADELPHIA:
WILLIS P. HAZARD, 178 CHESTNUT ST.
1853.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1853, by
WILLIS P. HAZARD,
in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States in and
for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.
STEREOTYPED BY L. JOHNSON AND CO.
PHILADELPHIA.
KITE & WALTON, PRINTERS.
PREFACE.
It is said that soon after the publication of Nicholas Nickleby, not
fewer than six Yorkshire schoolmasters (or rather six principals of
Yorkshire institutes) took journeys to London, with the express purpose
of prosecuting Dickens for libels—“each one and severally” considering
himself shown up to the world as Mr. Squeers of Dotheboys Hall.
Now, if Dickens had drawn as graphic a picture of Dothe_girls_ Hall, we
firmly believe that none of the lady principals of similar institutes
would have committed themselves by evincing so little tact, and adopting
such impolitic proceedings. They would wisely have held back from all
appropriation of the obnoxious character, and passed it over unnoticed;
as if it could not possibly have the slightest reference to _them_.
Therefore we wish that those of our fair readers whom certain hints in
the following pages may awaken to the consciousness of a few habitual
misbehavements, (of which they were not previously aware,) should pause,
and reflect, before they allow themselves to “take umbrage too much.”
Let them keep in mind that the purpose of the writer is to amend, and
not to offend; to improve her young countrywomen, and not to annoy them.
It is with this view only that she has been induced to “set down in a
note-book” such lapses from _les bienséances_ as she has remarked during
a long course of observation, and on a very diversified field.
She trusts that her readers will peruse this book in as friendly a
spirit as it was written.
ELIZA LESLIE.
_Philadelphia, March 15, 1853._
CONTENTS.
PAGE
SUGGESTIONS TO VISITERS 9
THE VISITED 24
TEA VISITERS 30
THE ENTRÉE 47
INTRODUCTIONS 52
CONDUCT IN THE STREET 65
SHOPPING 71
PLACES OF AMUSEMENT 87
TRAVELLING 92
DEPORTMENT AT A HOTEL 101
HOTEL DINNER 120
SHIP-BOARD 143
LETTERS 150
PRESENTS 174
CONVERSATION 185
INCORRECT WORDS 216
BORROWING 225
OFFENCES 243
OBLIGATIONS TO GENTLEMEN 250
CONDUCT TO LITERARY WOMEN 256
SUGGESTIONS TO INEXPERIENCED AUTHORS 274
CHILDREN 285
DECORUM IN CHURCH 299
EVENING PARTIES 304
MISCELLANIES 330
THE
BEHAVIOUR BOOK.
CHAPTER I.
SUGGESTIONS TO VISITERS.
An amusing writer of the last century, justly complains of the want of
definite words to express, distinctly and unmistakably, the different
degrees of visits, with reference to their length. Whether the stay of
the guest comprises ten minutes, an hour, an evening, a day, a week, or
a month, still it goes under the vague and general term of a visit.
We propose, humourously, that if the stay of the guest exceeds a week,
it should be called “a visitation.” If it includes a dining, or
tea-drinking, or evening-spending, it may be termed “a visit;” while a
mere call can be mentioned as “a vis.”
The idea is a very convenient one, and we should like to see it carried
out by general adoption. Meanwhile, we must, for the present, be
contented with the old uncertain practice of saying only “visit” and
“visiter.” We think it our duty to explain that this chapter is designed
for the benefit of such inexperienced females as may be about to engage
in what we should wish to call “a visitation.”
To begin at the beginning:—
Do not _volunteer_ a visit to a friend in the country, or in another
town, unless you have had what is called “a standing invitation,” with
every reason to believe that it was sincerely and cordially given. Many
invitations are mere “words of course,” without meaning or motive,
designed only to make a show of politeness, and not intended to be taken
literally, or ever acted upon. Even when convinced that your friend is
really your friend, that she truly loves you, has invited you in all
sincerity, and will be happy in your society, still, it is best to
apprize her, duly, of the exact day and hour when she may expect you;
always with the proviso that it is convenient to herself to receive you
at that time, and desiring her to let you know, candidly, if it is not.
However close your intimacy, an unexpected arrival may possibly produce
inconvenience to your hostess; particularly if her family is numerous,
or her bedchambers few. The case is somewhat different, where the house
is large, and where there is no scarcity of apartments for guests, of
servants to wait on them, or of money to furnish the means of
entertaining them liberally. But even then, the time of arrival should
be previously intimated, and observed as punctually as possible. Such
are now the facilities of travelling, and the rapidity of transmitting
intelligence, that there is no excuse for unexpected or ill-timed
visits; and when unexpected; they are too frequently ill-timed. When
attempted as “agreeable surprises,” they are seldom very agreeable to
the surprised. Also the improvement in manners has rendered these
incursions old-fashioned and ungenteel. Above all, never volunteer
visits to families whose circumstances are so narrow that they can ill
afford the expense of a guest.
Having received an invitation, reply to it immediately; and do not keep
your friends waiting, day after day, in uncertainty whether you mean to
accept or decline it; causing them, perhaps, to delay asking other
visiters till they have ascertained if you are to be expected or not.
Excuse yourself from accepting invitations from persons whom you do not
like, and whose dispositions, habits, feelings, and opinions are in most
things the reverse of your own. There can be no pleasure in daily and
familiar intercourse where there is no congeniality. Such visits never
end well; and they sometimes produce irreconcilable quarrels, or at
least a lasting and ill-concealed coolness. Though for years you may
have always met on decent terms, you may become positive enemies from
living a short time under the same roof; and there is something
dishonourable in laying yourself under obligations and receiving
civilities from persons whom you secretly dislike, and in whose society
you can have little or no enjoyment.
When you arrive, take occasion to mention how long you intend to stay;
that your hostess may plan her arrangements accordingly. It is rude and
inconsiderate to keep her in ignorance of the probable duration of your
visit. And when the allotted time has expired, do not be persuaded to
extend it farther, unless you are earnestly, and with undoubted
sincerity invited to do so. It is much better that your friends should
part with you reluctantly, than you should give them reason to wish your
visit shorter. Even if it _has_ been very pleasant on both sides, it may
not continue so if prolonged too far. Take care of wearing out your
welcome. Besides, your room may be wanted for another guest.
On your first evening, enquire the hours of the house, that you may
always be ready to comply with them. Rise early enough to be washed and
dressed in time for breakfast; but if you are ready too early, remain in
your own apartment, or walk about the garden, or go to the library till
the cleaning or arranging of the sitting-room has been completed.
Meanwhile, you can occupy yourself with a book, if you stay in your own
room.
As soon as you quit your bed, take off the bedclothes, (each article
separately,) and spread them widely over the chairs, turning the
mattrass or bed as far down as it will go. This will give the bedding
time to air; and in all houses it should be done every morning, the
whole year round. Before you leave the room, raise the windows as high
as they will go, (unless it should be raining, or snowing,) that the
apartment may be well ventilated. Fortunate are those who have been
accustomed to sleeping always with the sash more or less open, according
to the weather, or the season. Their health will be much the better for
the excellent practice of constantly admitting fresh air into their
sleeping-room. See Dr. Franklin’s essay on the “Art of Sleeping well.”
Mr. Combe, who has written copiously on this subject, says it not only
improves the health, but the complexion; and that ladies who follow this
practice continue to look young long after those who sleep in close
rooms have faded and shrivelled. Except in a very unhealthy climate, or
in the neighbourhood of marshes, no external air can be so unwholesome,
or productive of such baneful effects on the constitution, as the same
air breathed over and over again in a close room, and returning
continually to the lungs, till before morning it becomes unfit to be
breathed at all. Sleeping with the windows closed in a room newly
painted has produced fatal diseases. To some lungs the vapour of white
lead is poisonous. To none is it quite innoxious. Its dangerous
properties may be neutralized by placing in newly-painted rooms, large
tubs of water, into each of which has been mixed an ounce of vitriol.
The tubs must be set near the walls, and the water and vitriol renewed
every day. The introduction of zinc-paint promises to put that of white
lead out of use; as zinc is quite as cheap, and not at all pernicious to
health.
At sleeping hours the air of a bedroom should be perfectly free from all
scents, either pleasant or otherwise. Many persons cannot sleep with
flowers in their chamber, or with any sort of perfume. It is best not.
If when on a visit, you find that the chambermaid does not make your bed
so that you can sleep comfortably, show her how to do it, (privately,)
but say nothing to your hostess. There is but one way of making a bed
properly; and yet it is surprising how little that way is known or
remembered. First, shake up the bed high and evenly, turning it over,
and see that the foot is not higher than the head. If there is a
mattrass above the bed, turn the mattrass half up, and then half down,
till you have shaken up the bed beneath. Next, spread on the
under-sheet, laying it well over the bolster to secure it from dragging
down and getting under the shoulders. However, to most beds now, there
is a bolster-case. Then tuck in the under-sheet, well, at both sides, to
prevent its getting loose and disordered in the night. For the same
reason, tuck in the upper-sheet, well, at the foot, leaving the sides
loose. Tuck in the blankets at bottom, but not at the sides. Lay the
counterpane smoothly over the whole. Turn it down at the top; and turn
down the upper-sheet above it, so as to conceal the blankets entirely.
Should the chambermaid neglect your room, or be remiss in filling your
pitchers, or in furnishing you with clean towels, speak to her on the
subject when alone. She will hardly, for her own sake, inform her
mistress that you have had occasion to find fault with her; unless she
is very insolent or sulky, she will say she is sorry, and will promise
to do better in future. Complaining to her mistress of these neglects
will probably give offence to the lady, who may be of that wayward
(though too common) disposition which will allow no one, except herself,
to find any deficiency in _her_ servants. As mistresses are frequently
very touchy on these points, your hostess may hint that your statement
is incredible, and that “no one ever complained before.” Above all
things, avoid letting her know that you have found or felt insects in
your bed; a circumstance that may chance sometimes to happen even in the
best kept houses. In a warm climate, or in an old house, the utmost care
and the most vigilant neatness cannot always prevent it. It may be
caused by the bringing of baggage from boats, or ships, and by servants
neglecting their own beds; a too common practice with them, unless the
mistress or her housekeeper compels them to be cleanly, and sees that
they are so.
If you have proof positive that your bed is not free from these
intolerable nuisances, confide this fact to the chambermaid only, and
desire her to attend to it speedily. She will do so the more readily, if
you promise her a reward in case of complete success. Enjoining her to
manage this as quietly as possible, and to say nothing about it to any
one, may spare you a scene with your hostess; who, though you have
always regarded her as your warm friend, may, notwithstanding, become
your enemy for life, in consequence of your having presumed to be
incommoded in _her_ house, where “nobody ever complained before.” A
well-bred, sensible, good-tempered woman will not, of course, take
offence for such a cause; and will believe that there must have been
good reason for the complaint, rather than suppose that her guest and
her friend would mention so delicate a subject even to a servant, unless
there was positive proof. And she will rightly think it was well to make
it known, and have it immediately remedied. But all women who invite
friends to visit them, are not sensible and good-tempered. Therefore,
take care.
For similar reasons, should a servant purloin any article belonging to
you, (and servants, considered quite honest, will sometimes pilfer from
a visiter when they would not dare to do so from their mistress,) it is
safest to pass it over, unless the article stolen is of consequence. You
may find your hostess very unwilling to believe that a servant of _hers_
could possibly be dishonest; and much may be said, or evidently
_thought_, that will be very painful to you, her guest.
Notwithstanding all that may be said to you about “feeling yourself
perfectly at home,” and “considering your friend’s house as your own,”
be very careful not literally to do so. In fact it is impossible you
_should_ with any propriety—particularly, if it is your first visit. You
cannot possibly know the real character and disposition of any
acquaintance, till after you have had some experience in living under
the same roof. If you find your hostess all that you can desire, and
that she is making your visit every way agreeable, be very grateful to
her, and let her understand that you are exceedingly happy at her house;
but avoid staying too long, or taxing her kindness too highly.
Avoid encroaching unreasonably upon her time. Expect her not to devote
an undue portion of it to you. She will probably be engaged in the
superintendence of household affairs, or in the care of her young
children, for two or three hours after breakfast. So at these hours do
not intrude upon her,—but amuse yourself with some occupation of your
own, till you see that it is convenient to the family for you to join
them in the sitting-room. In summer afternoons, retire for an hour or
more, soon after dinner, to your own apartment, that you may give your
friends an opportunity of taking their naps, and that you may do the
same yourself. You will be brighter in the evening, from indulging in
this practice; and less likely to feel sleepy, when you ought to be wide
awake, and ready to assist in entertaining your entertainers. A silent
visiter, whether silent from dullness or indolence, or from a habit of
taciturnity, is never an agreeable one.
Yet, however pleasant the conversation, have sufficient self-denial to
break off in seasonable time, so as not to keep the family up by
continuing in the parlour till a late hour. Some of them may be tired
and sleepy, though you are not. And between ten and eleven o’clock it is
well to retire.
If you have shopping to do, and are acquainted with the town, you can be
under no necessity of imposing on any lady of the family the task of
accompanying you. To shop _for_ others, or _with_ others, is a most
irksome fatigue. Even when a stranger in the place, you can easily, by
enquiring of the family, learn where the best stores are to be found,
and go to them by yourself.
While you are a guest at the house of a friend, do not pass too much of
your time in visiting at _other_ houses, unless she is with you. You
have no right to avail yourself of the conveniences of eating and
sleeping at her mansion, without giving her and her family the largest
portion of your company.
While a guest yourself, it is taking an unwarrantable liberty to invite
any of your friends or relatives to come there and spend a day or
days.[1]
Refrain from visiting any person with whom your hostess is at enmity,
even if that person has been one of your own intimate friends. You will
in all probability be regarded as “a spy in the camp.” There is nothing
so difficult as to observe a strict neutrality; and on hearing both
sides, it is scarcely possible not to lean more to the one than to the
other. The friend whose hospitality you are enjoying will soon begin to
look coldly upon you, if she finds you seeking the society of her enemy;
and she may evince that coldness whenever you come home from these
visits. However unjust her suspicions, it is too probable she may begin
to think that you are drawn in to make her, and her house, and family,
subjects of conversation when visiting her adversary; therefore, she
will cease to feel kindly toward you. If you understand, soon after your
arrival, that there is no probability of a reconciliation, send at once
a concise note to the lady with whom your hostess is at variance;
express your regret at the circumstance, and excuse yourself from
visiting her while you remain in your present residence. This note
should be polite, short, and decisive, and so worded as to give no
offence to either side; for, before sending, it is proper for you to
show it, while yet unsealed, to the friend with whom you are staying.
And then let the correspondence be carried no further. The lady to whom
it is addressed, will of course return a polite answer; such as you may
show to your hostess.
It is to be presumed, she will not be so lost to all delicacy and
propriety, as to intrude herself into the house of her enemy for the
purpose of visiting you. But, if she does, it is your place civilly to
decline seeing her. A slight coolness, a mere offence on a point of
etiquette, which, if let alone, would die out like a tinder-spark, has
been fanned, and blown into a flame by the go-betweening of a so-called
_mutual friend_. We repeat, while you are a visiter at a house, hold no
intercourse with any foe of that house. It is unkind and disrespectful
to the family with whom you are staying, and very unsafe for yourself.
If you know that your friends are hurried with their sewing, or with
preparations for company, offer to assist them, as far as you can. But
if you are conscious of an incapacity to do such things well, it is
better to excuse yourself by candidly saying so, than to attempt them
and spoil them. At the same time, express your willingness to learn, if
permitted. And you _may_ learn, while staying at the house of a clever,
notable friend, many things that you have hitherto had no opportunity of
acquiring.
When called on by any of your own acquaintances, they will not expect
you to ask them to stay to tea, or to dinner. That is the business of
your hostess—not yours.
If you are a young lady who has beaux, remember that you have no right
to encourage the over-frequency of their visits in any house that is not
your home, or to devote much of your time and attention to flirtation
with them. Above all, avoid introducing to the family of your
entertainers, young men whom they are likely in any respect to
disapprove. No stranger who has the feelings of a gentleman, will make a
_second_ visit to any house unless he is invited by the head of the
family, and he will take care that his visits shall not begin too early,
or continue too late. However delightful he may find the society of his
lady-fair, he has no right to incommode the family with whom she is
staying, by prolonging his visits to an unseasonable hour. If he seems
inclined to do so, there is nothing amiss in his fair-one herself
hinting to him that it is past ten o’clock. Also, there should be “a
temperance” even in his morning calls. It is rude in a young lady and
gentleman to monopolize one of the parlours nearly all the forenoon—even
if they are _really_ courting—still more if they are only pretending to
court; for instance, sitting close to each other, and whispering on
subjects that might be discussed aloud before the whole house, and
talked of across the room.
Young ladies noted for abounding in beaux, are generally rather
inconvenient visiters; except in very spacious houses, and in gay, idle
families. They should not take the liberty of inviting the said beaux to
stay to dinner or to tea. Leave that civility to the head of the
house,—without whose invitation no _gentleman_ ought to remain.
It is proper for visiters to put out and pay for their own washing,
ironing, &c. Therefore, carry among your baggage two clothes-bags; one
to be taken away by the laundress, the other to receive your clothes in
the interval. You may always hear of a washerwoman, by enquiring of the
servants of the house.
On no consideration question the servants, or talk to them about the
family, particularly if they are slaves.
Take with you a small writing-case, containing whatever stationery you
may be likely to want during your visit; including post-office stamps.
Thus you will spare yourself, and spare the family, the inconvenience of
applying to them whenever you have occasion for pen, ink, paper, &c. If
you have no ink with you, the first time you go out, stop in at a
stationer’s store, and buy a small sixpenny bottle that will stand
steadily alone, and answer the purpose of an inkstand. Also, take care
to be well supplied with all sorts of sewing articles. There are young
ladies who go from home on long visits, quite unprovided with even
thimbles and scissors; depending all the time on borrowing. Many
visiters, though very agreeable in great things, are exceedingly
troublesome in little ones.
Take care not to slop your washing-stand, or to lay a piece of wet soap
upon it. Spread your wet towels carefully on the towel-rail. See that
your trunks are not placed so near the wall as to injure the paper or
paint when the lid is thrown back.
If, when travelling, you are to stop but one night at the house of a
friend, it is not necessary, for that one night, to have _all_ your
baggage carried up-stairs, particularly if your trunks are large or
heavy. Before leaving home, put into your carpet-bag all the things you
will require for that night; and then no other article of your baggage
need be taken up to your chamber. They can be left down stairs, in some
safe and convenient place, which your hostess will designate. This will
save much trouble, and preclude all the injury that may otherwise accrue
to the banisters and staircase-wall, by the corners of trunks knocking
against them. It is possible to put into a carpet-satchel (that can be
carried in your own hand) a night-gown and night-cap, (tightly rolled,)
with hair-brush, combs, tooth-brush, &c. It is surprising how much these
hand-satchels may be made to contain, when packed closely. No lady or
gentleman should travel without one. In going from home for one night
only, a satchel is, frequently, all that is requisite.
On concluding your visit, tell your entertainers that it has been
pleasant, and express your gratitude for the kindness you have received
from them, and your hope that they will give you an opportunity of
returning their civilities. Give a parting gratuity to each of the
servants—the sum being according to your means, and to the length of
your visit. Give this to each servant _with your own hands_, going to
them for the purpose. Do not tempt their integrity, by intrusting (for
instance) to the chambermaid the fee intended for the cook. She may
dishonestly keep it to herself, and make the cook believe that you were
“so mean as to go away without leaving any thing at all for her.” Such
things have happened, as we know. Therefore, give all your fees in
person.
After you get home, write very soon (within two or three days) to the
friend at whose house you have been staying, tell her of your journey,
&c., and allude to your visit as having been very agreeable.
The visit over, be of all things careful not to repeat any thing that
has come to your knowledge in consequence, and which your entertainers
would wish to remain unknown. While inmates of their house, you may have
unavoidably become acquainted with some particulars of their way of
living not generally known, and which, perhaps, would not raise them in
public estimation, if disclosed. Having been their guest, and partaken
of their hospitality, you are bound in honour to keep silent on every
topic that would injure them in the smallest degree, if repeated.
Unhappily, there are ladies so lost to shame, as, after making a long
visit, to retail for the amusement of their cronies, all sorts of
invidious anecdotes concerning the family at whose house they have been
staying; adding by way of corroboration—“I assure you this is all true,
for I stayed five or six weeks at their house, and had a good chance of
knowing.” More shame then to tell it!
Whatever painful discoveries are made during a visit, should be kept as
closely secret as if secrecy was enjoined by oath. It is not sufficient
to refrain from “mentioning names.” No clue should be given that could
possibly enable the hearers even to hazard a guess.
CHAPTER II.
THE VISITED.
Having invited a friend to pass a few days or weeks at your house, and
expecting her at a certain time, send a carriage to meet her at the
rail-road depôt or the steamboat wharf, and if her host or hostess goes
in it, so much the better; but do not take the children along, crowding
the vehicle, for the sake of giving them a ride. Arriving at your house,
have her baggage taken at once to the apartment prepared for her, and
when she goes up-stairs, send a servant with her to unstrap her trunks.
Then let her be left _alone_ to arrange her dress. It is to be supposed
that before her arrival, the mistress of the house has inspected the
chamber of her guest, to see that all is right—that there are _two_
pitchers full of fresh water on the stand, and three towels on the rail,
(two fine and one coarse,) with a china mug for teeth-cleaning, and a
tumbler to drink from; a slop jar of course, and a foot-bath. We
conclude that in all genteel and well-furnished houses, none of these
articles are wanting in every bedroom. On the mantel-piece a candle or
lamp, with a box of lucifer matches beside it—the candle to be replaced
by a new one every morning when the chambermaid arranges the room—or the
lamp to be trimmed daily; so that the visiter may have a light at hand
whenever she pleases, without ringing the bell and waiting till a
servant brings one up.
By-the-bye, when a guest is expected, see previously that the bells and
locks of her room are in order; and if they are not, have them repaired.
If it is cold weather, let her find a good fire in her room; and the
shutters open, that she may have sufficient light. Also an extra
blanket, folded, and laid on the foot of the bed. If summer, let the
sashes be raised, and the shutters bowed. The room should have an easy
chair with a heavy foot-cushion before it,—a low chair also, to sit on
when shoes and stockings are to be changed, and feet washed. In a spare
chamber there should be both a mattrass and a feather-bed, that your
visiters may choose which they will have uppermost. Though you and all
your own family may like to sleep hard, your guests may find it
difficult to sleep at all on a mattrass with a paillasse under it. To
many constitutions hard sleeping is not only intolerable, but pernicious
to health.
Let the centre-table be furnished with a writing-case well supplied with
all that is necessary, the inkstand filled, and with _good black ink_;
and some sheets of letter-paper and note-paper laid near it. Also, some
books, such as you think your friend will like. Let her find, at least,
one bureau vacant; _all_ the drawers empty, so that she may be able to
unpack her muslins, &c., and arrange them at once. The same with the
wardrobe or commode, so that she may have space to hang up her
dresses—the press-closet, likewise, should be for her use while she
stays.
By giving up the spare bedroom _entirely_ to your visiter you will very
much oblige her, and preclude the necessity of disturbing or
interrupting her by coming in to get something out of drawers, closets,
&c.
Every morning, after the chambermaid has done her duty, (the room of the
visiter is the first to be put in order,) the hostess should go in to
see that all is right. This done, no further inspection is necessary for
that day. There are ladies who, when a friend is staying with them, are
continually slipping into her chamber when she is out of it, to see if
the guest has done nothing amiss—such as moving a chair to suit her own
convenience, or opening a shutter to let in more light, at the possible
risk of hastening imperceptibly the fading of the carpet. There are
families who condemn themselves to a perpetual twilight, by living in
the dimness of closed shutters, to the great injury of their eyes. And
this is endured to retard awhile the fading of furniture too showy for
comfort. We have seen staircase-windows kept always shut and bolted, (so
that visiters had to grope their way in darkness,) lest the small
portion of stair-carpet just beneath the window should fade before the
rest.
It is not pleasant to be a guest in a house where you perceive that your
hostess is continually and fretfully on the watch, lest some almost
imperceptible injury should accrue to the furniture. We have known
ladies who were always uneasy when their visiters sat down on a sofa or
an ottoman, and could not forbear inviting them to change their seats
and take chairs. We suppose the fear was that the more the
damask-covered seats were used, the sooner they would wear out. Let no
visiter be so rash as to sit on a pier-divan with her back near a
mirror. The danger is imminent—not only of breaking the glass by
inadvertently leaning against it, but of certainly fretting its owner,
with uneasiness, all the time. Children should be positively interdicted
taking these precarious seats.
It is very kind and considerate to enquire of your guest if there is any
dish, or article of food that she particularly likes, so that you may
have it on the table while she stays; and also, if there is any thing
peculiarly disagreeable to her, so that you may refrain from having it
during her visit. A well-bred and sensible woman will not encroach upon
your kindness, or take an undue advantage of it, in this respect or any
other.
For such deficiencies as may be avoided or remedied, refrain from making
the foolish apology that you consider her “no stranger”—and that you
regard her “just as one of the family.” If you invite her at all, it is
your duty, for your own sake as well as hers, to treat her well in every
thing. You will lose nothing by doing so.
If she desires to assist you in sewing, and has brought no work of her
own, you may avail yourself of her offer, and employ her in
moderation—but let it be in moderation only, and when sitting in the
family circle. When alone in her own room, she, of course, would much
rather read, write, or occupy herself in some way for her own benefit,
or amusement. There are ladies who seem to expect that their guests
should perform as much work as hired seamstresses.
Let the children be strictly forbidden to run into the apartments of
visiters. Interdict them from going thither, unless sent with a message;
and then let them be made to understand that they are always to knock at
the door, and not go in till desired to do so. Also, that they are not
to play and make a noise in the neighbourhood of her room. And when she
comes into the parlour, that they are not to jump on her lap, put their
hands into her pockets, or rummage her work-basket, or rumple and soil
her dress by clinging to it with their hands. Neither should they be
permitted to amuse themselves by rattling on the lower keys when she is
playing on the piano, or interrupt her by teazing her all the time to
play “for them to dance.” All this we have seen, and the mothers have
never checked it. To permit children to ask visiters for pennies or
sixpences is mean and contemptible. And, if money _is_ given them by a
guest, they should be made to return it immediately.
Enquire on the first evening, if your visiter is accustomed to taking
any refreshment before she retires for the night. If she is, have
something sent up to her room every night, unless your own family are in
the same habit. Then let sufficient for all be brought into the parlour.
These little repasts are very pleasant, especially at the close of a
long winter evening, and after coming home from a place of public
amusement.
To “welcome the coming—speed the parting guest”—is a good maxim. So when
your visiter is about to leave you, make all smooth and convenient for
her departure. Let her be called up at an early hour, if she is to set
out in the morning. Send a servant up to strap and bring down her
trunks, as soon as she has announced that they are ready; and see that
an early breakfast is prepared for her, and some of the family up and
dressed to share it with her. Slip some cakes into her satchel for her
to eat on the road, in case, by some chance, she should not reach the
end of her journey at the usual hour. Have a carriage at the door in due
time, and let some male member of the family accompany her to the
starting-place and see her off, attending to her baggage and procuring
her tickets.
CHAPTER III.
TEA VISITERS.
When you have invited a friend to take tea with you, endeavour to render
her visit as agreeable as you can; and try by all means _to make her
comfortable_. See that your lamps are lighted at an early hour,
particularly those of the entry and staircase, those parts of the house
always becoming dark as soon as the sun is down; and to persons coming
in directly from the light of the open air, they always seem darker than
they really are. Have the parlours lighted rather earlier than usual,
that your guest, on her entrance, may be in no danger of running against
the tables, or stumbling over chairs. In rooms heated by a furnace, or
by any other invisible fire, it is still more necessary to have the
lamps lighted early.
If there is a coal-grate, see that the fire is burning clear and
brightly, that the bottom has been well-raked of cinders and ashes, and
the hearth swept clean. A dull fire, half-choked with dead cinders, and
an ashy hearth, give a slovenly and dreary aspect to the most elegantly
furnished parlour. A sufficiently large grate, (if the fire is well made
up, and plenty of fresh coal put on about six o’clock,) will generally
require no further replenishing during the evening, unless the weather
is unusually cold; and then more fuel should be added at eight or nine
o’clock, so as to make the room comfortable.
In summer evenings, let the window-sashes be kept up, or the slats of
the venitian blinds turned open, so that your guest may find the
atmosphere of the rooms cool and pleasant. There should always be fans
(feather or palm-leaf) on the centre-tables.
The domestic that attends the door should be instructed to show the
guest up-stairs, as soon as she arrives; conducting her to an unoccupied
apartment, where she may take off her bonnet, and arrange her hair, or
any part of her dress that may require change or improvement. The lady
should then be left to herself. Nothing is polite that can possibly
incommode or embarrass—therefore, it is a mistaken civility for the
hostess, or some female member of the family to follow the visiter
up-stairs, and remain with her all the time she is preparing for her
appearance in the parlour. We have seen an inquisitive little girl
permitted by her mother to accompany a guest to the dressing-table, and
watch her all the while she was at the glass; even following her to the
corner in which she changed her shoes; the child talking, and asking
questions incessantly. This should not be. Let both mothers and children
understand that, on all occasions, over-officiousness is not politeness,
and that nothing troublesome and inconvenient is ever agreeable.
The toilet-table should be always furnished with a clean hair-brush, and
a nice comb. We recommend those hair-brushes that have a mirror on the
back, so as to afford the lady a glimpse of the back of her head and
neck. Better still, as an appendage to a dressing-table, is a regular
hand-mirror, of sufficient size to allow a really _satisfactory_ view.
These hand-mirrors are very convenient, to be used in conjunction with
the large dressing-glass. Their cost is but trifling. The
toilet-pincushion should always have pins in it. A small work-box
properly furnished with needles, scissors, thimble, and cotton spools,
ought also to find a place on the dressing-table, in case the visiter
may have occasion to repair any accident that may have happened to her
dress.
For want of proper attention to such things, in an ill-ordered, though
perhaps a very showy establishment, we have known an _expected_ visiter
ushered first into a dark entry, then shown into a dark parlour with an
ashy hearth, and the fire nearly out: then, after groping her way to a
seat, obliged to wait till a small hand-lamp could be procured to light
her dimly up a steep, sharp-turning staircase; and then, by the same
lamp, finding on the neglected dressing-table a broken comb, an old
brush, and an empty pincushion,—or (quite as probably) nothing at
all—not to mention two or three children coming to watch and stare at
her. On returning to the parlour, the visiter would probably find the
fire just then making up, and the lamp still unlighted, because it had
first to be trimmed. Meanwhile, the guest commences her visit with an
uncomfortable feeling of self-reproach for coming too early; all things
denoting that she was not expected so soon. In such houses everybody
comes too early. However late, there will be nothing in readiness.
The hostess should be in the parlour, prepared to receive her visiter,
and to give her at once a seat in the corner of a sofa, or in a
fauteuil, or large comfortable chair; if a rocking-chair, a footstool is
an indispensable appendage. By-the-bye, the dizzy and ungraceful
practice of rocking in a rocking-chair is now discontinued by all
genteel people, except when entirely alone. A lady should never be seen
to rock in a chair, and the rocking of a gentleman looks silly. Rocking
is only fit for a nurse putting a baby to sleep. When children get into
a large rocking-chair, they usually rock it over backward, and fall out.
These chairs are now seldom seen in a parlour. Handsome, stuffed easy
chairs, that are moved on castors, are substituted—and of these, half a
dozen of various forms are not considered too many.
Give your visiter a fan to cool herself, if the room is warm, or to
shade her eyes from the glare of the fire or the light—for the latter
purpose, a broad hand-screen is generally used, but a palm-leaf fan will
do for both. In buying these fans, choose those whose handle is the firm
natural stem, left remaining on the leaf. They are far better than those
with handles of bamboo, which in a short time become loose and rickety.
There are many persons who, professing never to use a fan themselves,
seem to think that nobody can by any chance require one; and therefore
they selfishly keep nothing of the sort in their rooms.
If, in consequence of dining very late, you are in the custom of also
taking tea at a late hour—or making but slight preparations for that
repast—waive this custom when you expect a friend whom you know to be in
the practice of dining early, and who, perhaps, has walked far enough to
feel fatigued, and to acquire an appetite. For her accommodation, order
the tea earlier than usual, and let it be what is called “a _good_ tea.”
If there is ample room at table, do not have the tea carried
round,—particularly if you have but one servant to hand the whole. It is
tedious, inconvenient, and unsatisfactory. There is no comfortable way
of eating bread and butter, toast, or buttered cakes, except when seated
at table. When handed round, there is always a risk of their greasing
the dresses of the ladies—the greasing of fingers is inevitable—though
that is of less consequence, now that the absurd practice of eating in
gloves is wisely abolished among genteel people.
Still, if the company is too numerous for all to be commodiously seated
at the usual family table, and if the table cannot be enlarged—it is
better to have tea carried round by _two_ servants, even if an extra one
is hired for the occasion, than to crowd your guests uncomfortably. One
person too many will cause inconvenience to all the rest, however the
hostess may try to pass it off, by assuring the company that there is
quite room enough, and that she has seen a still larger number seated
round that very table. Every body knows that “what’s impossible a’n’t
true.”
In setting a tea-table, see that there is not only enough, but _more
than enough_ of cups and saucers, plates, knives and forks, spoons,
napkins, &c. Let the _extra_ articles be placed near the lady of the
house,—to be distributed, if wanted. We have known families who had the
means and the inclination to be hospitable, that never sat down to table
without several spare _covers_, as the French call them, ready for
accidental guests.
Unless you have domestics on whom you can implicitly rely, it is well to
go into the eating-room about ten minutes before the announcement of
tea, and to see that all is right; that the tea is strong and properly
made, and the pot (which should be scalded twice) is not filled nearly
to overflowing with a superabundance of water. The practice of drowning
away all the flavour of the tea is strangely prevalent with servants;
who are also very apt to neglect scalding the tea-pot; and who do not,
or will not, remember that the kettle should be boiling hard at the
moment the water is poured on the tea—otherwise the infusion will be
insipid and tasteless, no matter how liberally the Chinese plant has
been afforded.
If your cook is not _habitually_ a good coffee-maker, the coffee will
most probably be sent in cold, thick, and weak—for want of some previous
supervision. Let it have that supervision.
We have heard of tea-tables (even in splendid establishments) being left
entirely to the _mis_management of incompetent or negligent servants; so
that when the company sat down, there was found a deficiency in some of
the indispensable appendages; such as spoons, and even forks, and
napkins—butter-knives forgotten, and (worse than all) _cooking-butter_
served in mistake for the better sort. By-the-bye, the use of
cooking-butter should be abolished in all genteel houses. If the butter
is not good enough to eat on the surface of cold bread or on warm cakes,
it is not good enough to eat in the inside of sweet cakes, or in pastry,
or in any thing else; and is totally unfit to be mixed with vegetables
or sauces. The use of butter is to make things taste well; if it makes
them taste ill, let it be entirely omitted: for bad butter is not only
unpalatable, but unwholesome. There are houses in which the money wasted
on one useless bauble for the drawing-room would furnish the family with
excellent fresh butter for a whole year—enough for all purposes.
We know, _by experience_, that it is possible to make very fine butter
even in the State of New York, and to have it fresh in winter as in
summer, though not so rich and yellow. Let the cows be well fed, well
sheltered, and _kept fat_ and clean—the dairy utensils always in perfect
order—churning done twice or thrice every week—all the milk worked well
out—and the butter will surely be good.
If cakes for tea have been made at home, and they have turned out
failures, (as is often the case with home-made cakes, where there is not
much practice in baking them,) do not have them brought to table at all,
but send to a shop and get others. It is rude to set before your guests
what you know is unfit for them to eat. And heavy, tough, ill-baked
things are discreditable to any house where the means of obtaining
better are practicable.
In sending for cakes to a confectioner, do not _a second time_ allow him
to put you off with stale ones. This many confectioners are in the
practice of doing, if it is passed over without notice. Stale cakes
should at once be sent back, (with a proper reproof,) and fresh ones
required. Let the confectioner with whom you deal, understand that he is
_not_ to palm off his stale cakes upon _you_, and that you will not keep
them when sent. You will then find that fresh ones will generally be
forthcoming. It is always well to send for cakes in the early part of
the afternoon.
Have a pitcher of ice-water on the side-table, and a tumbler beside
every plate—as most persons like to finish with a glass of water.
Do not, on sitting down to table, inform your guest that “you make no
stranger of her,” or that you fear she will not be able to “make out” at
your plain table. These apologies are ungenteel and foolish. If your
circumstances will not allow you _on any consideration_ to make a little
improvement in your usual family-fare, your friend is, in all
probability, aware of the fact, and will not wish or expect you to incur
any inconvenient expense on her account. But if you are known to possess
the means of living well, you ought to do so; and to consider a good,
though not an extravagantly luxurious table, as a necessary part of your
expenditure. There is a vast difference between laudable economy and
mean economy. The latter (whether it shows itself in bad food, bad
fires, bad lights, bad servants) is never excused in persons who dress
extravagantly, and live surrounded by costly furniture, and who are
universally known to be wealthy, and fully able to afford comfort, as
well as show.
If you invite a friend to tea, in whose own family there is no
gentlemen, or no man-servant, it is your duty previously to ascertain
that you can provide her on that evening with an escort home; and in
giving the invitation, you should tell her so, that she may know on what
to depend. If you keep a carriage, it will be most kind to send her home
in it.
Even if it is your rule to have the entry-lamp extinguished at a certain
hour, let your servants understand that this rule must be dispensed
with, as long as an evening-visiter remains in the house. Also, do not
have the linen covers put on the furniture, and the house audibly shut
up for the night, before she has gone. To do this is rude, because she
cannot but receive it as a hint that she has staid too long.
If your visiter is obliged to go home with no other escort than your
servant-man, apprize him, in time, that this duty will be expected of
him; desiring that he takes care to be at hand before ten o’clock.
A lady that has no escort whose services she can command, ought not to
make unexpected tea-visits. In many cases these visits produce more
inconvenience than pleasure. If you wish to “take tea sociably” with a
friend, inform her previously of your intention. She will then let you
know if she is disengaged on that evening, or if it is in any way
inconvenient to receive you; and she will herself appoint another time.
Generally, it is best not to volunteer a tea-visit, but to wait till
invited.
If you are engaged to take tea with an intimate friend, who assures you
that you will see none but the family; and you afterward receive an
invitation to join a party to a place of public amusement, which you
have long been desirous of visiting, you may retract your first
engagement, provided you send an apology in due time, telling the exact
truth, and telling it in polite terms. Your intimate friend will then
take no offence, considering it perfectly natural that you should prefer
the concert, the play, or the exhibition, to a quiet evening passed at
her house with no other guests. But take care to let her know as early
as possible.[2] And be careful not to disappoint her again in a similar
manner.
If you are accustomed to taking coffee in the evening, and have an
insuperable dislike to tea, it is best not to make an _unexpected_
visit—or at least, if you go at all, go early—so as to allow ample time
for the making of coffee—a much slower process than that of tea;
particularly as there may chance to be no roasted coffee in the house.
Much inconvenience has been caused by the “sociable visiting” of
determined coffee-drinkers. It is very easy to make green or black tea
at a short notice—but not coffee.
In inviting “a few friends,” which means a small select company,
endeavour to assort them suitably, so as not to bring together people
who have no community of tastes, feelings, and ideas. If you mix the
dull and stupid with the bright and animated, the cold and formal with
the frank and lively, the professedly serious with the gay and cheerful,
the light with the heavy, and above all, those who pride themselves on
high birth (high-birth in America?) with those who boast of “belonging
to the people,” none of these “few friends” will enjoy each other’s
society; the evening will _not_ go off agreeably, and you and the other
members of your family will have the worst of it. The pleasantest people
in the room will naturally congregate together, and the task of
entertaining the unentertainable will devolve on yourself and your own
people.
Still, it is difficult always to assort your company to your
satisfaction and theirs. A very charming lady may have very dull or very
silly sisters. An intelligent and refined daughter may be unfortunate in
a coarse, ignorant mother, or a prosing, tiresome, purse-proud father.
Some of the most delightful persons you may wish to invite, may be
encumbered with relations totally incapable of adding any thing to the
pleasure of the evening;—for instance, the numerous automatons, whom we
must charitably believe are speechless merely from diffidence, and of
whom we are told, that “if we only knew them,” we should discover them,
on intimate acquaintance, to be “quite intelligent people.” Perhaps so.
But we cannot help thinking that when a head is full of ideas, some of
them will involuntarily ooze out and be manifest. Diffidence is very
becoming to young people, and to those who are new to the world. But it
is hardly credible that it should produce a painful taciturnity in
persons who have passed from youth into maturity; and who have enjoyed
the advantages of education and of living in good society. Still those
who, as the French say, have “a great talent for silence,” may redeem
themselves from suspicion of stupidity, by listening attentively and
understandingly. A good talker is never displeased with a good hearer.
We have often met with young ladies from whom it was scarcely possible
for one of their own sex to extract more than a few monosyllables at
long intervals; those intervals being passed in dozing, rather than in
hearing. And yet, if any thing in the shape of a beau presented itself,
the tongues of these “dumb belles” were immediately loosened, and the
wheels of their minds commenced running as glibly as possible. To be
sure, the talk amounted to nothing definite; but still they _did_ talk,
and often became quite lively in a few minutes. Great is the power of
beaux!
To return to the tea-table.—Unless you are positively sure, when you
have a visiter, that she drinks the same tea that is used in your own
family, you should have both black and green on the table. Either sort
is often extremely disagreeable to persons who take the other. Drinkers
of green tea, for instance, have generally an unconquerable aversion to
black, as tasting like hay, herbs, &c. and they find in it no refreshing
or exhilarating property. In some, it produces nausea. Few, on the other
hand, dislike the taste of _good_ green tea, but they assign as a reason
for not drinking it, that it is supposed from its enlivening qualities
to affect the nerves. Judge Bushrod Washington, who always drank green,
and avoided black, said that “he took tea as a beverage, not as a
medicine.” And there are a vast number of sensible people in the same
category. If your guest is a votary of green tea, have it made for her,
in time for the essence of the leaves to be well drawn forth. It is no
compliment to give her green tea that is weak and washy. And do not, at
your own table, be so rude as to lecture her upon the superior
wholesomeness of black tea. For more than a century, green tea was
universally drunk in every house, and there was then less talk of
nervous diseases than during the reign of Souchong,—which, by-the-bye,
is nearly exploded in the best European society.
In pouring out, do not fill the cups to the brim. Always send the cream
and sugar round, that each person may use those articles according to
their own taste. Also, send round a small pot of hot water, that those
who like their tea weak may conveniently dilute it. If tea is handed, a
servant should, at the last, carry round a water-pitcher and glasses.
Whether at dinner or tea, if yourself and family are in the habit of
eating fast, (which, by the way, is a very bad and unwholesome one, and
justly cited against us by our English cousins,) and you see that your
visiter takes her food deliberately, endeavour, (for that time at
least,) to check the rapidity of your own mastication, so as not to
finish before she has done, and thus compel her to hurry herself
uncomfortably, or be left alone while every one round her is sitting
unoccupied and impatient. Or rather, let the family eat a little more
than usual, or seem to do so, out of politeness to their guest.
When refreshments are brought in after tea, let them be placed on the
centre-table, and handed round from thence by the gentlemen to the
ladies. If there are only four or five persons present, it may be more
convenient for all to sit round the table—which should not be cleared
till after all the visiters have gone, that the things may again be
offered before the departure of the guests.
If a friend makes an afternoon call, and you wish her to stay and take
tea, invite her to do so at once, as soon as she has sat down; and do
not wait till she has risen to depart. If she consents to stay, there
will then be ample time to make any additional preparation for tea that
may be expedient; and she will also know, at once, that you have no
engagement for the evening, and that she is not intruding on your time,
or preventing you from going out. If you are intimate friends, and your
guest is disposed to have a long chat, she will do well to ask you, at
the beginning, if you are disengaged, or design going out that
afternoon.
We knew a very sensible and agreeable lady in Philadelphia, who liking
better to have company at home than to go out herself, made a rule of
inviting every day, half a dozen friends (not more) to take tea with
her—just as many as could sit round the table, “with ample room and
verge enough.” These friends she assorted judiciously. And therefore she
never asked a whole family at once; those who were left out
understanding that they would be invited another time. For instance, she
would send a note for the father and mother only—to meet another father
and mother or two. A few weeks after, a billet would come for the young
people only. But if there were _several_ young people, some were
delayed—thus—“I wish James and Eliza to take tea with me this evening,
to meet so-and-so. Another time I promise myself the pleasure of
Edward’s company, and Mary’s.”
This distribution of invitations never gave offence.
Those who were honoured with the acquaintance of such a lady were not
likely to be displeased at so sensible a mode of receiving them. These
little tea-drinkings were always pleasant, and often delightful. The
hostess was well qualified to make them so.
Though the refreshments were of the best kind, and in sufficient
abundance, and the fires, lights, &c. all as they should be, there was
no ostentatious display, and the ladies were dressed no more than if
they were spending a quiet evening at home—party-finery being
interdicted—also, such needle-work as required constant attention to
every stitch.
If you have a friend who is in somewhat precarious health, and who is
afraid of being out in the night air, or who lives in a distant part of
the town, invite her to dinner, or to pass the day, rather than to tea.
She will then be able to get home before twilight.
There is in Boston a very fashionable and very distinguished lady, who,
since her return from Europe, has relinquished the custom of giving
large parties; and now entertains her friends by, almost every day,
having two or three to dine with her,—by invitation. These dinners are
charming. The hour is according to the season—earlier in winter, later
in summer—the guests departing before dark, and the lady always having
the evening to herself.
We know a gentleman in Philadelphia, who every Monday has a
family-dinner at his house, for all his children and grandchildren, who
there meet and enjoy themselves before the eyes of the father and
mother,—a friend or two being also invited. Nothing can be more
pleasant than to see them all there together, none staying
away—for parents, children, sons-in-law, daughters-in-law,
sisters-in-law, brothers-in-law, are all at peace, and all meeting in
friendship—unhappily, a rare case, where there is a large connection,
and considerable wealth.
We wish that social intercourse was more frequently conducted on the
plan of the few examples above cited.
Should chance-visiters come in before the family have gone to tea, let
them at once be invited to partake of that repast; which they will of
course decline, if they have had tea already. In a well-provided house,
there can be no difficulty in adding something to the family tea-table,
which, in genteel life, should never be discreditably parsimonious.
It is a very mean practice, for the members of the family to slip out of
the parlour, one by one at a time, and steal away into the eating-room,
to avoid inviting their visiter to accompany them. The truth is always
suspected by these separate exits, and the length of absence from the
parlour—and is frequently betrayed by the rattle of china, and the
pervading fumes of hot cakes. How much better to meet the inconvenience
(and it cannot be a great one) by decently conducting your accidental
guest to the table, unless he says he has already taken tea, and will
amuse himself with a book while the family are at theirs.
Casual evening visiters should avoid staying too late. Ten o’clock, in
our country, is the usual time to depart, or at least to begin
departing. If the visit is unduly prolonged, there may be evident signs
of irrepressible drowsiness in the heads of the family, which, when
perceived, will annoy the guest, who must then feel that he has stayed
too long—and without being able to excuse himself with any approach to
the elegance of William Spencer’s apology to the charming Lady Anne
Hamilton.
Too late I stay’d—forgive the crime;
Unheeded flew the hours,
For noiseless falls the foot of Time
That only treads on flowers.
Ah! who with clear account remarks
The ebbing of the glass,
When all its sands are diamond sparks,
That dazzle as they pass!
CHAPTER IV.
THE ENTRÉE.
A lady is said to have the _entrée_ of her friend’s room, when she is
allowed or assumes the privilege of entering it familiarly at all times,
and without any previous intimation—a privilege too often abused. In
many cases, the visited person has never really granted this privilege,
(and after growing wise by experience, she rarely will;) but the
visiter, assuming that she herself must, under all circumstances, be
welcome, carries her sociability so far as to become troublesome and
inconvenient. Consequently, their friendship begins to abate in its
warmth. No one likes to be annoyed, or be intruded on at all hours. So
the visited begins to think of the adage, “My room is my castle,” and
the visiter finds that seeing a friend under all circumstances somewhat
diminishes respect, and that “familiarity brings contempt.”
There are few occasions on which it is well, on entering a house, to run
directly to the chamber of your friend, and to bolt into her room
without knocking; or the very instant _after_ knocking, before she has
time to desire you to enter, or to make the slightest arrangement for
your reception. You may find her washing, or dressing, or in bed, or
even engaged in repairing clothes,—or the room may be in great disorder,
or the chambermaid in the act of cleaning it. No one likes unseasonable
interruptions, even from a very dear friend. That friend would be dearer
still, if she had sufficient tact and consideration to refrain from
causing these annoyances. Also, friendships are not always
lasting—particularly those that become inordinately violent, and where
both parties, by their excessive intimacy, put themselves too much into
each other’s power. Very mortifying disclosures are sometimes made after
a quarrel between two Hermias and Helenas, when recrimination begins to
come, and mutual enmity takes the place of mutual kindness.
A familiar visit will always begin more pleasantly, if the visiter
enquires of the servant at the door if the lady she wishes to see is at
home, and then goes into the parlour, and stays there till she has sent
her name, and ascertained that she can be received up-stairs.[3] Then
(and not till then) let her go to her friend’s room, and still remember
to knock at the door before she enters. Let her have patience till her
friend bids her come in, or has time to rise, cross the room, and come
to open the door, if it is fastened.
It is extremely rude, on being admitted to a private apartment, to look
curiously about, as if taking an inventory of all that is to be seen. We
have known ladies whose eyes were all the time gazing round, and even
slily peering under tables, sofas, &c.; turning their heads to look
after every person who chanced to be moving about the room, and giving
particular attention to whatever seemed to be in disorder or out of
place. Nay, we have known one who prided herself upon the gentility of
her forefathers and foremothers, rise from her seat when her hostess
opened a bureau-drawer, or a closet-door, and cross the room, to stand
by and inspect the contents of said bureau or closet, while open—a
practice very common with ill-taught _children_, but which certainly
should be rebuked out of them long before they are grown up.
Make no remark upon the work in which you find your friend engaged. If
she lays it aside, desire her not to quit it because of your presence;
but propound no questions concerning it. Do not look over her books, and
ask to borrow them. In short, meddle with nothing.
Some ladies never enter the room of an intimate friend without
immediately exclaiming against its heat or its cold—seldom the latter,
but very frequently the former, as it is rather fashionable to be always
too warm; perhaps because it makes them seem younger. If they really are
uncomfortably warm on a very cold day, we think it can only be from the
glow produced by the exercise of walking. This glow must naturally
subside in a few minutes, if they would sit down and wait with a little
patience, or else avail themselves of the fan which ought to be at hand
in every room. We have known ladies of this warm temperament, who had
sufficient consideration always to carry a pocket-fan in winter as well
as summer. This is far better than to break out instantly with a
complaint of the heat of the room, or to run and throw up a window-sash,
or fling open the door, at the risk of giving cold to others. No
intimacy can authorize these freedoms in a cold day, unless permission
has first been asked, and sincerely granted.
If you are perfectly certain that you have really the entrée of your
friend’s room, and even if she has the same of yours, you have no right
ever to extend that privilege to any other person who may chance to be
with you when you go to see her. It is taking an unjustifiable liberty
to intrude a stranger upon the privacy of her chamber. If another lady
is with you, waive your privilege of entrée for that time, take your
companion into the parlour, and send up the names of both, and do not
say, “Oh! come up, come up—I am on no ceremony with her, and I am sure
she will not _mind you_.” And how can you be sure? Perhaps in reality,
she _will_ mind her very much, and be greatly discomfited, though too
polite to appear so.
There are certain unoccupied females so overfriendly as to take the
entrée of the whole house. These are, generally, ultra-neighbourly
neighbours, who run in at all hours of the day and evening; ferret out
the ladies of the family, wherever they may be—up-stairs or down; watch
all their proceedings when engaged, like good housewives, in inspecting
the attics, the store-rooms, the cellars, or the kitchens. Never for a
moment do they seem to suppose that their hourly visits may perhaps be
inconvenient or unseasonable; or too selfish to abate their frequency,
even when they suspect them to be so, these inveterate sociablists make
their incursions at all avenues. If they find that the front door is
kept locked, they glide down the area-steps, and get in through the
basement. Or else, they discover some back-entrance, by which they can
slip in at “the postern-gate”—that is, alley-wise:—sociablists are not
proud. At first, the sociablist will say, on making her third or fourth
appearance for the day, “Who comes to see you oftener than I?” But after
awhile even this faint shadow of an apology is omitted—or changed to
“Nobody minds _me_.” She is quite domesticated in your house—an absolute
_habitué_. She sees all, hears all, knows all your concerns. Of course
she does. Her talk _to_ you is chiefly gossip, and therefore her talk
_about_ you is chiefly the same. She is _au-fait_ of every thing
concerning your table, for after she has had her dinner at her own home,
she comes bolting into your dining-room and “sits by,” and sees you eat
yours. It is well if she does not begin with “a look in” upon you before
breakfast. She finds out everybody that comes to your house; knows all
your plans for going to this place or that; is well acquainted with
every article that you wear; is present at the visits of all your
friends, and hears all their conversation. Her own is usually “an
infinite deal of nothing.”
A sociablist is commonly what is called good-natured, or else you would
not endure her at all—and you believe, for a time, that she really has
an extraordinary liking for you. After awhile, you are undeceived. A
coolness ensues, if not a quarrel, and you are glad to find that she
carries her sociability to another market, and that a new friend is now
suffering all that you have experienced. To avoid the danger of being
overwhelmed by the sociability of an idle neighbour, discourage the
first indications of undue intimacy, by making your own visits rather
few, and rather far between. A young lady of good sense, and of proper
self-respect, will never be too lavish of her society; and if she has
pleasant neighbours, will visit them always in moderation. And their
friendship will last the longer.
CHAPTER V.
INTRODUCTIONS.
Fashion, in its various unmeaning freaks, sometimes decrees that it is
not “stylish to introduce strangers.” But this is a whim that, whenever
attempted, has neither become general nor lasted long. It has seldom
been adopted by persons of good sense and good manners—and very rarely
by that fortunate class whose elevated standing in society enables them
to act as they please, in throwing aside the fetters of absurd
conventionalities, and who can afford to do so.
Non-introduction has been found, in many instances, to produce both
inconvenience and vexation. Persons who had long known each other by
reputation, and who would have rejoiced in an opportunity of becoming
personally acquainted, have met in society, without being aware of it
till afterward; and the opportunity has never recurred. One of our most
distinguished literary Americans was seated at a dinner-party next to an
European lady equally distinguished in literature; but as there were no
introductions, he was not aware of her presence till the party was over
and the lady gone. The lady knew who the gentleman was, and would gladly
have conversed with him; but as he did not speak, because he was not
introduced, she had not courage to commence—though she might have done
so with perfect propriety, considering who _he_ was, and who _she_ was.
Still worse—from not knowing who are present, you may inadvertently fall
upon a subject of conversation that, for private reasons, may be
extremely irksome or painful to some of the company; for instance, in
discussing a public character. Severe or mortifying remarks may
unintentionally be made on the near relative, or on the intimate
companion, of one whom you would on no account desire to offend. And in
this way you may make enemies, where, under other circumstances, you
would have made friends. In such cases, it is the duty of the hostess,
or of any mutual acquaintance, immediately to introduce both parties,
and thus prevent any further animadversions that may be _mal-a-propos_,
or in any way annoying. It is safest, when among strangers, to refrain
from bitter animadversions on anybody.
In introducing a gentleman to a lady, address _her_ first, as for
instance—“Miss Smith, permit me to make you acquainted with Mr.
Jones”—or, “Mrs. Farley, allow me to present Mr. Wilson”—that is, you
must introduce the gentleman to the lady, rather than the lady to the
gentleman. Also, if one lady is married and the other single, present
the single lady to the matron, as—“Miss Thomson, let me introduce you to
Mrs. Williams.”[4]
In introducing a foreigner, it is proper to present him as “Mr. Howard
from England”—“Mr. Dupont from France”—“Mr. Wenzel from Germany.” If you
know of what European city he is a resident, it is better still, to say
that he is “from London,”—“Paris,”—“Hamburg.” Likewise, in introducing
one of your own countrymen very recently returned from a distant part of
the world, make him known as “Mr. Davis, just from China”—“Mr. Edwards,
lately from Spain”—“Mr. Gordon, recently from South America.” These
slight specifications are easily made; and they afford, at once, an
opening for conversation between the two strangers, as it will be
perfectly natural to ask “the late arrived” something about the country
he has last visited, or at least about his voyage.
When presenting a member of Congress, mention the State to which he
belongs, as, “Mr. Hunter of Virginia”—“Mr. Chase of Ohio,” &c. Recollect
that both senators and gentlemen of the house of representatives are
members of Congress—Congress including the two legislative bodies. In
introducing a governor, designate the state he governs—as, “Governor
Penington of New Jersey.” For the chief magistrate of the republic, say
simply—“The President.”
In introducing an officer, tell always to which service he belongs—as
“Captain Turner of the Navy”—“Captain Anderson of the Army.”
We regret the custom of continuing to give military titles to militia
officers. Foreigners are justly diverted at finding _soi-disant_
generals and colonels among men who fill very subordinate stations in
civil life—men that, however respectable in their characters, may be
deficient in the appearance, manners, or education that should belong to
a regular officer. This foolish practice can only be done away by the
militia officers themselves (those that really are gentlemen—and there
are many) magnanimously declining to be called generals, colonels, &c.
except on parade occasions; and when actually engaged in militia duty.
Let them omit these titles on their cards, and request that no letters
be directed to them with such superscriptions; and that in introductions
or in conversation they may be only addressed as plain Mr. It is still
more absurd to continue these military titles long after they have
ceased to hold the office,—and above all, to persist in them when
travelling in foreign countries, tacitly permitting it to be supposed
that they own commissions in the regular service.
English tourists (even when they know better) make this practice a
handle for pretending, in their books, that the officers of the American
army are so badly paid, or so eager to make additional money, that they
exercise all sorts of trades, and engage in the humblest occupations to
help themselves along. They tell of seeing a captain stitching coats, a
major making shoes, a colonel driving a stage, and a general selling
butter in market—sneeringly representing them as regular officers of the
United States army. Is it true that we republicans have such a hankering
after titles? If so, “reform it altogether.” And let one of the first
steps be to omit the “Esq.” in directing a letter to an American
citizen, for whom the title can have no meaning. In England it signifies
the possessor of an estate in the country, including the office of
justice of peace. In America, it means a magistrate only; who may live
in a city, and own not an inch of ground anywhere. But why should all
manner of men, of all trades, and professions, expect to see an “Esq.”
after their name, when with reference to _them_, it can have no rational
application?
An introduction should always be given in a distinct and audible voice,
so that the name may be clearly understood. The purpose is defeated, if
it is murmured over in so low a tone as to be unintelligible. And yet
how often is this the case; for what reason it is difficult to divine.
It is usual for the introducee to repeat the name of the introduced.
This will prove that it has really been heard. For instance, if Mrs.
Smith presents Miss Brook to Miss Miles, Miss Miles immediately says,
“Miss Brook”—or better still—“Miss Brook, I am glad to meet you,” or
something similar. Miss Miles then begins a talk.
If you introduce yourself to a lady whom you wish to know, but who does
not know _you_, address her by her name, express your desire to make her
acquaintance, and then give her your card. Replying that it affords her
pleasure to meet you, she will give you her hand, and commence a
conversation, so as to put you quite at ease after your
self-introduction.
In introducing members of your own family, always mention, audibly, the
name. It is not sufficient to say “my father,” or “my mother”—“my son,”
“my daughter”—“my brother,” or “my sister.” There may be more than one
surname in the same family. But say, “my father, Mr. Warton,”—“my
daughter, Miss Wood”—or “my daughter-in-law, Mrs. Wood”—“my sister, Miss
Mary Ramsay”—“my brother, Mr. James Ramsay,” &c. It is best in all these
things to be explicit. The eldest daughter is usually introduced by her
surname only—as “Miss Bradford”—her younger sisters, as “Miss Maria
Bradford”—“Miss Harriet Bradford.”
In presenting a clergyman, put the word “Reverend” before his
name—unless he is a bishop, and then, of course, the word “Bishop”
suffices. The head of a college-department introduce as “Professor”—and
it is to them only that the title properly belongs, though arrogated by
all sorts of public exhibitors, mesmerists and jugglers included.
Where the company is large, the ladies of the house should have tact
enough to avoid introducing and placing together persons who cannot
possibly assimilate, or take pleasure in each other’s society. The dull,
and the silly, will be far happier with their compeers. To a woman of
talent, and a good conversationist, it is a cruelty to put her
unnecessarily in contact with stupid, or unmeaning people. She is wasted
and thrown away upon such as are neither amusing nor amusable. Neither
is it well to bring together a gay, lively woman of the world, and a
solemn, serious, repulsive dame, who is a contemner of the world and all
its enjoyments. There can be no conversation that is mutually agreeable,
between a real lady of true delicacy and refinement, and a so-called
lady whose behaviour and talk are coarse and vulgar,—or between a woman
of highly cultivated mind, and one who is grossly ignorant of every
thing connected with books, and who boasts of that ignorance. We have
heard a lady of fashion say, “Thank God, I never read.” The answer might
well have have been, “You need not tell us that.”
In inviting but a small company, it is indispensable to the pleasure of
all, that you ask none who are strikingly unsuitable to the rest—or
whose presence will throw a damp on conversation. Especially avoid
bringing into the same room, persons who are at notorious enmity with
each other, even if, unhappily, they should be members of the same
family. Those who are known as adversaries should be invited on
different evenings.
Avoid giving invitations to bores. They will come without.
The word “bore” has an unpleasant and an inelegant sound. Still, we have
not, as yet, found any substitute that so well expresses the
meaning,—which, we opine, is a dull, tiresome man, or “a weariful
woman,” either inveterately silent, or inordinately talkative, but never
saying any thing worth hearing, or worth remembering—people whom you
receive unwillingly, and whom you take leave of with joy; and who, not
having perception enough to know that their visits are always unwelcome,
are the most sociable visiters imaginable, and the longest stayers.
In a conversation at Abbotsford, there chanced to be something said in
reference to bores—those beings in whom “man delights not, nor woman
neither.” Sir Walter Scott asserted, humourously, that bores were always
“good respectable people.” “Otherwise,” said he “there could be no
bores. For if they were also scoundrels or brutes, we would keep no
measures with them, but at once kick them out the house, and shut the
door in their faces.”
When you wish an introduction to a stranger lady, apply to your hostess,
or to some of the family, or to one of the guests that is acquainted
with that lady: you will then be led up and presented to her. Do not
expect the stranger to be brought to you; it is your place to go to her.
If you are requested by a female friend to introduce her to a
distinguished gentleman, a public character, be not so ungenerous as to
go _immediately_ and conspicuously to inform him of the fact. But spare
her delicacy, by deferring the ceremony for a while; and then take an
opportunity of saying to him, “I shall be glad to make you acquainted
with my friend Miss Morris. Come with me, and I will introduce you.”
When the introduction has thus taken place, you may with propriety leave
them together to entertain each other for awhile; particularly if both
parties are capable of doing so. And then, after a quarter of an hour’s
conversation, let the lady release the gentleman from further
attendance, by bowing to him, and turning to some other acquaintance who
may not be far off. She can leave _him_ much more easily than he can
leave _her_, and it will be better to do so in proper time, than to
detain him too long. It is generally in his power to return to her
before the close of the evening, and if he is pleased with her society,
he will probably make an opportunity of doing so.
If he is what is called a lion, consideration for the rest of the
company should admonish her not to monopolize him. But lions usually
know how to get away adroitly. By-the-bye, she must not talk to him of
his professional celebrity, or ask him at once for his autograph.
We saw no less a person than Charles Dickens compelled, at a large
party, to devote the whole evening to writing autographs for a multitude
of young ladies—many of whom, not satisfied with obtaining one of his
signatures for themselves, desired half a dozen others for “absent
friends.” All conversation ceased with the first requisition for an
autograph. He had no chance of saying any thing. We were a little
ashamed of our fair townswomen.
Should it fall to your lot to introduce any of the English nobility,
take care (before hand) to inform yourself exactly what their titles
really are. Americans are liable to make sad blunders in these things.
It may be well to know that a duke is the highest title of British
nobility, and that his wife is a duchess. His eldest son is a marquis as
long as his father lives, on whose demise the marquis becomes a duke.
The wife of a marquis is a marchioness. There are a few marquises whose
fathers were not dukes. The younger sons are termed Lord Henry, Lord
Charles, Lord John, &c. The daughters Lady Caroline, Lady Augusta, Lady
Julia. The family name is generally quite different from the title.
Thus, the name of the Duke of Richmond is Lenox—that of the Duke of
Rutland, Manners. The family name of the Duke of Norfolk (who ranks
first of the English nobility) is Howard. The present Duke of
Northumberland’s name is Algernon Percy. Arthur Wellesley was that of
the great Duke of Wellington. His eldest son was Marquis of Douro, and
his second son Lord Charles Wellesley. The children of a marquis are
called Lord Frederick, or Lord Henry, and Lady Louisa, or Lady Harriet.
The next title is viscount, as Viscount Palmerston. The next is earl,
whose wife is a countess, and the children may be Lord Georges and Lady
Marys.
After the viscounts come the barons, whose children are denominated the
Honourable Miss, or Mr. John Singleton Copley, (whose father was Copley,
the celebrated American painter,) is now Baron Lyndhurst. His eldest
daughter, is the Hon. Miss Copley. In common parlance, barons are always
termed lords. Some few have two titles—as Lord Say and Sele—Lord
Brougham and Vaux. After William the Fourth had suddenly dissolved the
parliament that held out so long against passing the reform bill, and
the king, appointing a new cabinet, had placed Lord Brougham at the head
of the ministry, a ridiculous comic song came out at one of the minor
theatres, implying that now his majesty has swept out the whole
parliament, “he takes up his broom and valks,” (Brougham and Vaux.)
When the widow of a nobleman marries a man who has no title, she always
retains hers. Thus when the widow of the Earl of Mansfield married
Colonel Greville, (a nephew of the Earl of Warwick,)—on their door-plate
the names were—“The Countess Dowager of Mansfield, and the Hon. Colonel
Greville,”—a rather long inscription. A nobleman’s daughter marrying a
commoner, retains her original title of Lady, but takes his
surname—thus, Lady Charlotte Campbell, whose father was Duke of Argyle,
became, on her marriage with Dr. Bury, a clergyman, Lady Charlotte Bury.
It will be understood that if a nobleman’s daughter marries a nobleman,
her title merges in his—but if she marries a commoner, she retains what
title she had originally—her husband, of course, obtaining no rank by
his marriage.
The title of a baronet is Sir—as Sir Francis Burdett, Sir Walter Scott.
His children are Mr. and Miss, without any “Hon.” affixed to their
names. Baronets are a grade below barons, but the title is hereditary,
descending to the eldest son or next male heir. In directing to a
baronet, put “Bart.” after his name. A knight is also called Sir, as Sir
Thomas Lawrence, Sir Edwin Landseer, &c.; but his title being only for
life, dies with him.[5] It is always conferred by the sovereign touching
his shoulder with a sword, and saying, for instance, “Rise up, Sir
Francis Chantry.” In writing to a knight, put “Knt.” The wives of both
baronets and knights are called Lady. The wife of Sir John Franklin (who
was knighted) is Lady Franklin—not Lady _Jane_ Franklin, as has been
erroneously supposed. She could not be Lady Jane unless her father was a
nobleman.
A nobleman always signs his title only, without designating his exact
rank—the Duke of Athol signing himself “Athol”—the Duke of Bedford,
“Bedford”—the Marquis of Granby, “Granby”—the Earl of Chesterfield,
“Chesterfield,” &c. The wives of peers give their Christian name with
their title—as Isabella Buccleuch—Margaret Northampton—Elizabeth Derby,
&c.
The English bishops are addressed in letters as the Lord Bishop of
Rochester, the Lord Bishop of Bath and Wells. The Archbishop of
Canterbury, who is Primate of England,—(Head of the English Church,) is
called His Grace, or Your Grace. The bishops are all (by virtue of their
office) members of the House of Peers or Lords. They sign their
Christian name with the title of their bishopric, as John Durham—William
Oxford.
All full noblemen have an hereditary seat in the House of Peers, which
they take on attaining the age of twenty-one, and it continues while
they live. Their younger sons, the Lord Johns and Lord Fredericks, can
only have a seat in the House of Commons, and to that they must be
elected, like the other members. Baronets, not being peers, must also be
elected as commons.
Americans going to England would do well to look over a book of the
British Peerage, so as to save themselves from making blunders, which
are much ridiculed in a country where little allowance is made for
republican habits and for republican ignorance of what appertains to
monarchical institutions.[6] It would not be amiss even to know that a
full coat of arms, including shield, supporters, crest, and scroll with
a motto, belongs only to the chief of a noble family; and that the
younger branches are entitled only to the crest, which is the head of
the same animal that stands erect on each side of the shield as if to
support it, such as stags, foxes, bears, vultures, &c. A baronet has a
shield only, with a bloody or wounded hand over the top.
Our countrymen abroad sometimes excite ill-concealed mirth, by the
lavish use they make of titles when they chance to find themselves among
the nobility. They should learn that none but servants or people of the
lower classes make constant use of the terms “my lord,” and “my
lady”—“your lordship,” or “your ladyship”—“your grace,” &c., in
conversing with persons of rank. Formerly it was the custom, but it is
long since obsolete, except, as we have said, from domestics or
dependants. Address them simply as Lord Derby, or Lord Dunmore—Lady
Wilton, Lady Mornington, &c.
CHAPTER VI.
CONDUCT IN THE STREET.
When three ladies are walking together, it is better for one to keep a
little in advance of the other two, than for all three to persist in
maintaining one unbroken line. They cannot all join in conversation
without talking across each other—a thing that, in-doors or out of
doors, is awkward, inconvenient, ungenteel, and should always be
avoided. Also, three ladies walking abreast occupy too much of the
pavement, and therefore incommode the other passengers. Three young
_men_ sometimes lounge along the pavement, arm in arm. Three young
_gentlemen_ never do so.
If you meet a lady with whom you have become but slightly acquainted,
and had merely a little conversation, (for instance, at a party or a
morning visit,) and who moves in a circle somewhat higher or more
fashionable than your own, it is safest to wait till she recognises you.
Let her not see in you a disposition to obtrude yourself on her notice.
It is not expected that all intimacies formed at watering-places shall
continue after the parties have returned to their homes. A mutual bow
when meeting in the street is sufficient. But there is no interchanging
of visits, unless both ladies have, before parting, testified a desire
to continue the acquaintance. In this case, the lady who is eldest, or
palpably highest in station, makes the first call. It is not customary
for a young lady to make the first visit to a married lady.
When meeting them in the street, always speak first to your milliner,
mantua-maker, seamstress, or to any one you have been in the practice of
employing. To pass without notice any servant that you know, is rude and
unfeeling, as they will attribute it to pride, not presuming to speak to
you themselves, unless in reply. There are persons who having accepted,
when in the country, much kindness from the country-people, are ashamed
to recognise them when they come to town, on account of their rustic or
unfashionable dress. This is a very vulgar, contemptible, and foolish
pride; and is always seen through, and despised. There is no danger of
plain country-people being mistaken for vulgar city-people. In our
country, there is no reason for keeping aloof from any who are
respectable in character and appearance. Those to be avoided are such as
wear tawdry finery, paint their faces, and leer out of the corners of
their eyes, _looking_ disreputably, even if they are not disreputable in
reality.
When a gentleman meets a lady with whom his acquaintance is very slight,
(perhaps nothing more than a few words of talk at a party,) he allows
her the option of continuing the acquaintance or not, at her pleasure;
therefore, he waits till she recognises him, and till she evinces it by
a bow,—he looking at her to give the opportunity. Thus, if she has no
objection to numbering him among her acquaintances, she denotes it by
bowing first. American ladies never curtsey in the street. If she has
any reason to disapprove of his character or habits, she is perfectly
justifiable in “cutting” him, as it is termed. Let her bow very coldly
the first time, and after that, not at all.
Young ladies should yield the wall to old ladies. Gentlemen do so to all
ladies.
In some cities it is the custom for all gentlemen to give their arm to
all ladies, when walking with them. In others, a gentleman’s arm is
neither offered nor taken, unless in the evening, on slippery pavements,
or when the streets are very muddy. A lady only takes the arm of her
husband, her affianced lover, or of her male relatives. In the country
the custom is different. There, a gentleman, when walking with a lady,
always gives her his arm; and is much offended when, on offering his
arm, the lady refuses to take it. Still, if it is contrary to the custom
of her place, she can explain it to him delicately, and he will at once
see the propriety of her declining.
When a lady is walking between two gentlemen, she should divide her
conversation as equally as practicable, or address most of it to him who
is most of a stranger to her. He, with whom she is least on ceremony,
will excuse her.
A gentleman on escorting a lady to her own home, must not leave her till
he has rung the bell, and waited till the servant has come and opened
the door, and till she is actually in the house. Men who know no better,
think it sufficient to walk with her to the foot of the steps and there
take their departure, leaving her to get in as she can. This we have
seen—but not often, and the offenders were not Americans.
If you stop a few minutes in the street to talk to an acquaintance, draw
to one side of the pavement near the wall, so as not to impede the
passengers—or you may turn and walk with her as far as the next corner.
And never stop to talk in the middle of a crossing. To speak loudly in
the street is exceedingly ungenteel, and foolish, as what you say will
be heard by all who pass by. To call across the way to an acquaintance,
is very unlady-like. It is best to hasten over, and speak to her, if you
have any thing of importance to say.
When a stranger offers to assist you across a brimming gutter, or over a
puddle, or a glare of slippery ice, do not hesitate, or decline, as if
you thought he was taking an unwarrantable liberty. He means nothing but
civility. So accept it frankly, and thank him for it.
When you see persons slip down on the ice, do not laugh at them. There
is no fun in being hurt, or in being mortified by a fall in the public
street; and we know not how a _lady_ can see any thing diverting in so
painful a circumstance. It is more feminine, on witnessing such a sight,
to utter an involuntary scream than a shout of laughter. And still more
so, to stop and ascertain if the person that fell has been hurt.
If, on stopping an omnibus, you find that a dozen people are already
seated in it, draw back, and refuse to add to the number; giving no heed
to the assertion of the driver, that “there is plenty of room.” The
_passengers_ will not say so, and you have no right to crowd them all,
even if you are willing to be crowded yourself—a thing that is extremely
uncomfortable, and very injurious to your dress, which may, in
consequence, be so squeezed and rumpled as never to look well again.
None of the omnibuses are large enough to accommodate even twelve grown
people _comfortably_; and that number is the utmost the law permits. A
child occupies more than half the space of a grown person, yet children
are brought into omnibuses _ad libitum_. Ten grown persons are as many
as can be really well seated in an omnibus—twelve are too many; and a
_lady_ will always regret making the thirteenth—and her want of
consideration in doing so will cause her to be regarded with
unfavourable eyes by the other passengers. It is better for her to go
into a shop, and wait for the next omnibus, or even to walk home, unless
it is actually raining.
Have your sixpence ready in your fingers a few minutes before you are to
get out; and you may request any gentleman near you to hand it up to the
driver. So many accidents have happened from the driver setting off
before a lady was entirely out of the vehicle and safely landed in the
street, that it is well to desire the gentleman not to hand up the
sixpence till after you are fairly clear of the steps.
When expecting to ride in an omnibus, take care to have sufficient small
change in your purse—that is, sixpences. We have seen, when a
quarter-dollar has been handed up, and the driver was handing down the
change, that it has fallen, and been scattered among the straw. There
was no stopping to search for it, and therefore the ride cost
twenty-five cents instead of six: the driver, of course, finding the
change himself, as soon as he got rid of all his passengers.
It is most imprudent to ride in an omnibus with much money in your
purse. Pickpockets of genteel appearance are too frequently among the
passengers. We know a gentleman who in this way lost a pocket-book
containing eighty dollars; and various ladies have had their purses
taken from them, by well-dressed passengers. If you are obliged to have
money of any consequence about you, keep your hand all the time in that
pocket.
If the driver allows a drunken man to come into an omnibus, the ladies
will find it best to get out; at least those whose seats are near his.
It is, however, the duty of the gentlemen to insist on such fellows
being refused admittance where there are ladies.
No lady should venture to ride in an omnibus after dark, unless she is
escorted by a gentleman whom she knows. She had better walk home, even
under the protection of a servant. If alone in an omnibus at night, she
is liable to meet with improper company, and perhaps be insulted.
CHAPTER VII.
SHOPPING.
When you go out shopping, it is well to take with you some _written_
cards, inscribed with your residence as well as your name. For this
purpose to use engraved visiting-cards is an unnecessary expense. That
there may be no mistake, let your shopping-cards contain not only your
street and number, but the side of the way, and between what streets
your house is situated. This minuteness is particularly useful in
Philadelphia, where the plan and aspect of the streets is so similar.
Much inconvenience, disappointment, and delay have resulted from parcels
being left at wrong places. If you are staying at a hotel, give also the
number of your chamber, otherwise the package may be carried in mistake
to the apartment of some other lady; the servants always knowing the
number of the rooms, but not always remembering the names of the
occupants; usually speaking of the ladies and gentlemen as No. 25, No.
42, &c.
There is another advantage in having cards with you when you go out
shopping: if you should chance to forget your reticule, or handkerchief,
and leave it on the counter, the shopkeeper will know exactly by the
card where to send it, or for whom to keep it till called for.
If you intend to purchase none but small articles, take but little money
in your purse, so that if you chance to lose it, the loss may not be
great.[7] When you buy articles of any consequence, they will always be
sent home at your request—and (unless you keep a standing account at
that store) desire the bill to be sent along; and sent at an hour when
you will certainly be at hand to pay it. Be careful to take receipts for
the payment; and keep the receipts on a file or wire. We have known
instances when, from the clerk or storekeeper neglecting or delaying to
cross out an account as soon as paid, the same bill was inadvertently
sent twice over; and then by having the receipt to show, the necessity
of _paying it twice over_ was obviated. Look carefully at every item of
the bill, and see that all is correct. Sometimes (though these
oversights are of rare occurrence) the same article may accidentally be
set down twice in the same bill. But this is easily rectified by taking
the bill to the storekeeper, and showing it to him.
In subscribing for a magazine or newspaper, and paying in advance, (as
you always should,) be especially careful of the receipts given to you
at paying. So many persons are in the habit of allowing these accounts
to run on for years, that if you neglect preserving your receipts, and
cannot produce them afterward, you may be unintentionally classed among
the delinquents, and have no means of proving satisfactorily that you
have really paid.
Many ladies keep a day-book, in which they set down, regularly, all the
money they have expended on that day; adding up the whole every week. An
excellent plan, and of great importance to every one who is mistress of
a family.
In making purchases for other persons, have bills made out; and send the
bills (receipted) with the articles purchased, as an evidence of the
exact price of the things, and that they were paid for punctually. The
friends that have commissioned you to buy them, should _immediately_
repay you. Much inconvenience may be felt by a lady whose command of
money is small, when a friend living in a distant place, and probably in
opulent circumstances, neglects or postpones the payment of these sums.
She should, at the beginning, send money amply sufficient to make these
purchases. It is enough that you take the trouble of going to the
stores, selecting the desired articles, and having them packed and sent
off. She has no right to put you to the slightest pecuniary
inconvenience. There have been instances, where articles thus bought for
a lady in a far-off place, have not been paid for by that lady till
after the lapse of many months. For such remissness there is no excuse.
To go shopping for a friend is rarely a pleasant business. Besides its
encroaching on your time, there is always a danger of the purchases
proving unsatisfactory, or not suiting the taste of her for whom they
are intended. Also, circumstances may prevent the articles reaching her
as soon as expected. Whenever practicable, it is best to send all such
packages by the Transportation Line—that charge to be paid by the owner,
on delivery.
It is not well to trouble a gentleman with the care of a parcel, unless
it is quite small, and he has to pass the door of the house at which it
is to be delivered; or unless his residence is in the immediate
neighbourhood.
When visiting the shops, if you do not intend to buy at that time, but
are merely looking round to see varieties of articles before you
determine on what to purchase, candidly say so to the persons standing
at the counter. They will (particularly if they know you) be perfectly
willing to show you such things as you desire to see, in the hope that
you may return to their store and buy of them afterward. At the same
time, avoid giving unnecessary trouble; and do not, from mere curiosity,
desire such things to be brought to you as you have no intention of
buying at all.
The practice that is called cheapening, or beating down the price, is
now nearly obsolete. Most tradesmen have a fixed price for every thing,
and will not abate.
It is but rarely that you will meet with articles of really good quality
on very low terms, unless near the close of the season, when the
storekeepers, anxious to get rid of their old stock, generally put down
the prices of the goods that are left on hand; knowing that by the
return of next season, these will be superseded by things of a newer
fashion. Economical ladies, who are not resolutely determined on wearing
none but articles of the very latest fashion, may thus supply themselves
with excellent silks, lawns, &c. in August and September, at prices far
below what they would have given in May or June. And then they can lay
them by till next summer. In the same way they can purchase merinoes,
mousselines de laine, &c. in January, February, and March, much lower
than in November and December. It is best always to buy rather too much
than too little; and to have a piece left, rather than to get a scanty
pattern, such as will barely hold out, leaving nothing for repairs or
alterations. There is much advantage in getting an extra yard and a
half, or two yards, and keeping it back for new sleeves. Unless you are
small and slender, it is not well to buy a dress embroidered with a
border pattern. They are always scanty in width, and have that look when
made up. The skirts are never quite wide enough. A tall woman requires
as full a skirt as a fat one; else her height will make her look lanky
and narrow.
When bespeaking an article to be made purposely for you, ascertain from
the maker what will be the cost, and then request him to write down the
terms on a card, or a slip of paper, or on a leaf of your tablet. If he
says he cannot tell how much it will be, or that he knows not what price
to fix on it, or that he cannot decide till after it is finished, it
will be safest and wisest for you to decline engaging it, till he _has_
calculated the amount, or something very near it. Persist in this
condition being a _sine qua non_. It is his place to know every thing
connected with his business, and to be able to judge of his outlay, and
his profits. If you do not insist on a satisfactory answer when making
the bargain, you may in the end find yourself greatly overcharged, (as
we know by experience;) the price in the bill, after the article is
made, and sent home, proving infinitely higher than you would have been
willing to give if previously aware of it. In dealing with foreigners
whose language is not yours, take especial care that there is a correct
understanding on both sides.
When on a visit to a city with which you are not familiar, enquire where
the best shops are to be found, and make memorandums of them in your
tablets. This will spare your friends the trouble of accompanying you on
your shopping expeditions. And if you have a small pocket-map of the
town, there will be no danger of losing your way. Except to ladies whose
chief delight is in seeing things connected with dress, to go shopping
with a stranger is usually very tiresome. Also, the stranger will feel
less constraint by going alone; and more at liberty to be guided by her
own taste in selecting, and to consult her pecuniary convenience in
regard to the price. It is only when you feel that you have reason for
distrusting your own judgment, as to the quality and gentility of the
articles, that it is well to be accompanied by a person of more
experience. And then you will, most probably, be unwilling to fatigue
her by going to as many shops as you would like to visit. In most cases,
it is best to go shopping without any companion, except, perhaps, a
member of your immediate family. Gentlemen consider it a very irksome
task to go on shopping expeditions, and their ill-concealed impatience
becomes equally irksome to you.
If you have given the salesman or saleswoman unusual trouble in showing
you articles which you find not to suit, make some compensation, by at
least one or two small purchases before leaving the store; for instance,
linen to lay by as a body-lining for a future dress, gloves, mits, a
neck ribbon, cotton spools, pins, needles, tape, black sewing-silk,
&c.,—things that will always come into use.
Remember that in all American stores, the rule of “first come, first
served,” is rigidly observed. Therefore, testify no impatience if a
servant-girl, making a sixpenny purchase, is served before you—which she
certainly will be, if her entrance has preceded yours.
There are still some ladies who think that one of the great arts of
shopping, is to disparage the articles shown to them, to exclaim at the
price, and to assert that at other places they can get exactly such
things infinitely lower. When shopping, (as well as under all other
circumstances,) it is best to adhere to the truth. If you really like
the article, why not gratify the salesman by saying so. If you know that
the price is in conformity to the usual rate, you need not attempt to
get it lower, for you will seldom succeed—unless, indeed, on that day
the tradesman is particularly anxious to sell, having a sum of money to
make up, and being somewhat at a loss. Perhaps then, he may abate
something; but if he does not himself propose the abatement, and if he
is largely in business, and sure of plenty of custom, there will be
little use in your urging it.
If you are a stranger in the city, (Philadelphia for instance,) do not
always be exclaiming at the prices, and declaring that you can buy the
same articles much lower and much handsomer in New York, Boston, or
Baltimore. For certain reasons, prices are different in different
places. If an article is shown to you in Philadelphia as “something
quite new,” refrain from saying that it has been out of fashion these
two years in New York. This may injure its sale with bystanders,
chancing to hear you. You need only say “that it is very pretty, but you
do not want it now.”
It is strange, but no less strange than true, that though the distance
between New York and Philadelphia is reduced to less than half a day’s
travel, it takes a year or more, for the New York fashions to get to
Philadelphia, and many of them never arrive at all. There are certain
dress-makers and milliners in the latter city, who, if you show them any
thing quite fresh from New York, will habitually reply, “Oh! we made
that, here in Philadelphia, a year or two ago.” You need not believe
them. Our American ladies derive all their ideas of costume from France;
and as New York rejoices in the most extensive and the most speedy
intercourse with that land of taste and elegance, the French fashions
always get there first. The wonder is that so long a time elapses before
they prevail in the other cities. We must say, however, that whatever is
fantastic and extreme, is generally modified and softened down in
Philadelphia. In provincial towns, and in remote new settlements, we
often see a disposition to carry to the utmost a fashion already too
showy or gaudy.
When you see on another lady a new article of dress that you admire, it
is _not_ ill-manners, (but rather the contrary,) to tell her so. But
unless you really desire to get one exactly like it for yourself, and
are sincerely asking for information, it is considered very rude to
enquire where she bought it, and what was the cost. And it is peculiarly
vulgar to preface the enquiry by the foolish words—“If it is a fair
question.” The very doubt proves that you know the question to be a very
unfair one. And so it is. We have never known that expression used
except to introduce something rude and improper. Any lady who is asked
an impertinent question, would be perfectly justifiable in saying,
“Excuse me from answering”—and then immediately changing the
conversation. Yet there are ladies who are always catechising others
about their dress. You are not bound to give explicit answers to these,
or any other questions concerning your personal affairs. Much mischief
accrues in society, from some ladies being too inquisitive, and others
too communicative.
It is really a great fatigue, both of body and mind, to go shopping with
a very close economist, particularly if you know that she can well
afford a sufficiently liberal expenditure. The length of time she will
ponder over every thing before she can “make up her mind;” the
ever-besetting fear that she may possibly have to give a few cents more
in one store than in another; her long deliberation as to whether a
smaller than the usual quantity may not be “made to do;” her
predilection for bargain-seeking in streets far off, and ungenteel; the
immense trouble she gives to the persons behind the counter,—all will
induce you to forswear trying a second time the experiment of attending
on the progress of a shopper who sets out with the vain expectation of
obtaining good articles at paltry prices.
In what are called “cheap shops,” you will rarely find more than two or
three things that are really cheap. If of bad quality, they are not
_cheap_, but dear. Low-priced ribbons, for instance, are generally
flimsy, tawdry, of ugly figures, and vulgar colours,—soon fading, and
soon “getting into a string.” Yet there are ladies who will walk two
miles to hustle in the crowd they find squeezing toward the counter of
the last new emporium of cheap ribbons; and, while waiting their turn,
have nothing to look at around them but lots of trash, that if they
bought they would be ashamed to wear. Coarse finery is trumpery.
On the other hand, for ladies of small means, it is not indispensable to
their standing in society, that they should deal only at stores noted
for selling _higher_ than the usual price. It is a very poor boast;
particularly when they cannot afford it.
Whatever may be the caprices of fashion, a lady of good taste (and we
may add, good sense,) will not, in buying dresses, select those of large
figures, and high glaring colours. There is something peculiarly
ungenteel and ungraceful in a white ground with large red flowers and
green leaves wandering over it. Even if the fabric is brocade, it has a
look of calico. Red and green is only beautiful in real flowers. In a
lady’s dress, it somehow looks unlady-like. A great variety of bright
colours is only suited to a carpet. For a dress, two are quite
sufficient. And then if one is blue, pink, scarlet, or orange, let it be
contrasted with brown, gray, olive, or some chaste and quiet tint that
will set it off. Few silks are more becoming than those in which the
figure is formed by a darker shade of the same colour as the ground.
Silks of one colour only, trim the best—variegated trimming looks
confused and ineffective. No colours are more ungenteel, or in worse
taste, than reddish lilacs, reddish purples, and reddish browns. The
original tint of aronetta, or anatto, is the contempt of ladies; but by
previously washing the article in strong, warm pot-ash water, before it
is put into the solution of aronetta, you will obtain a beautiful
bird-of-paradise colour, entirely free from all appearance of the
unpopular powder.
Buy no silk that is stiff and hard, however thick and heavy it may seem.
It will crack and split, and wear worse than a soft silk that appears
much thinner. Venture on no satin that is not of excellent quality A
thin satin frays and ravels, and is not worth making up. For common
wear, a soft, thick India silk is generally excellent. We have never
seen a _good one_ for less than a dollar a yard. The figured or embossed
India silks are not worth buying,—wearing rough and fuzzy, and fraying
all over. For a serviceable, long-lasting home dress, there is nothing
equal to a very thick, soft, double-width India black satin, such as is
called two yards wide, and sells at two dollars a yard. But they have
become very scarce. Never use satin to cover cord. It ravels too much.
Velvet and satin should be corded with substantial silk. If you cannot
match the exact shade, let it be darker rather than lighter. A
belt-ribbon should always be darker than the dress. Cord merino with
itself. A cording of silk will not wash.
If you cannot get lace that is tolerably fine, wear none at all, rather
than have it coarse. We have seen lace called Brussels, so coarse that
it looked as if made of cotton, though in truth it was of thread. There
was no real beauty in it. Genuine Brussels lace is exquisitely fine.
Large showy ornaments, by way of jewellery, are exceedingly ungenteel.
They always tell their own story, of glass stones set in gilding, not
gold. If you cannot obtain real jewels, never attempt sham ones. It
requires no practised eye to detect them—particularly false diamonds.
Do not interfere with the shopping of other customers, (who may chance
to stand near you at the counter,) by either praising or deprecating any
of the articles they are looking at. Leave them to the exercise of their
own judgment; unless they ask your opinion. And then give it in a low
voice, and sincerely.
If you meet an acquaintance unexpectedly in a store, it is not well to
engage in a long conversation with her, and thus detain persons behind
the counter from waiting on other customers. Finish your purchase-making
first, and then you will have leisure to step aside and converse. A
store is not the place for social intercourse, and you may chance to say
something there, that bystanders should not hear. “Greetings in the
market-place” should always be short.
It is not admissible to try on kid gloves in a store. After buying a
pair, ask for the glove-stretcher, (which they keep in all good shops,
for the convenience of customers,) and then stretch the gloves upon it,
unless you have a glove-stretcher at home. This will render them easy to
put on when you take them into wear. Glove-stretchers are to be bought
at the variety stores; or ought to be. They will save many a new glove
from tearing.
In buying stockings, whether silk or cotton, you will find it cheapest
in the end, to get those of the best _English_ manufacture, particularly
those of fine quality. For winter, and to wear with boots, English
stockings of unbleached cotton are very comfortable, feeling warmer than
those that are perfectly white. It is to be lamented that all black
stockings (even of silk) are painful and injurious to the feet, the
copperas dye being poisonous.
In buying black mits, see that they are _really of silk_, otherwise they
will stain your hands, and look brown and foxy. Much cotton is now
substituted for silk; a way having been discovered of carding silk and
cotton together, before the thread is spun. Linen also, is shamefully
adulterated with cotton, and it is difficult for purchasers to discover
the cheat before the article is washed. Linen is frequently injured in
the piece by bad bleaching-salts; so that after the first washing, it
drops into holes, such as are caused by vitriol. Of this we have had sad
experience in several instances, when the linen was supposed to be of
the best quality.
Always object to a parcel being put up in newspaper—as the printing-ink
will rub off, and soil the article inclosed. If it is a little thing
that you are going to take home in your own hand, it will smear your
gloves. All shopkeepers in good business can afford to buy proper
wrapping-paper, and they generally do so. It is very cheap. See also
that they do not wrap your purchase in so small a bit of paper as to
squeeze and crush it.
If you go out with much money, (which is never advisable,) divide it
into two portions, putting part in your pocket-book or porte-monnaie,
and the remainder into your purse, so that if you lose it, or have your
pocket picked, the loss may be less. Do not carry notes in your purse,
but keep them in your pocket-book. Little gold dollars had best go into
your porte-monnaie. If kept in your purse with small change, you will be
very likely to lose them, or to mistake them for three-cent pieces if
the light is bad.
Once, on embarking in a New York steamboat, we saw a gentleman having
bought a penny paper, give the news-boy a gold eagle in mistake for a
cent. The gentleman was instantly apprized of his error by a bystander,
who had seen it; but, the boy had already sprung upon the wharf and was
lost in the crowd.
We knew an instance of a lady in New York giving a hundred-dollar note
to a strawberry woman, instead of a note of one dollar. Neither note nor
woman were seen or heard of more.
In getting change see that three-cent pieces are not given to you for
five cents.
And now a few words to saleswomen. They have always, when commencing
that vocation, two important qualities to cultivate (exclusive of
cleverness in business)—civility, and patience. In these two requisites,
few of our American young women are deficient. Let them also learn
activity in moving, and quickness in recollecting where all the articles
called for are to be found, so as not to keep the customers waiting too
long, while they, the sellers, are searching the shelves and boxes.
Also, if a lady wishes to match something, (for instance, a piece of
silk,) it is foolish and useless to bring her a piece that is not
_exactly_ like; trying to persuade her to take it, and calling it “as
good a match as she is likely to get.” Of course she will _not_ take a
piece that is only _tolerably_ like, but not quite the same; for unless
it matches exactly, it is no match at all. If a customer enquires for
light blue ribbon it is absurd to bring her dark blue, saying “we have
no light blue”—or to say “we have no pink, but we have scarlet—we have
no lilac, but we have purple.” Or still worse, to try to persuade the
customer that deep crimson is a beautiful shade of scarlet; or worse
than all, that those very unbecoming tints, called improperly rose-white
and pearl-white, are really a pure dead white; when you know very well
that they are no such thing. Both white and black are very difficult to
match _precisely_.
Let the yard-measure be visible to the customers. In some shops the
measure is at the back of the counter, hidden behind a glass case. This
practice of measuring out of sight, sometimes gives rise to a suspicion
that the measure is not true, as it is so easy to deceive where the
brass nails that mark it are concealed from view of the customers.
Every female who keeps, or attends in a store, should discourage the
visits of her friends at business hours. If she looks off to chat with
her shop-visiters, she cannot attend properly to her customers; and
those visiters may be inconsiderate and obtrusive enough to interfere,
by putting in their word, and praising the beauty or cheapness of the
articles, by way of promoting the interest of the seller, which it
ultimately _will not_.
Show as much civility and attention to a customer plainly dressed, and
walking on foot, or getting out of an omnibus, as you would to a lady
elegantly attired, and coming in her own carriage. The former may prove
the most profitable customer. Be careful to exhibit no temper, even if
you have had the trouble of showing a variety of goods to one who goes
away without buying any thing. Another time, perhaps, she may come and
make large purchases: but if you offend her, she will assuredly never
enter the store again. Recollect that no one feels under the least
compulsion to buy what does not suit them. You would not yourself.
Habitual courtesy is a valuable qualification, and always turns to good
account.
CHAPTER VIII.
PLACES OF AMUSEMENT.
It would be well in _all_ places of public amusement, if there could be
an apartment appropriated to the ladies, in which they might deposit
their cloaks, hoods, &c. in charge of a responsible attendant; her care
to be rewarded by a small gratuity. Ladies would then be under no
necessity of carrying warm outer-garments into a crowded and heated
room; or of wearing their bonnets, and thereby intercepting the view of
persons seated behind them; always a grievance where the benches are not
sufficiently elevated, or where there is no difference at all in their
respective elevation, as is sometimes the case. Also, the appearance of
the female part of the company is always more elegant, when wearing
bandeaus, caps, or other light head-dresses; young persons requiring
their hair only, or the slight decoration of a flower or a ribbon. It is
very painful and fatiguing to be for several hours continually dodging
your head from side to side, and stretching your neck this way and that,
and peeping wherever you can obtain a tantalizing glimpse between the
bonnets of ladies seated immediately before you. This, in addition to
the annoyance of being squeezed on a bench that is over-full, is enough
to destroy nearly all the pleasure of the exhibition; and to make a
large portion of the audience regret that they came.
If you wish to secure a good seat, go early. It is better to sit there
an hour before the commencement of the performance, than to arrive after
it has begun. The time of waiting will soon pass away, in conversation
with the friends whom you have accompanied.
When invited to join a party to a place of amusement, begin to prepare
in ample time; so as not to keep them waiting for you. When a _large_
party is going to a place of amusement, (for instance, the theatre, or
opera,) it is better that each family should go thither from their own
home, (being provided with their own tickets,) than that they should all
rendezvous at the house of one of the company; at the risk of keeping
the whole party waiting, perhaps for the very youngest members of it.
When a box has been taken, let the tickets be sent to all the persons
who are to have seats in it, and not retained by the taker of the box
till the whole party has assembled at the door of the theatre. If the
tickets are thus distributed, the persons from each house can go when
they please, without compelling any of the party to wait for them.
Still, to make an entrance after the performance has begun, is (or ought
to be) very embarrassing to ladies. It excites the attention of all
around, diverting that attention from the performance; and there is
always, when the house is full, and the hour late, some delay and
difficulty in reaching the seats, even when the seats have been secured.
If it is a concert, where places cannot be previously engaged, there
are, of course, additional reasons for going in due time; and the most
sensible and best-behaved part of the audience always endeavour to do
so. But if you are unavoidably late, be satisfied to pay the penalty, by
quietly taking back-seats, if no others are vacant. We have seen young
ladies not arriving till after the entertainment had commenced, march
boldly up to the front benches, and stand there looking steadfastly in
the faces of gentlemen who with their parties had earned good seats by
coming soon after the doors were opened. The ladies persevering in this
determined stare, till they succeeded in dislodging these unfortunate
gentlemen, and compelling them to quit their seats, to leave the ladies
who belonged to them, and to stand for the remainder of the evening,
perhaps in a distant part of the room. American _men_ are noted,
everywhere, for their politeness to females. We wish we could say the
same of the politeness of our fair countrywomen in return. Yet
frequently they will avail themselves of these civilities from
strangers, without rewarding them with a word of thanks, or even a bow
of acknowledgment.
English tourists remark (and with truth) that there is no position in
which American ladies appear to such disadvantage as when crowding the
galleries of our legislative assemblies; ejecting gentlemen to whom it
is of importance to hear the debates; and still worse, intruding upon
the floor of the senate-chamber, and compelling the senators to
relinquish their places, and find others where they can, or else to
stand all the time. And among these ladies, there may be very few who
are really capable of enjoying or appreciating the eloquence of our
distinguished orators, or of entering understandingly into the merits of
the question. Often these damsels are whispering half the time about
some nonsense of their own; and often, as is surmised, the chief object
of the ladies whose visits to the capitol are most frequent, is the
chance of a few words of flirtation with some of the most gallant among
the members; or the possibility of being escorted home by a congressman,
who has but little to do, or at least who does but little. We think the
English parliament is right in excluding ladies from their halls, except
when the queen goes there in state, to open or prorogue the session. Let
them be satisfied with reading the debates in the newspapers.
We acknowledge that it is very interesting to see and hear the most
eminent men of our country arranging the affairs of the nation; to
become acquainted with their personal appearance, and to listen to their
eloquence. But the privilege should not be abused as it is, by those
who, after all, listen so badly, or comprehend so badly, that if
questioned an hour afterward, they could scarcely repeat the purport of
one single sentence,—nor perhaps even recollect the subject of debate.
Such instances we have known—and not a few of them either.
To laugh deridingly, or to whisper unfavourable remarks during the
performance of a concert or a play, is a rudeness of which few American
ladies are guilty. Still, we occasionally see some of that few, who,
much to the annoyance of those persons near them who really wish to
enjoy what they came for, talk audibly in ridicule of the performers;
the performers being, in all probability, near enough to hear these
vexatious remarks, and to be disconcerted by them. We heard of a highly
respectable actress who was so mortified by the unfeeling animadversions
of some young ladies in a stage-box, that she forgot her part, was
unable to utter a word, or to restrain her tears, and became so nervous
that she played badly during the remainder of the piece, and was in
consequence, severely handled next day by the newspaper critics. This
was very hard.
Parents before taking their children to the theatre, should first
ascertain whether the play is such as will amuse or interest them. Small
children are invariably restless, troublesome, and finally sleepy at a
performance that affords _them_ no entertainment, and they will be
better at home. Yet we have seen little girls brought to see the painful
tragedy of the Gamester—or still worse, the dreary comedy of the
Stranger. How is it that young ladies are frequently matronized to plays
that even their mothers cannot witness without blushes?
CHAPTER IX.
TRAVELLING.
No lady should set out on a journey unprovided with an oiled-silk bag
for the reception of tooth-brushes, soap, a hair-brush, and a towel. Let
the bag be about half a quarter of a yard longer at the back than at the
front; so as to leave a flap to turn over, and tie down, when all the
articles are in. It should be square, (exclusive of the flap,) and about
a quarter and half-quarter in length, and the same in breadth; stitched
in compartments, something like an old-fashioned thread-case, only that
the compartments differ much in size. The two smallest are for two
tooth-brushes. Another should be broad enough to contain a hair-brush.
For travelling, have a hair-brush with a mirror at the back, and if you
can get one that has also a dressing-comb attached to it, so much the
better. The largest compartment (which should occupy the centre) is for
a towel, and a cake of soap. If you are obliged to start in haste, all
these things can be put in while wet from recent use, the towel being
rolled or folded into as small a compass as possible. The oiled silk
will prevent the wet from oozing through. When all are in, turn over the
flap at the top, (which should be furnished with two long strings of
broad, white tape,) and tie it securely down. Carry this bag in the
square satchel which all ladies now keep in their hands when travelling,
and which contain such things as they may want during the day,
precluding the necessity of opening their large carpet-bag, till they
stop for the night.
In a carpet-bag pack nothing but white articles, or such as can be
washed, and will not be spoiled by the bag chancing to get wet. Have
your name engraved on the lock of your carpet-bag, and also on the brass
plate of your trunks. Besides this, write your full direction on several
cards, make a small hole in each, and running a string through the hole,
tie a card to the handle of each trunk, and sew one on the side of your
carpet-bag—the direction designating the place to which you are going.
Your name in full should be painted in white letters on every trunk.
This costs but a trifle, and secures the recognition of your baggage
when missing. It is also an excellent plan to tie round the handle of
each trunk or bag, a bit of ribbon—blue, red, or yellow—all the bits
being off the same piece.[8]
Write on a large card, a list and description of each trunk, box, &c.
and give the card to the gentleman who escorts you. It will greatly
assist him in identifying all the articles that comprise your baggage.
Be quite ready at least a quarter of an hour before the time for
starting. Nelson said he traced all the most fortunate events of his
life to his practice of being, on every occasion, quite prepared a
quarter of an hour too early. It is a good rule.
Previous to departing, put into the hand of your escort rather more than
a sufficient sum for the expenses of your journey, so as to provide for
all possible contingencies. He will return you the balance when all is
paid. Having done this, should any person belonging to the line come to
you for your fare, refer them to the gentleman, (mentioning his name,)
and take care to pay nothing more yourself.
Dress very plainly when travelling. Few ladies that _are_ ladies wear
finery in rail-cars, and steamboats—still less in stages—stage-roads
being usually very dusty. Showy silks, and what are called dress-bonnets
are preposterous—so are jewellery ornaments, which, if real, you run a
great risk of losing, and if false, are very ungenteel. Above all, do
not travel in white kid gloves. Respectable women never do.
The best travelling-dresses are of merino, or alpaca; plain mousseline
de laine; grey or brown linen; or strong India silk, senshaw for
instance. In warm weather, gingham is better than printed lawn, which
rumples and tumbles and “gets into a string” directly. The sleeves wide,
for if tight to the arm, they will stain with perspiration. Your
travelling-dress for summer should have a large cape or pelerine of the
same. Beside which, carry on your arm a large shawl for chilly mornings
and evenings. No lady should travel in cold weather, without a warm
cloak, mantilla, or pelisse,—furs, &c. of course—and travelling-boots
lined with fur or flannel; having also inner soles of lambs-wool,
varnished on the leather side to make them water-proof. Take with you
one of those very useful umbrellas, that are large enough to shelter one
person from the rain, and can also be used as a parasol. Do not pack it
away in a trunk, for you may want it in the transit from rail-car to
steamboat. Keep it near you all the time, with your satchel and extra
shawl. By all means wear a white collar.
If you are fortunately able to ride backward as well as forward, you
will be less incommoded with flying sparks, by sitting with your back to
the engine. A spark getting into the eye is very painful, and sometimes
dangerous. It is possible to expel it by blowing your nose very hard,
while with the other hand you wipe out the particle of cinder with a
corner of your handkerchief, pulling down the lower eye-lid. We have
seen this done successfully. Another way is to wrap the head of a pin in
the corner of a fine, soft cambric handkerchief, and placing it beneath
the lid, sweep all round the eye with it. If this does not succeed, get
out at the first station-house where you can stop long enough, procure a
bristle-hair from a sweeping-brush, tie it in a loop or bow with a bit
of thread, and let some one insert it beneath your eye-lid, and move it
slowly all round, so as to catch in it the offending particle of coal,
and bring it out. Or if there is time, send to the nearest apothecary
for an eye-stone, (in reality, a lobster’s eye,) and soak it five
minutes in a saucer of vinegar and water to give it activity, then,
wiping it dry, and carefully inserting it beneath the eye-lid, bind a
handkerchief over it. The eye-stone will go circling round the eye, and
most likely take up the mote in its course. When the pain ceases, remove
the handkerchief, and wash the eye with cold water.
To read in a rail-car is very injurious to the eyes, from the quivering,
tremulous motion it seems to communicate to the letters of the page. It
is best to abstain from your book till you are transferred to the
steamboat.
Many persons cannot talk in a rail-car without a painful exertion of the
voice. And it is not an easy task, even to those whose lungs are strong.
You can easily excuse yourself from conversing with your escort, by
telling him that your voice is not loud enough to be heard above the
racket of the cars, and that though you will gladly listen to _him_, he
must allow you to listen without replying, except in as few words as
possible. If he finds a gentleman with whom he is acquainted, desire him
to talk to his friend, and leave you to hear their conversation as a
silent auditor.
If you pass the night in a steamboat, and can afford the additional
expense of a _whole_ state-room, by all means engage one as soon as you
go on board. The chambermaid will give you the key and the number, and
you can retire to it whenever you please, and enjoy the luxury of being
alone, and of washing and dressing without witnesses. If you are
constrained to take a berth in the ladies’ sleeping-cabin, it is not the
least necessary to retire to it immediately after supper. By doing so
you will have a very long, tiresome night, and be awake many hours
before morning. And if you are awake, do not be continually calling upon
the poor chambermaid, and disturbing her with inquiries, such as “Where
are we now?” and “How soon shall we arrive?”
The saloon is the place in which ladies and gentlemen sit together. If a
lady is so inconsiderate or selfish as to violate the rules of the boat,
by inviting her husband or lover to take a seat in the ladies’ cabin,
there is no impropriety in sending the chambermaid to remind him that he
must leave the room. This is often done, and always should be. We once
saw a gentleman (or a pretended one) so pertinacious in remaining, (it
is true his lady-love urged him “not to mind,”) that the captain had to
be brought to threaten him with forcible expulsion. This had the desired
effect.
Such are the facilities of travelling, that a lady evidently
respectable, plainly dressed, and behaving properly, may travel very
well without a gentleman. Two ladies still better. On commencing the
journey she should speak to the conductor, requesting him to attend to
her and her baggage, and to introduce her to the captain of the boat,
who will of course take charge of her during the voyage.
Before arriving at the wharf, she had best engage one of the servants of
the boat, (promising him a shilling or two,) to obtain for her a porter
or a hack, and to see that her baggage is safe. She must stipulate with
the hackman that no stranger is to be put into the carriage with her.
This is against the law, but notwithstanding, is often done, and the
lady who has first engaged the coach, is liable to have for her
riding-companions persons of improper character and vulgar appearance,
and to be carried with them to their places in remote parts of the city,
before she is conveyed to her own home. Previous to getting in, take the
number of the coach, by writing it on a card with your pencil, and make
your bargain with him as to the charge for conveying you and your
baggage.
It would be well if the imposition and insolence of hack-drivers were
_always_ followed with the punishments provided by law. Ladies are
naturally unwilling to appear at a magistrate’s office. But it is the
duty of every gentleman, as a good citizen, to see that the municipal
regulations are never violated with impunity.
All trouble may be avoided on arriving, by sending for the captain of
the boat, and requesting him to see you on shore, or to depute his clerk
to that office.
In arriving at a rail-road depôt, be careful not to quit the cars till
after they have positively stopped quite still. The time gained is but
an instant, and the risk is very imminent of serious injury by falling,
should your ankle twist in stepping out while there is the least motion.
On arriving at a hotel, ask immediately to see the proprietor; give him
your name and address, tell how long you purpose staying, and request
him to see that you are provided with a good room. Request him also to
conduct you to the dining-room at dinner-time, and allot you a seat near
his own. For this purpose, he will wait for you near the door, (do not
_keep him waiting_,) or meet you in the ladies’ drawing-room. While at
table, if the proprietor or any other gentleman asks you to take wine
with him, politely refuse.
If, on arriving at the wharf, you expect a gentleman to meet you, take a
seat either on deck near the cabin-door, or just inside of the door, so
that he may find you easily.
If you are to pursue your journey early in the morning, desire,
over-night, the waiter who attends your room, to knock hard at your door
an hour before the time of starting. Before you go down stairs, ask for
the chambermaid who has attended you, and give her a fee, (not less than
a quarter-dollar,) putting it into her own hand yourself, and not
commissioning another to convey it to her. Do not omit giving a
quarter-dollar at least, to the waiter who attended your room, and one
also to him who has served you at table.
Refrain from making acquaintance with any strangers, unless you are
certain of their respectability. If a gentleman of whom you know
nothing, endeavours to get into conversation with you, turn away, and
make no reply. Avoid saying any thing to women in showy attire, with
painted faces, and white kid gloves. Such persons have frequently the
assurance to try to be very sociable with respectable ladies who are
travelling alone. Keep aloof from them always.
If you have breakfasted early, it will be well to put some
gingerbread-nuts or biscuits into your satchel, as you may become very
hungry before dinner.
Carry but little money in your pocket—not more than will suffice for the
expenses of the day. But for travelling, have another pocket, concealed
_beneath_ your upper petticoat, and _in that_ keep the main portion of
your cash. Be cautious of taking bank-notes in change—they may be such
as you cannot pass. If they are offered to you, refuse them, and insist
upon gold or silver.
Travelling in America, ladies frequently meet with little civilities
from gentlemen, so delicately offered, that to refuse them would be
rude. These incidental acts of politeness should always be acknowledged
with thanks; but they should not be construed into a desire of
commencing an acquaintance. If a lady obliged to travel alone, wishes to
be treated with respect, her own deportment must in all things be quiet,
modest and retiring.
If you have a servant with you, see that she gets her meals, and has a
comfortable sleeping-place, or in all probability she will be neglected
and overlooked. In a steamboat or a hotel, speak yourself to the
head-waiter, and desire him to take her to the servants’ table and
attend to her; and tell the chambermaid to see her provided with a bed.
If their lady forgets to look out for them, coloured women in particular
have often no courage to look out for themselves.
CHAPTER X.
DEPORTMENT AT A HOTEL, OR AT A LARGE BOARDING-HOUSE.
Now that there is so much travelling in the summer, (and indeed at all
seasons,) and so much living in public, to save the trouble and the
expense of keeping house in private, it may be well to offer some hints
on the propriety of manners that ought to be observed in places where
you are always exposed to the inspection and to the remarks of
strangers. These strangers, knowing you but slightly, or not at all,
will naturally draw their inferences for or against you from what they
see before their eyes; concluding that you are genteel or ungenteel,
patrician or plebeian, according to the coarseness or the polish of your
manners.
Yet strange to say, there are persons who indulge themselves in
astounding acts of rudeness, from the supposition that a hotel is only a
tavern, a sort of Liberty Hall, where every one has a right to “take
their ease in their inn,” if they pay for it. Have they no respect for
themselves?
It is usual for members of the same party to meet in the ladies’
drawing-room before they go in to breakfast, unless the party is large;
and then it is not expected that half a dozen persons should be kept
waiting for one or two late risers, or tardy dressers. When two or three
of the party find themselves ready in the parlour, it will be best for
them to proceed to the eating-room, and leave the others to follow at
their convenience, by twos or by threes,—always seeing that a young
lady, if a stranger, is not left to go in alone. Strangers at hotels can
have no particular seats at breakfast and tea, as at these two repasts,
they always come to table by instalments, and at no regular time. If a
large party enters all at once, and they are _determined_ to sit all
together, they may occasion much inconvenience to persons already
seated, or to the regular boarders, who have their allotted seats.
Neither is there any necessity or advantage in six, eight, or ten
people, who travel as one party, resolving to establish themselves at a
hotel-table all side by side, in a row; particularly when it causes
inconvenience to others. Certainly not more than three or four persons
ranged in a line can join in the same conversation, or attend to the
wants of their friends. Why then should they make any extraordinary
point of occupying chairs next to each other. It would be better to
divide their forces; and if they can, for half to sit on one side of the
table, and the other half directly opposite. Or they will find that if
the table is full, and they have to disperse still more widely, they had
best do so with a good grace, rather than make any disturbance on the
subject. When they quit the table to return to the drawing-room, they
may be very sure of all meeting again near the door.
Nine o’clock (or half-past) is the latest hour that any guest at a hotel
should come to breakfast; and few _Americans_ have so little
consideration as to detain the table and the servants till ten or
eleven.[9] At a boarding-house, the guests are very soon made to
understand that if they are late risers, they need expect nothing but
the cold leavings of the breakfast. At a hotel they find more
indulgence. You there choose from the bill of fare such dishes as you
may prefer, and they will be brought to you, after you have been
supplied with tea or coffee, and bread and butter to begin with. To each
person is allowed a separate dish or plate of the articles selected; and
it is understood to be for yourself alone, and that no other person has
a right to partake of it, or to meddle with it in any way. Yet even from
your own dish, never help yourself with the knife and fork or spoon you
are eating with; but always use a spare one, with which the waiter will
furnish you. Do not eat different sorts of relishes off the same plate.
At a hotel there is no scarcity of plates, or of servants to change
them. Always take butter with the butter-knife, and then do not forget
to return that knife to the butter-plate. Carefully avoid cutting bread
with your own knife, or taking salt with it from the salt-cellar. It
looks as if you had not been accustomed to butter-knives and
salt-spoons.
Ladies no longer eat salt-fish at a public table. The odour of it is now
considered extremely ungenteel, and it is always very disagreeable to
those who _do not_ eat it. If you breakfast alone, you can then indulge
in it.
Speak to the waiter in a distinct, but not in too loud a voice, and
always civilly. Thank him for any little extra attention he may show
you. If you do not like what he has brought you, or find that you cannot
eat it, make your objection in a low voice, so as not to be heard by the
neighbouring guests; and quietly desire him to bring you something else.
It is usual at a hotel-table for each waiter to have charge of three or
four persons, and to attend to _their_ wants exclusively. If you are a
stranger, ask the waiter his name when he first comes to you; and unless
he is not at hand, and you see another standing idle, do not call on any
one else to attend you.
If the servants are coloured men, refrain from all conversation in their
presence that may grate harshly on their feelings, by reminding them of
their unfortunate African blood. Do not talk of them as “negroes,”[10]
or “darkies.” Avoid all discussions of abolition, (either for or
against,) when coloured people are by. Also, quote none of their
laughable sayings while they are present.
When the domestics are Irish, and you have occasion to reprove them for
their negligence, forgetfulness, or blunders, do so without any
reference to their country. If you find one who is disrespectful or
insolent, or who persists in asserting a falsehood, it is safest to make
no reply yourself, but to have the matter represented to the proprietor
of the house; desiring that another waiter may be allotted to you.
It is ungenteel to go to the breakfast-table in any costume approaching
to full dress. There must be no flowers or ribbons in the hair. A
morning-cap should be as simple as possible. The most genteel morning
dress is a close gown of some plain material, with long sleeves, which
in summer may be white muslin. A merino or cashmere wrapper, (grey,
brown, purple, or olive,) faced or trimmed with other merino of an
entirely different colour, such as crimson, scarlet, green, or blue, is
a becoming morning dress for winter. In summer, a white cambric-muslin
morning-robe is the handsomest breakfast attire, but one of gingham or
printed muslin the most convenient. The coloured dress may be made open
in front, with short loose sleeves and a pointed body. Beneath it a
white under-dress, having a chemisette front down to the belt, and long
white sleeves down to the wrist. This forms a very graceful morning
costume, the white skirt appearing where the coloured skirt opens.
The fashion of wearing black silk mittens at breakfast is now obsolete.
It was always inconvenient, and neither useful nor ornamental.
After breakfast, it is customary for the ladies to adjourn to the
drawing-room, where they converse, or read the papers, or receive early
visiters, while the chambermaids are putting the bedchambers in order.
Some who are not accustomed to hotels, go immediately from the
breakfast-table to their own apartment, sitting there among the flue and
dust during the whole process of bed-making and room-sweeping; afraid to
trust the chambermaid alone, lest she should steal something. This is
absurd. They should know that the chambermaids (being all considered
honest and responsible) are furnished with duplicate keys, by which they
can at any time unlock the chamber-doors, and let themselves in, when
the occupant is absent. Also, this palpable suspicion of their honesty
is an insult to the girls, and is always felt as such. It is sufficient
to lock the bureau, the wardrobe, and your trunks. When you go out,
(that is, out of the house,) _then_ lock the door of your room, lest
some one passing by, should have curiosity to stroll in and look about,
and meddle with what they see there.
Should you perceive that the dress of another lady is, by some accident,
out of order—for instance, that a hook or a button has become
unfastened; or that a string is visibly hanging out; a collar unpinned,
and falling off; the corner of a shawl dragging along the floor; a skirt
caught up; or a sleeve slipping down, immediately have the kindness to
apprize her of it in a low voice, and assist her in repairing the
mischance; and, if necessary, leave the room with her for that purpose.
We have seen a lady who, finding that a cluster of her false curls was
coming down, had the courage to say so to a gentleman with whom she was
conversing at a party. And going openly, and at once, to the nearest
mirror, she calmly adjusted her borrowed locks, and returned to her seat
with a good grace. Consequently, nobody laughed at the untoward
accident; as might perhaps have been the case, had she seemed
excessively confused and mortified, and awkwardly tried to hold on her
curls till she got out of the room.
If you do not wish to be encumbered by carrying the key in your pocket,
let it be left during your absence, with the clerk in the office, or
with the barkeeper; and send to him for it on your return. Desire the
servant who attends the door to show no person up to your room during
your absence. If visiters wish to wait for your return, it is best they
should do so in the parlour.
In going in and out, be careful to shut the parlour-doors after you,
except in summer. Young ladies are often very inconsiderate in this
respect, and cause much inconvenience, in cold weather, to those who do
not like to sit with a draught of keen air blowing upon them. Even if
you feel too warm yourself, it is rude to throw open a door, (much more
to raise a window-sash,) without first enquiring if other ladies have no
objection.
There is no impropriety in a lady commencing conversation with a
stranger of genteel appearance. You can easily take occasion to mention
your own name, and then, in return, she will communicate hers. But,
unless you are previously certain of her respectability, have little to
say to a woman who is travelling without a companion, and whose face is
painted, who wears a profusion of long curls about her neck, who has a
meretricious expression of eye, and who is over-dressed. It is safest to
avoid her. Also, you will derive no pleasure or advantage from making
acquaintance with females who are evidently coarse and vulgar, even if
you know that they are rich, live in a large house, and are of
respectable character. Young girls who are loud, noisy, bold, and
forward, (however fashionable they may be,) it is best also to avoid.
They will not want your society, as they are generally all the time
surrounded by “beaux,” or else rattling over the keys of the piano.
In a public parlour, it is selfish and unmannerly to sit down to the
instrument uninvited, and fall to playing or practising, without seeming
to consider the probability of your interrupting or annoying the rest of
the company, particularly when you see them all engaged in reading or in
conversation. If you want amusement, you had better read, or occupy
yourself with some light sewing or knitting-work.
If you have no book, you can ring the bell, and send to the reading-room
to borrow a file of newspapers; but in most hotels, there are books
belonging to the establishment, lying on a table in the ladies’ parlour.
Be sure not to carry any of these books up-stairs, as they are intended
solely for the drawing-room; and their removal from thence is
interdicted. Also, never carry away the Directory, the Atlas, the City
Guide, or any other book placed there for the convenience of strangers.
If you want pen and ink, or any sort of stationery, you can obtain it
immediately, by ringing for a servant to bring it you from the office.
In ringing the bell, one pull is sufficient; and always pull the cord
_downward_. If you jerk it out horizontally, and give successively
several hard pulls in that direction, the cord is very likely to break,
or the knob or tassel to come off in your hand. At the chief hotel in
one of the New England cities, we saw a printed paper with directions in
large type, pasted beside _every bell-pull in the house_; the directions
specifying minutely the proper mode of bell-ringing. Could it be that
this house was frequented by persons unaccustomed to bells?
To return to the too-prevalent evil of uninvited and ill-timed
piano-playing, (much of which does not deserve the name of music,) we
have always been at a loss to understand how a young stranger, (modest
and unobtrusive in other things,) could walk up to the instrument,
sometimes almost as soon as she arrives, and rattle “fast and furious”
over the keys, drowning the voices of ladies and gentlemen who were
talking, and therefore compelling them to cease their conversation; or
if they pursued it, obliging them to raise their tone painfully; or to
lose more than half, from the impossibility of hearing each other
distinctly. To read when piano-playing is going on, is to most persons
impossible. There are few readers who cannot so concentrate their
attention on their book, as not to be disturbed by any _talking_ that
may occur in their vicinity; and if talking _does_ withdraw their
attention from the book, it is best that they should read only when
alone in their apartment. But we have met with no one who could read in
the neighbourhood of a played piano.
If the music is really very good, and accompanied by a fine voice, it is
true that most readers will willingly close the book to listen. But if
the playing is barely tolerable, or decidedly bad, and if the singing is
weak and insipid, or harsh and screaming, or timeless and tasteless, who
can possibly wish to hear it; except perhaps a doating father, or an
injudicious mother, vain of her daughter because she is _hers_, and so
anxious to show her off, that she encourages the girl to display even
her deficiencies.
We believe that our beloved America is not yet the land of music; and
that (with many exceptions) her children are generally not furnished
with much capacity for it. If there was a true feeling for music, there
would be more genius for that charming art, and there would be more
composers of original airs, the number of which, in our country, is
smaller than in any civilized nation in the world. It is true we have
many excellent musicians, and many very good singers, but still, music
is not the grand forte of Jonathan. Pity it were,—for he has “a nobler
and a manlier one.”
Now as “there is a time for all things,” we persist in saying that the
time and place for school-girls to hear their own music, or to prove
that it is not worth hearing, is not in the drawing-room of a hotel, or
in the presence of a company that can have no desire to hear them. What
would be thought of a young lady, who in a public room, should suddenly
come forward and “speak a speech;” or suddenly rise up, and commence,
“loud and high,” a reading of poetry, or recite a French fable, or
repeat the multiplication table, or favour the company with a
spontaneous _pas seul_. And yet we do not perceive that any of these
feats would be a much greater evidence of deficiency in diffidence, (to
call it by no bolder name,) than the practice of rattling, uninvited and
unseasonably, over the keys of a piano. A really good musician is rarely
obtrusive with her music, seldom playing unless she is asked; and then,
of course, complying at once.[11]
We repeat that no lady should play or sing in company, unless she knows
herself to be universally considered a good singer or player, and
capable of something more than the mere series of lessons she has learnt
from her music teacher. Also, some punishment should be devised for a
young girl who cannot play, yet has the folly and assurance to seat
herself at the piano of a public parlour, and annoy the company by an
hour of tinking and tanking with one finger only. Yet this we have seen;
and her mother present all the time.
The gratuitous exhibition of bad music is said by Europeans to be one of
the peculiar characteristics of American young ladies. Let them then
“reform it altogether.”
Bring no large sewing into the ladies’ drawing-room, and nothing that
will produce clippings or litter. Whenever you have occasion to write
more than a few lines, do it in your own apartment. It is well to have
always there a small writing-case of your own, with paper, pens, ink,
wafers, sealing-wax, envelopes, post-office stamps, &c. There are very
neat little writing-cases, (to be purchased at the best stationers,)
that are fitted with receptacles for all the above articles, excepting
paper; the whole occupying no more space in your travelling satchel than
a needle-book. The ink is so secured, that there is no danger of its
spilling. You may even carry these writing-cases in your pocket as
conveniently as a card-case. As writing-paper should not be folded or
rolled in packing, lay it flat in a small port-folio, and put it into
your trunk. You will find great convenience, when from home, to have
with you a little assortment of writing materials.
Except in cases of illness, it is well to decline invitations to visit
ladies in their own apartments, unless you are very intimately
acquainted with them, or have some particular business. Too much
sociability may induce communications too confidential; and subsequent
events may prove this confidence to be misplaced. Among the ladies
staying at a hotel, there is always more harmony, when they all content
themselves with meeting at table, or in the public drawing-room. Young
ladies should not encourage daily morning visits from young men boarding
at the same house, particularly if these visits are long. In our
country, nearly every young man is obliged, in some way, to get his own
living; and few can afford to idle away their mornings in loitering
about parlours, and talking flirtation. A youth who passes his time in
this manner, is a beau not worth having. A man that deserves to be
called a _good match_ has something else to do with his mornings. Ladies
at hotels should be specially careful not to make acquaintance with
gentlemen of whom they know nothing. If a man of notoriously dissipated
or immoral character, presumes to request an introduction to a lady who
is aware of his bad reputation, let her at once reply that not
considering the acquaintance desirable, she must be excused for
declining it. It is better thus to keep off an objectionable man, (even
with the certainty of offending him,) than weakly to subject yourself to
the annoyance and discredit (perhaps, still worse) of allowing him to
boast of his intimacy with you.
In conversing with gentlemen at hotels, (and all other places,) try not
to fall into the too common practice of talking to him nothing but
nonsense. It is a problem difficult to solve, that so many ladies of
good abilities and cultivated minds, and who always with their own sex
talk like intelligent, sensible women, should, as soon as they get into
conversation with a gentleman, seem immediately to take leave of
rationality, and demean themselves like utter fools—giving way at once
to something they call _excitement_, now the fashionable word for almost
every feeling that is wrong.
We grieve to see a charming, modest, refined young lady, almost the
moment a gentleman begins to talk to her, changing her whole demeanour,
and quickly becoming bold, forward, noisy, and nonsensical; chattering
at the top of her voice about nothing; and keeping up a continual laugh
about nothing. Does she suppose he cannot understand her if she talks
sense,—or does she think he will like her the better for regaling him
with nothing but folly? She is, in all probability, egregiously
mistaken, unless the gentleman is himself a simpleton.
Let it not be supposed that we have any objection to that sprightliness
which is one of the most agreeable characteristics of youth. On the
contrary, we are glad to see vivacity in women of all ages; and if they
have a sprinkling of wit and humour, so much the better. But we wish
them to do themselves justice; and not, when conversing with men, run
wild, because it _is_ with men; and give themselves up to all manner of
folly, such as would be pointless, vapid, and insipid, if it was not
seasoned with causeless laughter, and with eyes keeping time to the
tongue, rolling about in perpetual motion at nothing. We do not wish
ladies in conversing, even with men of sense, to confine themselves
always to grave discussions on important subjects. On the contrary, gay
and lively conversation is always pleasant, when well-timed. But those
who have not a talent for wit and humour, had best not attempt it.
Again, in listening to a woman of real wit, you will see that it is her
hearers who laugh, and not herself.
Persons who have no turn for humour, and little perception of it, are
apt to mistake mere coarseness for that amusing gift; and in trying to
be diverting, often become vulgar—a word not too severe for things that
are sometimes said and written by very good people who wish to be funny,
and do not know how. For instance, there is no wit, but there is
shocking ungentility, in a lady to speak of taking a “snooze” instead of
a nap,—in calling pantaloons “pants,” or gentlemen “gents,”—in saying of
a man whose dress is getting old that he looks “seedy,”—and in alluding
to an amusing anecdote, or a diverting incident, to say that it is
“rich.” All slang words are detestable from the lips of ladies.
We are always sorry to hear a young lady use such a word as “polking”
when she tells of having been engaged in a certain dance too fashionable
not long since; but happily, now it is fast going out, and almost
banished from the best society. To her honour be it remembered, Queen
Victoria has prohibited the polka being danced in her presence. How can
a genteel girl bring herself to say, “Last night I was polking with Mr.
Bell,” or “Mr. Cope came and asked me to polk with him.” Its coarse and
ill-sounding name is worthy of the dance.
If you own a lap-dog or poodle, recollect that however charming it may
be to yourself, others may regard it as an annoyance; therefore, try to
do without it when you are in the parlour of a house that is not your
own, and when the company present does not consist entirely of your own
family. All but their infatuated mistresses soon become very tired of
the society of these animals. Poodles are generally peevish, whining,
and snappish, prone to get under chairs and bite at feet, and to writhe
about the skirts of dresses. Their faces often look old, withered,
cross, and blear-eyed, seeming as if constantly troubled by the hair
that dangles uncomfortably in their eyes; and they are seldom healthy.
They have none of the honest, grateful, affectionate character common to
dogs of larger growth. Though they often inspire their mistress with a
love that becomes such a mania as to weaken her affection for all other
things, they seldom make friends of any one else. We include what is
called a King Charles’s dog in the same category. For instance Jip—whose
character is as true to nature, and as admirably drawn as that of Dora
herself.
Should a visiter come in to see one of the boarders who may be sitting
near you, change your place, and take a seat in a distant part of the
room. It is ill-manners to remain, and listen to the conversation. It is
best for the visited lady to meet her friend as soon as she sees her
enter the room, and conduct her to a sofa or ottoman where they can
enjoy their talk without danger of being overheard. After the visiter is
gone, do not enquire her name of the friend she has just called on.
It is _not_ well to call at the same time on two ladies both living at
the same house, (so as to make one visit suffice for both,) unless they
are intimate friends of each other, or unless your stay in the city will
be very short. If one is taciturn, and the other conversable, she that
is silent may imagine herself neglected, by the dialogue being chiefly
between those who can talk fluently, as it certainly will be, if the
third person only speaks when spoken to, and replies in monosyllables.
It is better to make a separate visit to each lady, on different days.
There is another way, and a very good one. For instance, should Mrs.
Canning wish to call on Mrs. Austin and Miss Lovel, both inmates of the
same house, let her, when shown into the parlour, send up her name to
Mrs. Austin first. When that lady comes down, and she and her friend
have conversed about as long as the usual term of a morning call, Mrs.
Canning will rise to depart, and when Mrs. Austin has seen her to the
parlour door, Mrs. C. may say, “I will detain you no longer,” or “I will
encroach no longer on your time, but I am going now to send up for Miss
Lovel.”
Mrs. Austin then takes her leave, and goes up-stairs, (_her_ part of the
visit being over;) while Mrs. Canning returns to her seat in the
parlour, having first rung the bell, and sent for Miss Lovel.
In this manner, two distinct visits may be politely made to two ladies
living in the same hotel—and it is very customary.
Any lady that lives at a hotel can in some degree make a return for the
civilities received from private families, by occasionally inviting a
friend to dine or take tea with her. These dinners or teas are of course
always charged in her bill. If she expects a friend, she will previously
send to apprize the head-waiter that she wishes him to reserve a seat
next to her own, for a lady. She should give her arm to her guest, in
going to the table.
If a friend chances to call, whom she really wishes to stay and dine or
drink tea with her, she should ask her guest to take off her bonnet as
soon as she comes in; giving her the invitation at once, and not
delaying it till the visiter is about taking her leave.
Even in a private house, such extemporaneous invitations (which if
evidently sincere, are always gratifying, whether accepted or not)
should be given _immediately_, as soon as the hostess meets her guest.
There will then be time to order any improvement in the table
arrangements that may be deemed necessary.
We often have occasion to repeat, that whatever is done at all, should
be done well.
If, while in the parlour of the hotel, you wish to know if a person you
are desirous of seeing is staying at the house, the easiest way to
obtain the information, is not to enquire round of the ladies present,
but to ring the bell, and desire the waiter to go and ask at the office.
You can then send a message accordingly. It should be a card with a
message pencilled on it.
By sending to the office you may learn where all the public places in
the city and its environs are to be found. Also, where the churches are
situated.
You may be sure that the most fashionable shops are in the main street.
At any stationer’s, you can buy a small pocket-map of the city, folded
in a little morocco case. This will be an almost indispensable aid in
finding your way. In Philadelphia, the arrangement of the long streets
that run east and west from the Delaware to the Schuylkill, has given
occasion to the old rhyme of
Market, Arch, Race and Vine,
Chestnut, Walnut, Spruce and Pine.
If when about to ascend the stairs, you find that a gentleman is going
up at the same time, draw back and make a sign for him to precede you.
He will bow, and pass on before you. When coming down, do the same, that
the gentleman may descend in advance of you.
A very polished man will not wait for a signal from the lady, but will
bow and run up-stairs, passing her as a thing of course.
Do not idly detain a parlour newspaper on your lap, for half an hour or
more, after you have done reading it. As soon as you have read all you
want, replace it on the table, or transfer it to another lady, who may
wish to read it, and who may have been waiting anxiously to see you lay
it out of your hand. You have no right to monopolize any thing that is
intended for the convenience of the whole company.
CHAPTER XI.
HOTEL DINNER.
In dressing for a hotel dinner, it is not well to adopt a full evening
costume, and to appear as if attired for a ball; for instance, with a
coloured velvet gown; or one of a splendid brocade; or a transparent
gauze material over a satin; or with short sleeves and bare neck in cold
weather; or with flowers or jewels in the hair. Such costumes should be
reserved for evening parties. If worn at the table d’hôte, it may be
suspected you have no other place in which to display them. Your dress
need not be more showy than you would wear when dining at a private
house, particularly if you are a permanent boarder. There is no place
where dress escapes with less scrutiny than at a great hotel. Still, it
is bad taste to go to the dinner-table in ungenteel and unbecoming
habiliments—such as a figured or party-coloured mousseline-delaine, a
thing which always has the effect of calico, and, like calico, gives an
unlady-like look even to the most decided lady. In fact, what is it but
woollen calico? And if it is accompanied by a very thin, flimsy collar,
so small and narrow as to be scarcely visible, the neck and face will
look dingy and ill-coloured for want of sufficient white to relieve it.
No collar at all, but merely a coloured silk handkerchief, or a coloured
dress, coming immediately against the neck, is disfiguring to all women,
and men too.
Most American ladies beyond the age of thirty-five, look better in caps
than without them, even if their hair shows no signs of middle age.
Before that time, the females of our country begin to fade, evincing one
effect of torrid summers and frozen winters. A tasteful and simply
elegant cap (not one that is elaborate in its design, and loaded with
ornament,) imparts a grace and softness to a faded face, and renders
less conspicuous the inroads of time. A decidedly old lady, persisting
in going with her head uncovered, is a pitiable object, and scarcely
looks respectable. Worse still, when she takes to an auburn wig. Gray
hair is seldom unbecoming to a man. To a woman it gives a masculine
aspect, especially if worn without a cap; and if there is an attempt at
long gray locks, or ringlets, the effect is strange, wild and ghastly.
It is far more becoming for an elderly lady to give a dark shade to her
temples, and the upper part of her forehead, by a plain, simple, and
becoming dark-coloured braid, not intended to pass as her natural hair,
(for it never does,) but merely that the face should be set off by a due
proportion of shadow,—and not be all light or lightish. If a decidedly
old lady prefers wearing her own gray hair, let her part it smoothly on
her forehead, but make no attempt at curls, and be sure to add a cap to
it. An elderly female should, as we have said, _always_ wear a cap; and
her cap should have tabs or broad strings to tie under her chin. There
is no use or beauty in a lady looking older than is necessary, by
wearing a short-eared or round-eared cap, set back from her head, and
exposing all her cheeks even beyond her ears, with the crease in her
chin, and the deep furrows or wrinkles on each side of her neck—all
which can be concealed by bringing forward the bow of her cap tabs.
Let all ladies, old and young, avoid having their caps trimmed with
ribbons or flowers of what are called high-colours; deep, heavy pinks
and blues, and reddish lilacs. These colours vulgarize every thing they
are intended to decorate. High-coloured ribbons, flowered or figured,
are decidedly vulgar.
A profusion of jewels at a public table is in very bad taste,
particularly if the jewellery is palpably false—for instance, a large
brooch with great mock diamonds, or a string of wax beads meant for
pearls. Still worse, glass things imitating topazes or garnets—or two or
three gilt bracelets on one arm. A _large_ imitation gem always betrays
its real quality by its size.
Endeavour to make your arrangements so as to be dressed for dinner, and
seated in the ladies’ drawing-room, about ten or fifteen minutes before
the dining-hour, that you may be ready to go in with the rest of the
company.
If you and your party are strangers, recently arrived, do not at once
take the lead, and walk up to the head of the table, regardless of
dislodging and causing inconvenience among the regular boarders, to whom
those seats have been allotted. But desire a servant to show you a
place. The head-waiter is usually at hand to arrange seats for the
strangers, and he will attend to you. Persons not accustomed to hotels,
frequently show a great craving for the seats near the head of the
table. This is foolish. There are no places of honour; neither are the
eatables better at one part of the table than another.
Nobody “sits below the salt.” And every one has an equal chance of
obtaining a share of the nicest articles on the table. What is most
desirable is to have a seat in the vicinity of agreeable people, and you
will more frequently find them about the middle, or lower end of the
table, than at the top—that being the place usually most coveted by the
least genteel of the guests. We have seen the Chief Magistrate of the
Union, “the ruler of millions,” simply take a seat near the door, at the
lower end of a hotel-table, in Philadelphia, having arrived
unexpectedly.
As we have said before, we perceive not the propriety or the convenience
of a large party of strangers, on entering in a body, pertinaciously
making their way to the upper end of the table, with a determination to
obtain seats all in a row; as if the whole row together could join in
the same conversation, or even _see_ each other, when they sit on the
same side.
In seating yourself, look down for a moment to see if you have placed
the foot of your chair on the dress of the lady sitting next to you; and
if you have done so, remove it immediately, that her dress may be in no
danger of tearing when she attempts to rise. Sit close to the table, but
never lean your elbows upon it. To sit far from it, and reach out
distantly, is very awkward. Having unfolded your napkin, secure it to
your belt with a pin, to prevent its slipping down from your lap, and
falling under the table. This may be done so that the pinning will not
be perceptible. Bring with you a spare pin or two for this purpose,—or
keep always a pincushion in your pocket. It is much better than to incur
the risk of getting your dress greased or stained by the napkin
deserting your lap. If such accidents _should_ happen, pass them over
slightly, and do not lose your temper. For the present, wipe the spot
with your napkin, and dip the corner in water, and rub it lightly over
the grease-mark. When dinner is over, you can finish repairing the
injury in your own room. The coloured waiters are generally very clever
at removing grease-spots from dresses. One of them will do it for you
after dinner. The stain of wine or fruit may in most cases be taken out
of a washable article by laying it immediately in cold water.
To eat in gloves or mittens was always foolish; fortunately it is no
longer fashionable; but greatly the contrary.
Refrain from loud talking, or loud laughing. Young ladies truly genteel
are never conspicuously noisy at a public table, or anywhere else. Still
more carefully refrain from whispering, or exchanging significant
glances. Whispers are always overheard, (even when the vulgar precaution
is taken of screening your mouth with your hand,) and glances are always
observed.[12] Joggings, nudgings, pinchings, sleeve-pullings, &c. are
excessively unlady-like, and shamefully impudent when (as is often the
case) the eye of the jogger is fixed upon the object of the jog. To put
up an eye-glass at the face of a stranger, is very rude. So it is to
make remarks in French.
When eating fish, first remove the bones carefully, and lay them on the
edge of your plate. Then with your fork in your right hand, (the concave
or hollow side held uppermost,) and a small piece of bread in your left,
take up the flakes of fish. Servants, and all other persons, should be
taught that the butter-sauce should not be _poured over_ the fish, but
put on one side of the plate, that the eater may use it profusely or
sparingly, according to taste, and be enabled to mix it conveniently
with the sauce from the fish-castors. Pouring butter-sauce _over_ any
thing is now ungenteel.
Do not attempt removing a cover from a dish, that you may help yourself
before the rest of the company. Leave all that to the waiters. Tell them
what you want in a distinct, but not in a loud, conspicuous voice. In
asking a servant to bring you a thing, add not the useless and senseless
words “_will_ you?” for instance, “Bring me the bread, will you?”—“Give
me some water, will you?” Of course he will. Has he the option of
refusing? How you would be startled were he to answer, “_I will not._”
It is well always to say, even to servants, “I will thank you for the
bread,—or the water.” If you are a stranger in the house, ask, at the
beginning, the servant who waits on you to tell you his name. This may
save you some inconvenience. Where servants are numerous, they should
always go by their surnames, and be called Wilson, Jackson, Thomson, or
whatever it may be. This will prevent the confusion arising from half a
dozen Johns, or as many Williams.
If the waiters are attentive, and in sufficient number, you will have,
at a _good_ hotel, little or no occasion to help yourself to any thing.
Do not, under any circumstances, reach across the table, or rise on your
feet to get at any particular dish you may want. Trouble no one of the
company; but wait till you see a servant at hand. No man who is a
gentleman ever puts the ladies in requisition to help him at table.
It is not customary at hotels for ladies to be assiduous in watching and
supplying the plates of gentlemen. They can take care of themselves.
If in turning to speak to a waiter, you find him in the act of serving
some one else, say, “_When you are at leisure_, I will thank you for
some water,”—or whatever you may want.
It is selfish to be continually sending out of the room the man who
waits near you, for the purpose of bringing extra things for yourself.
Try to be satisfied with what you find on the table, and recollect that
you are depriving others of his services, while you are dispatching him
back and forward on errands to the kitchen.
Many persons hold silver forks awkwardly, as if not accustomed to them.
It is fashionable to use your knife only while cutting up the food small
enough to be eaten with the fork alone. While cutting, keep the fork in
your left hand, the hollow or concave side downward, the fork in a very
slanting position, and your fore-finger extended far down upon its
handle. When you have done cutting up what you are going to eat, lay
aside your knife, transfer the fork to your right hand, and take a small
piece of bread in your left. If eating any thing soft, use your silver
fork somewhat as a spoon, turning up the hollow side that the cavity may
hold the food. If engaged in talking, do not, meanwhile, hold your fork
bolt upright, but incline it downward, so as to be nearly on a level
with your plate. Remember, always, to keep your own knife, fork, and
spoon out of the dishes. It is an insult to the company, and a disgrace
to yourself, to dip into a dish any thing that has been even for a
moment in your mouth. To take butter or salt with your own knife is an
abomination. There is always a butter-knife and a salt-spoon. It is
nearly as bad to take a lump of sugar with your fingers.
In eating bread at dinner, break off little bits, instead of putting the
whole piece to your mouth and biting at it.
No lady looks worse than when gnawing a bone, even of game or poultry.
Few _ladies_ do it. In fact, nothing should be sucked or gnawed in
public; neither corn bitten off from the cob, nor melon nibbled from the
rind.[13] It is very ungraceful to eat an orange at table, unless,
having cut a bit off the top, you eat the inside with a
tea-spoon—otherwise reserve it for the privacy of your own room. Always
pare apples and peaches; and crack no nuts with your teeth. In eating
cherries, put your half-closed hand before your mouth to receive the
stones; then lay them on one side of your plate. To spit out the stones
one at a time as you proceed with the cherries is very ungenteel. Get
rid of plumb-stones in the same manner.
Do not eat incongruous and unsuitable things from the same plate,
telling the waiter that “he need not change it, as it will do very
well.” The washing of a plate (more or less) is no object whatever in a
large establishment, and it is expected that the guests will have clean
ones very frequently.
It is an affectation of ultra-fashion to eat pie with a fork, and has a
very awkward and inconvenient look. Cut it up first with your knife and
fork both; then proceed to eat it with the fork in your right hand.
Much of this determined fork-exercise may be considered foolish. But it
is fashionable.
If a lady wishes to eat lobster, let her request the waiter that attends
her, to extract a portion of it from the shell, and bring it to her on a
clean plate—also to place a castor near her.
Novices in lobster sometimes eat it simply with salt, or with vinegar
only, or with black pepper. This betrays great ignorance of the article.
To prepare it according to the usual custom,—cut up, very small, the
pieces of lobster, and on another plate make the dressing. First, mash
together some hard-boiled yolk of egg, and some of the red coral of the
lobster, with a little salt and cayenne. Mix in, with a fork, mustard to
your taste; and then a liberal allowance of salad-oil, finishing with
vinegar. Transfer the bits of lobster to the plate that has the
dressing, and combine the whole with a fork. Lettuce salad is dressed in
the same manner.
At a public table, a lady should never volunteer to dress salad for
others of the company. Neither should she cut up a pie, and help it
round. These things ought only to be done by a gentleman, or a servant.
If a gentleman with whom you are acquainted has dressed a salad, and
offers the plate to you, take what you want, and immediately return to
him the remainder; and do not pass it on to persons in your vicinity. It
is _his_ privilege, and not _yours_ to offer it to others, as he has had
the trouble of dressing it. And it is just that he should have a portion
of it for himself, which will not be the case if you officiously hand it
about to people around you. Leave it to him to dispose of as he pleases.
It was formerly considered ill-manners to refuse to take wine with a
gentleman. Now that the fortunate increase of temperance has induced so
many persons to abjure, entirely, the use of all liquors, it is no
longer an offence to decline these invitations. If you have no
conscientious scruples, and if you are acquainted with the gentleman, or
have been introduced to him, (not else,) you may comply with his
civility, and when both glasses are filled, look at him, bow your head,
and taste the wine. If you are placed between a lady and gentleman who
are taking wine together, lean back a little that they may see each
other’s faces. It is not customary, in America, for a lady to empty her
glass,—or indeed, at a hotel, or boarding-house, to take wine with the
same gentleman after the first day. Next time he asks, politely refuse,
simply desiring him to excuse you. If he is a true gentleman, he will
regard your refusal in its proper light, and not persist. We have often,
at a public table, regretted to see ladies in the daily practice of
taking wine with the same gentleman as often as invited. This “daily
practice” is improper, indelicate, and we will say mean—for wine is
expensive, and no lady should every day place herself under the same
obligation to the same gentleman, even for a single glass. He will not
respect her the more for doing so. On no consideration let any lady be
persuaded to take _two_ glasses of champagne. It is more than the head
of an _American_ female can bear. And she may rest assured that (though
unconscious of it herself) all present will find her cheeks flushing,
her eyes twinkling, her tongue unusually voluble, her talk loud and
silly, and her laugh incessant. Champagne is very insidious; and two
glasses may throw her into this pitiable condition.
If a stranger whom you do not know, and to whom you have had no
introduction, takes the liberty of asking you to drink wine with him,
refuse at once, positively and coldly, to prove that you consider it an
unwarrantable freedom. And so it is.
If you are helped to any thing whose appearance you do not like, or in
which you are disappointed when you taste it, you, of course, at a hotel
table, are not obliged to eat it. Merely leave it on your plate, without
audibly giving the reason; and then, in a low voice, desire the waiter
to bring you something else. It is well, while at table, to avoid any
discussion of the demerits of the dishes. On the other hand, you may
praise them as much as you please.
In refusing to be helped to any particular thing, never give as a reason
that “you are afraid of it,” or “that it will disagree with you.” It is
sufficient simply to _refuse_; and then no one has a right to ask why?
While at table, all allusions to dyspepsia, indigestion, or any other
disorders of the stomach, are vulgar and disgusting. The word “stomach”
should never be uttered at any table, or indeed anywhere else, except to
your physician, or in a private conversation with a female friend
interested in your health. It is a disagreeable word, (and so are all
its associations,) and should never be mentioned in public to “ears
polite.” Also, make no remarks on what is eaten by persons near you,
(except they are children, and under your own care,) such as its being
unwholesome, indigestible, feverish, or in any way improper. It is no
business of yours; and besides, you are not to judge of others by
yourself. No two constitutions are alike, and what is very bad for
_you_, may be perfectly innoxious to others. If persons are with you in
whom you are much interested, and over whom you have influence, and they
seem inclined to eat what is bad for them, refrain from checking them in
presence of strangers. Above all, do not open your eyes, and hold up
your hands, and exclaim against their folly, and want of self-control,
and predict their certain sufferings from that cause. But if you _must_
remonstrate, wait till you have quitted the table, and find yourself
alone with the delinquent.
Never, while at table, (whether in public or private,) allow yourself to
talk on painful or disgusting subjects. Avoid all discussions of
sicknesses, sores, surgical operations, dreadful accidents, shocking
cruelties, or horrible punishments. A love of such topics, evinces a
coarse and unfeminine mind. It is rude in gentlemen at any time to
introduce them before ladies; and a polished man never does so. The
conversation at table should be as cheerful and pleasant as possible.
Political and sectarian controversies ought to have no place there.
Shakspeare truly says, “Unquiet meals make ill digestion.”
Avoid the discussion at table of private affairs; either your own, or
those of other people. Remember that “servants have ears,” and
frequently much more quickness of comprehension and retentiveness of
memory than is generally supposed. So have children.
Abstain from picking your teeth at table. Notwithstanding that custom
has allowed this practice in Europe, (even in fashionable society,) it
is still a very disagreeable one, and to delicate spectators absolutely
sickening to behold. Delay it till you are alone, and till you can
indulge in it without witnesses. We know that it is quite possible to go
on through a long life, and to have clean teeth, without ever once
having been _seen_ to pick them; and yet those teeth are really picked
after every meal.
Should you chance to be extremely incommoded by some extraneous
substance that has gotten between your teeth, you can remove it
unperceived, by holding up your napkin or handkerchief before your
mouth, so as effectually to conceal the process. When you take any thing
out of your teeth, do not make the persons who are near you sick, by
laying the disgusting particle on the side of your plate; but conceal it
immediately. Still, nothing but “sheer necessity” can excuse any
teeth-picking at table.
We have seen a young _lady_, at a very fashionable house in one of our
great cities, pull a dish of stewed oysters close to her, and with a
table-spoon fish out and eat the oysters one at a time; audibly sipping
up their liquor from the said dish.
We have seen a young _gentleman_ lift his plate of soup in both hands,
hold it to his mouth and drink, or rather lap it up. This was at no less
a place than Niagara.
We have heard of a well-dressed stranger at a great hotel in Boston, who
having used his own knife for the butter, flew into a violent passion
with the waiter for respectfully pointing out to him the silver
butter-knife. Swearing that the knife he had been putting in his mouth
was quite good enough, afterward, for any butter in the world, the
_gentleman_ flung the silver knife across the table, and broke it
against the wall. For this exploit he had to pay five dollars.
A man that habitually rises on his feet to reach across the table for a
dish, and pulls it to himself, instead of desiring the waiter to bring
it to him, is unworthy the appellation of a gentleman. Ladies, of
course, cannot be guilty of this abomination; but it is true that they
sometimes extend their arms entirely too far, in trying to get at
something which a servant would bring them if asked to do so.
Some persons behave coarsely at a public table because they are
ignorant, and know no better. Some (far less excusable) are rude because
they are too selfish to put any restraint on their inclinations, or to
care for the convenience of others.
Some display, all the time, a vulgar determination to “get the full
worth of their money.” Some, who at a _private_ dinner-table would be
the most polite people imaginable, lay aside their good manners in a
_public_ dining-room; regarding a hotel as they would a tavern—a sort of
Liberty Hall. And some are insolent by way of “showing their
consequence,”—having, in reality, mixed so little with _true_ people of
consequence, as not to be aware that persons of high station are, with
few exceptions, entirely free from the assumption of undue importance.
Servants are often very shrewd observers, and they always say that real
gentlefolks “never take airs.” Neither they do.
When the finger-glasses are sent round, dip a clean corner of your
napkin into the water, and wet round your lips with it, but omit the
disgusting foreign fashion of taking water into your mouth, rinsing and
gurgling it round, and then spitting it back into the glass. Wait till
you can give your mouth a regular and efficient washing up-stairs. Dip
your fingers into the glass, rub them with the slice of lemon, or the
orange-leaf that may be floating on the surface, and then wipe them on
the napkin. We have heard of a man who saw finger-glasses for the first
time in his life, when dining at one of the New York hotels. A slice of
lemon floating on the top, he took up the bowl and drank the water,
exclaiming as he set it down—“Well! if this isn’t the poorest lemonade I
ever tasted!”
On quitting the table, it is not necessary to fold up your napkin.
Merely lay it on the table near your plate. The napkins will be
immediately collected by the servants, carried to the laundry, and
thrown at once into tubs of water, to take out the stains.
When dinner is over, and you see that nearly all the company, except two
or three, have left the table, it is not well to be one of that two or
three, and to remain to an indefinite period, loitering over the last
pickings of a plate of nuts—nut-picking being always a tedious business.
The waiters are, by this time, very tired of standing, and they (like
all other people) are entitled to some consideration of their comfort.
Even the attraction of a beau drinking his wine beside her, ought not to
induce a young lady to outstay all the company, with the pretext of
being passionately fond of nuts. She may indulge this passion at any
time by keeping a bag of them in her own room.
The English travellers who visit America are often right in their
remarks on many of our customs. And instead of resenting these remarks,
we might profit by them, and reform.
For instance, it is true that the generality of Americans eat too fast,
for their own health, and the comfort of those about them; masticating
their food very slightly, and not allowing themselves time enough to
enjoy their meals. The French, however, eat faster still, and can
dispatch a surprising quantity of food in less time than any people in
the civilized world. If we pattern after either nation in the customs of
the table, the _genteel_ English are far better models than most of
their neighbours across the Channel. But the best class of Americans are
unsurpassed in the essentials of all these observances. The English
attach too much importance to ceremonies merely conventional, and for
which there seems no motive but the everchanging decrees of fashion.
Yet, on going to England, let every American lady take care to make
herself acquainted with these ceremonies; for her ignorance of them will
find no quarter there—and she need not flatter herself that it will be
passed over unnoticed.
In most hotels it is not customary to have hot cakes or any warm dishes
on the tea-table, except in cold weather. We think, in a summer
afternoon, they can be easily dispensed with, and that ladies might be
satisfied with sweet cakes, fruit, preserves, and other things more
delicate, and more suited to the hour, than the hot preparations they
sometimes call for; and which, by not seeing them on the table, they may
be assured do not come within scope of the tea-arrangements. It is
expecting too much to suppose the cook will be willing to mix
batter-cakes and bake them, or to scorch over the fire with broiling or
stewing relishes, in a warm summer evening—or even to make toast, except
for an invalid. Also, every one should know that a substantial meal
(including tea and coffee) can generally be had at the nine o’clock
supper-table. In houses where there is no nine o’clock supper, the
tea-table is set out with greater profusion and variety.
At hotels, the interval between dinner and tea is usually short; the
tea-hour being early, that the guests may have ample time to prepare for
going to places of amusement. Yet there are ladies who, though spending
all the evening at home, will remain sitting idly in the parlour till
eight o’clock, (or later still,) keeping the table standing and servants
waiting in attendance, that they may have a better appetite, and be able
to make a heartier meal at their tea. This is selfish and inconsiderate,
particularly as they might easily wait a little longer, and take their
tea or coffee at the supper-table. Their appetites would then be still
better. The servants certainly require rest, and should be exempt from
all attendance in the ladies’ eating-room, for an hour or two in the
evening.
No lady can remain long in the drawing-room talking to a gentleman after
all the rest have retired for the night, without subjecting herself to
remarks which it would greatly annoy her to hear—whether merited or not.
Neither is it well for her to be seen continually sitting at the same
window with the same gentleman.
Ladies and gentlemen who wish to hold private dialogues, should not for
that purpose monopolize a centre-table; thereby preventing persons who
wish to read from availing themselves of the light of the chandelier
above it. Lovers who have proper consideration, (a rare occurrence,)
always sit as far as possible from the rest of the company, and so they
should—unless they can bring themselves to join in general conversation.
That is, if the lovership is real. In many cases the semblance is only
assumed to produce effect, and the talk has really nothing secret or
mysterious about it, and might just as well be uttered audibly.
In making acquaintance with a stranger at a hotel, there is no
impropriety (but quite the contrary) in enquiring of her from what place
she comes. In introducing yourself give your name _audibly_; or what is
still better, if you have a card about you, present that; and she should
do the same in return. Before you enter into conversation on any subject
connected with religion, it will be well to ask her to what church she
belongs. This knowledge will guard you from indulging, inadvertently, in
sectarian remarks which may be displeasing to her, besides producing a
controversy which may be carried too far, and produce ill-feeling
between the parties. We have known the mere question, “Have you been to
church to-day?” when asked of a stranger at a Sunday dinner-table, bring
on a dialogue of great asperity, and very annoying to the hearers. As it
cannot possibly concern yourself whether the strangers at a hotel have
been to church or not, or what church they have visited, omit
catechising them at table on this or any other religious subject. We
have never known a clergyman guilty of this solecism in good sense and
good manners.
When you give a gratuity to a servant—for instance, to the man who waits
on you at table, or he that attends your room, or to the chambermaid or
the errand-boy—give it at no regular time, but whenever you think
proper, or find it convenient. It is injudicious to allow them to
suppose that they are to do you no particular service without being
immediately paid for it. It renders them mercenary, rapacious, and
neglectful of other boarders who are less profuse; not reflecting that
the servants are hired to wait on the company, and are paid wages for
doing so, by the proprietor of the establishment, and that it is
therefore their duty to him, and to his guests, to exert themselves so
to give satisfaction. Still, it is right and customary to pay them extra
for conveying your baggage up and down stairs when you are departing
from the house or returning to it. Carrying heavy baggage is very hard
work even for strong men. If you are a permanent boarder, and from
ill-health require extra attendance, it is well to give a certain sum,
monthly, to each of the servants who wait upon you; and then they will
not expect any thing more, except on extraordinary occasions. And to
each of them, separately, give the money with your own hand. In short,
whatever you give to any one, (servants or others,) it is safest, when
convenient, to bestow it in person. There will then be no mistakes, no
forgettings, and no temptation to embezzlement.
If you live in Philadelphia, you will find it very convenient, in most
cases, to send messages by a note with a stamp on it, put into the
city-post. There is a mail-bag and a letter-box at all hotels, and at
most of the large boarding-houses. The errand-boy of the hotel carries
parcels, and takes such messages as require an _immediate_ answer. For a
distance of any consequence, he will expect from twelve to twenty-five
cents. For little errands in the immediate neighbourhood, less will
suffice. When a servant brings you small change, do not tell him to keep
it. It is giving him the bad habit of expecting it always; and at times
when you may have occasion, yourself, for that very change. It is the
worst way of feeing them. On leaving the house, and at Christmas, it is
customary to give a fee rather larger than usual, to the servants who
have been your attendants. But as we have said before, give it with your
own hands.
It is ungenerous and most unjustifiable to bribe the servants to neglect
other boarders, (whose place is near yours,) for the purpose of their
bestowing on you a double share of attention. It is taking an undue
advantage, which in the end will come out badly.
All persons who go to hotels are not able to lavish large and frequent
gratuities on the servants. But all, for the price they pay to the
proprietor, are entitled to an ample share of attention from the
domestics.
It is very mean and unlady-like to gossip secretly with the servants,
and question them about any of the other guests. Still worse, to repeat
what they tell you, and give _them_ as authority. Treat them always with
kindness and civility, but have no confidential and familiar intercourse
with them. To those you know, it is but common civility to bid good
morning every day. Coloured people you may always gratify by saying a
few words to them, now and then, in passing. They value this little
kindness, and will not presume upon it like those from “the old
country,” who, if treated familiarly, will frequently take liberties,
and lose all respect for you. Elderly coloured people, (particularly in
the South,) like much to be called “aunt” or “uncle;” and it degrades no
white lady to please them by doing so.
In all hotels, it is against the rule to take out of the ladies’
drawing-room any books that may be placed there for the general
convenience of the company, such as dictionaries, guide-books,
directories, magazines, &c. If you borrow a file of newspapers from the
reading-room, get done with them as soon as you can, lest they should be
wanted there by the gentlemen; and as soon as you have finished, ring
for a servant to carry them back.
Be careful, in cold weather, always to shut the parlour-doors after you.
If you think the room too warm, do not throw open either door or window,
without first enquiring if it will cause inconvenience to any one
present. It is a good practice to carry a pocket fan even in winter, in
case you should chance to feel the heat more sensibly than any other
lady in the room. If the heat of the grate causes you inconvenience,
enquire if there is any objection to having the blower brought in and
stood up before it. If not, ring the bell and order it.
If you have an anthracite fire in your chamber, and wish to extinguish
it on retiring for the night, take the tongs, and lifting off some of
the largest coals from the top, lay them beneath the grate. Then, with
the shut-tongs or the poker, make a deep hollow in the centre of the
fire; raking it into two hills, one on each side, leaving a valley down
in the middle. It will begin to blacken immediately, and go out in a few
minutes. If you cannot do this yourself, ring for a servant.
This is _the only way_ to put out an anthracite fire, whether in a grate
or a stove.—There is no other. Try it.
CHAPTER XII.
SHIP-BOARD.
There are few places where the looks and manners of the company are more
minutely scanned than on ship-board; and few where the agreeability of a
lady will be more highly appreciated. There is little or no variety of
objects to attract attention. The passengers are brought so closely into
contact with each other, and confined to so small a neighbourhood, or
rather so many neighbours are crowded into so small a space, that all
their sayings and doings are noticed with unusual attention, by those
who are well enough to regard any thing but themselves. Sea-sickness is
a very selfish malady,—and no wonder that it is so. Fortunately it is
less prevalent than formerly, thanks to the improvements in cabin-room,
ventilation, lodging, food, and many other things connected with
ocean-travelling. A lady who is not of a bilious or dyspeptic habit, and
who has taken precautionary medicine a few days before commencing the
voyage, frequently escapes sea-sickness altogether; or at least gets
well after the first day or two.
It is best not to be over-officious in offering your aid to the sick
ladies, unless they are your intimate friends. The stewardess of a
packet-ship is generally all-sufficient; and much more capable of
attending to their wants than you can be. Sea-sickness renders its
victims very querulous; and few like to be continually reminded of their
condition by enquiries too often repeated of—“How do you find yourself
now?” “Do you feel any better?” or, “Do you think you could not eat
something?” To one very much prostrated by the effects of the
sea-motion, the mere replying to these questions is an additional
misery. Whatever sympathy you may feel, at the time, for those afflicted
with the marine malady, remember that it is a disorder which never
kills, but very frequently cures.
If you are sick yourself, say as little about it as possible. And never
allude to it at table, where you will receive little sympathy, and
perhaps render yourself disgusting to all who hear you. At no time talk
about it to gentlemen. Many foolish common-place sayings are uttered by
ladies who attempt to describe the horrors of sea-sickness. For instance
this—“I felt all the time as if I wished somebody to take me up, and
throw me overboard.” This is untrue—no human being ever really _did_
prefer drowning to sea-sickness.
When the ship is actually in danger, this malady is always frightened
away; the feelings of the mind entirely overpowering those of the body.
Try to avoid supposing that every fresh gale is a violent storm; but
confide in the excellence of the ship, and the skill of its navigators.
Yet, though not afraid yourself, remember that others may be so, and do
not try to show your courage by indulging in undue gayety. Mirth is out
of place when the sky is overcast with gloom, the wind blowing hard, and
the waves “running mountains high,” and foaming and roaring all round
the vessel.
If there is truly a violent tempest, and if the danger is real and
imminent, trust to that Almighty Power who is with you always,—on the
sea, and on the land; and silently and fervently implore his protection.
No captain likes to be teazed with importunities concerning the probable
length of the passage. You may be sure he will do all he can to make it
as short as possible. In rough weather, refrain from asking, whenever
you see him, “If there is any danger?” If there really is, he will
certainly let you know it in time.
Endeavour to live harmoniously with your fellow-passengers. Avoid such
national allusions as may give offence to the foreigners. If you find
that any of them are in the frequent practice of sneering at your own
country, or speaking of it disrespectfully, repress your resentment,
resort to no recrimination, but refrain from further conversation with
that individual, and leave him to the gentlemen. If a female foreigner
is in the habit of gratuitously abusing America, endeavour calmly to
convince her that her ideas of your country are erroneous. If she will
not be convinced, (as is most likely, if she is an _ungenteel_
Englishwoman,) give up the attempt, and leave her to herself. If you
have a taste for the ridiculous, you will regard her prejudices and the
expression of them only as objects of amusement.
Avoid all arguments with a woman of irritable disposition, lest you are
drawn in yourself to defend your opinion too warmly. You will soon find
whether or not you can convince her, or whether she is likely to
convince you. And it is worse than useless for both to continue
protracting the argument, when they know that the opinion of neither
will be shaken. Also, it is foolish to keep on repeating the same ideas,
with no change but in a few of the words.
Long and turbulent discussions are peculiarly annoying on ship-board,
particularly in rainy weather, when for the weary and pent-up audience,
“there’s no door to creep out.”
It is certainly advisable for every lady on ship-board to endeavour to
make herself as agreeable as she can, and not to suppose that all her
“whims and oddities” will be excused because she is suffering “the pains
and penalties” of the sea, and is therefore not “a responsible being.”
If free from sickness, a lady may propose or promote many pleasant
little amusements and occupations; such as playing children’s games on
deck, or taking a part in chess, chequers, and backgammon in the cabin.
Ladies sometimes form a regular little coterie, for assembling at
certain hours, and employing themselves in knitting, beadwork, light
sewing, &c. while a gentleman reads aloud to them in some entertaining
book. In the evening, vocal concerts will be an agreeable variety, as
there are always some persons on board who can sing. And when the
weather is fine, and the ship steadily laying her course, a moonlight
dance on deck is delightful.
A young lady should improve the opportunity of learning the names of the
principal parts of the ship. It is a silly boast at the end of the
voyage, (and yet we have heard such boasts,) to say that you do not know
the fore-mast from the main-mast; and that you have no idea where the
mizen-mast is, much less the bow-sprit. And even if a fair damsel should
be able to distinguish the fore-topsail from the jib, and to know even
the flying-jib, and have learnt the difference between the compass and
the quadrant, and the log-line and the lead-line, we opine that “the
gentlemen” will think none the worse of her; to say nothing of the
satisfaction it will afford herself to listen with some comprehension to
talk concerning the ship, and to read understandingly a few of the
numerous excellent novels that treat of “life on the ocean wave.”
If you have, unfortunately, the rude and unamiable habit of laughing
whenever you see any one get a fall, leave it off when on
ship-board,—where falls are of continual occurrence from the rolling of
the vessel, and the steepness of the stairs. We never could tell why a
fall, even on the ice, should be regarded as a subject of mirth, when
the chance is that it may produce a serious hurt, and is always attended
with some pain or some annoyance at least. Low-bred women always say
they cannot help laughing at such sights. We think _ladies_ ought always
to help it, and hasten at once to the relief of the sufferer, to
ascertain if they are hurt.
Be washed and dressed _neatly_ every day. This can generally be managed
with the assistance of the female servants—even if you _are_ sick.
A piano never sounds well on ship-board—the cabins are too small, and
the ceilings too low. To the sick and nervous, (and all who are sea-sick
become _very_ nervous,) this instrument is peculiarly annoying.
Therefore be kind enough to spare them the annoyance. You can practise
when the weather is fine, and the invalids are on deck. Pianos have been
abolished in many of the finest ships. Such instruments as can be
carried on deck, and played in the open air, are, on the contrary, very
delightful at sea, when in the hands of good performers—particularly on
a moonlight evening.
In going to England, take with you no American reprints of English
books, unless you intend leaving them on board the ship. If you attempt
to land them, they will be seized at the custom-house. American books by
American authors are _not_ prohibited.
Make no attempt to smuggle any thing. You may be detected and disgraced.
The risk is too great, and the advantage too little.
When you leave your state-room to sit in the ladies’ cabin, do not fall
to relating the particulars of your sickness, or complaining of the
smallness of your apartment, the rolling of the ship, or the roughness
of the waves. These inconveniences are unavoidable, and must always be
expected in a sea-voyage; and talking about them too much seems to
magnify their evils.
If there is any deficiency in accommodations or attentions, either try
as well as you can to do without them, or in a kind and considerate
manner endeavour to obtain them of the servants, if not too
inconvenient, or against the ship’s regulations.
It is very inconsiderate to have things cooked at luncheon time
purposely for yourself. Ladies who are quite well will sometimes order
baked apples, stewed prunes, buttered toast, arrow-root, cups of tea or
coffee, &c.,—notwithstanding that the lunch-table is always profusely
spread with a variety of cold articles; and that when dinner is cooking
at the same time, the small size of the kitchen renders any extra
preparations very inconvenient to the preparers.
CHAPTER XIII.
LETTERS.
The practice of inclosing letters in envelopes is now universal;
particularly as when the letter is single no additional postage is
charged for the cover. The postage now is in almost every instance
pre-paid, it being but three cents when paid by the writer, and five if
left to the receiver. Therefore, none but very poor or very mean people
send unpaid letters. Letter-stamps for the United States post should be
kept in a little box on your writing-table. You can get them always by
sending to the post-office—from a dollar’s worth or more, down to fifty
or twenty-five cents’ worth, at a time. In a second box, keep stamps for
the city or penny post, which transmits notes from one part of the town
to another. And in a third, stamps to go on the covers of newspapers.
Sealing with wax is found to be very insecure for letters that are
carried by steamers into warm climates—the wax melting with the heat,
and sticking the letters to each other, so that they cannot be separated
without tearing. Wafers are better.
It would be very convenient to use the post-office stamp as a seal, but
the clerks in that establishment charge extra postage for the trouble of
turning the letter to mark the stamp. This subjects the receiver to the
payment of two additional cents.
In writing upon business exclusively your own, for instance to make a
request, to ask for information, to petition for a favour, or to solicit
an autograph, it is but right not only to pay the postage of your own
letter, but to enclose a stamp for the answer. This is always done by
really polite and considerate people. You have no right, when the
benefit is entirely your own, to cause any extra expense to the receiver
of the letter—not even the cost of three cents to pay the postage back
again. It is enough to tax their time by requiring them to write to you
and send off the reply. Also, in corresponding with a relative, or very
intimate friend, to whom even a small expense is of more importance than
to yourself, you may enclose a stamp for the answer. Do so always in
writing to poor people. Be careful not to allow yourself to get entirely
out of post-office stamps. Replenish your stock in time. If the gum on
the back seems too weak, go over it afresh with that excellent cement,
“Perpetual Paste.” Embossed or bordered envelopes are not often used
except in notes of ceremony—or when the acquaintance is slight. The same
with ornamented note-paper. Intimate friends and relatives use paper
that is handsome, but plain. Letters of business are generally enclosed
in yellow or buff-coloured envelopes. Some of these yellow envelopes are
large enough to contain a folio sheet when folded. Notes _not_ to be
sent by post, are usually sealed with wax—the seal very small. But a
_small_ wafer is admissible—a white one looks best for a note. In
folding your note or letter, see that it is not too large to go into the
envelope. It is customary to write the direction on the envelope only.
Nevertheless, if the letter is to go a long distance by post, the
envelope may be worn off, or torn off accidentally, or get so damaged in
the letter-bag as to be rendered illegible. The surest and safest way is
to put the address on the letter also; or if the sheet is full, to find
a corner for the direction, either at the beginning or end.
We have seen no _good_ letter-paper at less price than twenty-five cents
per quire; and for that it ought to be _very_ good. If of lower cost,
you may find it soft and fuzzy, so that the pen will not move freely,
(the nib wearing out directly,) or so thin that you cannot write on both
sides of the sheet. In paper, as in most other things, the best is the
cheapest. If the tint is bluish, the writing will not be so legible as
on a pure white. The surface should be smooth and glossy. For letter
writing _ruled_ paper is rarely used, except by children. In writing for
the press, no other is so convenient. A page of ruled lines to slip
beneath, is indispensable to those who cannot otherwise write straight.
They are to be had for a few cents at every stationer’s. It is well to
get three different sizes. If you write a small hand, the lines should
be closer together than if your writing is large. If you are addressing
a friend and have much to say, and expect to fill the sheet, begin very
near the top of the first page. But if your letter is to be a short one,
commence lower down, several inches from the top. If a _very_ short
letter of only a few lines, begin but a little above the middle of the
page. Crossing a letter all over with transverse lines is obsolete. It
is intolerable to read, and there is no excuse for it now, when postage
is so low, and every body pays their own.
Write the date near the right-hand side of the first page, and place it
about two lines higher than the two or three words of greeting or
accosting with which letters usually commence. Begin the first sentence
a little below those words, and farther toward the right than the lines
that are to follow. It is well in dating _every_ letter to give always
your exact residence—that is, not only the town you live in, but the
number and street. If your correspondent has had _but one_ notification
of your present place of abode, she may have forgotten the number, and
even the street. Your letter containing it may not be at hand as a
reference, and the answer may, in consequence, be misdirected—or
directed in so vague a manner that it will never reach you. We have
known much inconvenience (and indeed loss) ensue from not specifying
with the date of _each_ letter the exact dwelling-place of the writer.
But if it is _always_ indicated at the top of _every one_, a reference
to _any_ one of your letters will furnish your proper address. If you
are in the country, where there are no streets or numbered houses, give
the name of the estate and that of the nearest post-town; also the
county and state. All this will occupy a long line, but you will find
the advantage. If your letter fills more than one sheet, number each
page. Should you have no envelope, leave, on the inside of the third
page, two blank spaces where the seal is to come. These spaces should be
left rather too large than too small. Lest you should tear the letter in
_breaking_ it open, it is best to _cut_ round the seal. We have seen
letters that were actually illegible from the paleness of the ink. If
you write from your own house this is inexcusable, as you ought always
to be _well_ supplied with that indispensable article; and in a city you
can easily send to a stationer’s and buy it. It is still better to make
it yourself; than which nothing is more easy. The following receipt _we
know, by experience, to be superlative_. Try it.
Buy at a druggist’s four ounces of the best blue Aleppo nut-galls; half
an ounce of green copperas; and half an ounce of clean, white
gum-arabic. These three articles must be pulverized in a mortar. Put
them into a large, clean, white-ware pitcher, and pour on a quart of
boiling water. Stir the whole with a stick that will reach to the
bottom, and set the pitcher in a warm place; covering it lightly with a
folded newspaper. In about an hour, stir it again very hard; and repeat
the stirring several times during the day. Let it remain in the pitcher
several days, or a week, till it becomes an excellent black; the
blackening will be accelerated by keeping the pitcher in the sun; for
instance, in a sunny balcony. Stir it, down to the bottom, two or three
times a day—always with a stick. Use nothing of metal in making this
ink. When it is very black, and writes well, pour it off carefully from
the bottom, (which must have rested undisturbed for two or three hours
previous,) passing it through a funnel into pint-bottles. Before you
cork them, put into each a large tea-spoonful of brandy, to prevent
moulding, or a few drops of lavender. A small tea-spoonful of cloves,
(slightly broken,) placed in the bottom of each bottle, before the ink
is poured in, will answer the same purpose. Scouring the pitcher with
soap and sand, after throwing away the dregs of the ink, will completely
clear off the stains.
Ink-stands should be washed out, before they are filled anew.
There is no ink superior to this in blackness or smoothness. You can
make it at less than half the cost of that which you buy in the shops.
It looks blacker the next day after using, and never fades. If it
becomes rather too thick, dilute it slightly with water, and stir it
down to the bottom.
Never use _blue_ ink. If the letter chances to get wet, the writing will
be effaced. Serious losses have resulted from business letters being
written in blue ink.
If you make a mistake in a word, draw your pen through it, or score it
so as to be quite illegible, and then interline the correction, placing
a caret beneath. This will be better than scratching out the error with
your penknife, and afterward trying to write a new word in the identical
place; an attempt which rarely succeeds, even with the aid of
pouncepowder, which is pulverized gum-sandarac.
At the end of the letter, somewhat lower than your signature, (which
should be very near the right-hand edge of the page,) add the name and
address of the person for whom the letter is designed, and to whom it
will thus find its way, even if the envelope should be defaced, or torn
off and lost. Write your own name rather larger than your usual hand,
and put a dot or dash after it.
Some of the ensuing paragraphs are taken (with permission of the
publisher) from a former work of the author’s.
In folding a letter, let the breadth (from left to right) far exceed the
height. A letter folded tall is ridiculous, and one verging towards
squareness looks very awkward. It is well to use a folder (or
paper-knife) to press along the edges of the folds, that they may be
smooth and straight. If one is looser than another, or if there is the
slightest narrowing in, or widening out, toward the edge of the
turn-over, the letter will have an irregular, unsightly appearance.
Pieces of ruled lines may be so cut that you can slip them under the
back of a letter after it is folded, and then you will be in no danger
of writing the direction crooked, or uneven.
Write the name of your correspondent about the middle of the back, and
very clearly and distinctly. Then give the number and street on the next
line, a little nearer to the right. Then the town in _large_ letters,
extending still nearer to the right. If a country-town, give next (in
letters a little smaller) the name of the _county_ in which it is
situated. This is very necessary, as in some of our states there is more
than one town of the same name, and “Washingtons” all over the Union.
Lastly, at the very bottom, and close to the right, indicate the state
or district by its usual abbreviation,—for instance, _Me._ for
Maine[14]—_N. H._ New Hampshire—_Vt._ Vermont—_Mass._ Massachusetts—_R.
I._ Rhode Island—_Ct._ or _Conn._ Connecticut—_N. Y._ New York—_N. J._
New Jersey—_Pa._ or _Penna._ Pennsylvania—_Del._ Delaware—_Md._
Maryland—_Va._ Virginia—_N. C._ North Carolina—_S. C._ South
Carolina—_Ga._ or _Geo._ Georgia—_Ala._ Alabama—_Miss._
Mississippi—_Mo._ Missouri—_La._ Louisiana—_Tenn._ Tennessee—_Ky._
Kentucky—_O._ Ohio—_Ind._ Indiana—_Ill._ Illinois—_Mich._
Michigan—_Ark._ Arkansas—_Wis._ Wisconsin—_Io._ Iowa—_Tex._ Texas—_Flo._
Florida—_Cal._ California—_Or._ Oregon—_Minn._ Minnesota—_Utah_—_D. C._
District of Columbia.
To these may be added the abbreviations of the British possessions in
North America: _U. C._ Upper Canada—_L. C._ Lower Canada—_N. S._ Nova
Scotia—_N. B._ New Brunswick—_N. P._ New Providence.
In directing a letter to a foreign country, give the whole name, as
France, Spain, Belgium, England, Ireland, Scotland, &c. We have towns in
America called after all manner of European towns. For instance, a
letter directed to our Havre-de-Grace, might, if Maryland was not
designated, find its way to Havre-de-Grace in France; Rome in the state
of New York might be taken to Rome in Italy,—York in Pennsylvania to
York in England, &c. We know an instance of a gentleman directing an
important letter to Boston, and, forgetting to add _Mass._ (for
Massachusetts) at the bottom, the letter actually went from Philadelphia
to the small town of Boston in Lincolnshire, England. In writing _from_
Europe, finish the direction with the words _United States of North
America_.
When you send a letter by a private opportunity, (a thing which is
already almost obsolete since the days of cheap postage,) it will be
sufficient to introduce very near the lower edge of the left-hand corner
of the back, simply the name of the gentleman who carries it, written
small. It is now considered old-fashioned to insert on the back of such
a letter—“Politeness of Mr. Smith”—“Favoured by Mr. Jones”—“Honoured by
Mr. Brown.” If the letter is to cross the sea, by mail or otherwise,
write the name of the vessel on the left-hand corner of the outside.
When a letter is to go to New York city, always put the words New York
_in full_, (and not N. Y.,) written large. Much confusion is caused by
the name of this state and its metropolis being the same. It has been
well-suggested that the name of the state of New York should be changed
to Ontario—a beautiful change. In directing to any of the towns in the
state of New York, then put N. Y. after the name of the town, as Hudson,
N. Y.,—Syracuse, N. Y., &c.
In sending a letter to the metropolis of the Union, direct for
Washington, D. C.
In directing to a clergyman, put _Rev._ (Reverend) before his name. If a
bishop, _Right Reverend_. To an officer, immediately after his name put
U. S. A. for United States Army, or U. S. N. for United States
Navy—having preceded his name with _Gen._, _Col._, _Capt._, _Lieut._,
according to his rank.
The title Hon. (Honourable) is always used in directing to a member of
congress, a member of the cabinet, a judge of the supreme court, an
ambassador, or the governor of a state. For the Chief Magistrate of the
Union, you may direct simply to the President of the United States. The
term “Excellency” is now but little used.
For a gentleman holding a professorship in a university, preface his
name with _Prof._ or _Professor_. The title of “Professor” does not
really belong to all men who teach any thing, or to every man that
exhibits a show—or to mesmerists, and spiritual knockers. Do not give it
to them.
For sealing letters no light is so convenient as a wax taper in a low
stand. A lamp, or candle, may smoke or blacken the wax. To seal well,
your wax should be of the finest quality. Red wax of a bright scarlet
colour is the best. Low-priced wax consumes very fast; and when melted,
looks purplish or brownish. When going to melt sealing-wax, rest your
elbow on the table to keep your hand steady. Take the stick of wax
between your thumb and finger, and hold it a little above the light, so
that it barely touches the point of the flame. Turn the stick round till
it is equally softened on all sides. Then insert a little of the melted
wax _under_ the turn-over part of the letter, just where the seal is to
come. This will render it more secure than if the sole dependence was on
the outside seal. Or instead of this little touch of wax, you may slip
beneath the turn-over a small wafer, either white or of the same colour
as the wax. Then begin at the outer edge of the place you intend for the
seal; and move the wax in a circle, which must gradually diminish till
it terminates in the centre. Put the seal exactly to the middle of the
soft wax, and press it down hard, but do not screw it round. Then
withdraw it suddenly. Do not use motto seals unless writing to a member
of your own family, or to an intimate friend. For common service, (and
particularly for letters of business,) a plain seal, with simply your
initials, is best.
For a note always use a very small seal. In addressing one of your own
family, it is not necessary to follow scrupulously all these
observances. In writing to persons decidedly your inferiors in station,
avoid the probability of mortifying them by sending mean, ill-looking
notes.
Remember also (what, strange to say, some people calling themselves
ladies seem not to know) that a note commenced in the first person must
continue in the first person all through. The same when it begins in the
third person. We have heard of invitations to a party being worded
thus:—
Mrs. Welford’s compliments to Mrs. Marley, and requests the pleasure
of her company on Thursday evening.
Yours sincerely,
E. WELFORD.
Notes of invitation should always designate both the day of the week and
that of the month. If that of _the month only_ is specified, one figure
may perhaps be mistaken for another; for instance, the 13th may look
like the 18th, or the 25th like the 26th. We know instances where, from
this cause, some of the guests did not come till the night _after_ the
party.
There are some very sensible people who, in their invitations, tell
frankly what is to be expected, and if they really ask but _a few_
friends, they at once give the names of those friends, so that you may
know whom you are to see. If you are to meet no more than can sit round
the tea-table, they signify the same. If they expect twenty, thirty, or
forty persons, they say so—and do not leave you in doubt whether to
dress for something very like a party, or for a mere family
tea-drinking.
If it is a decided music-party, by all means specify the same, that
those who have no enjoyment of what is considered fashionable music, may
stay away.
Always reply to a note of invitation the day after you have received it.
To a note on business send an answer the same day. After accepting an
invitation, should any thing occur to prevent your going, send a second
note in due time.
Do not take offence at a friend because she does not invite you every
time she has company. Her regard for you may be as warm as ever, but it
is probably inconvenient for her to have more than a certain number at a
time. Believe that the omission is no evidence of neglect, or of a
desire to offend you; but rest assured that you are to be invited on
other occasions. If you are _not_, then indeed you may take it as a hint
that she is no longer desirous of continuing the acquaintance. Be
dignified enough not to call her to account; but cease visiting her,
without taking her to task and bringing on a quarrel. But if you _must_
quarrel, let it not be in writing. A paper war is always carried too
far, and produces bitterness of feeling which is seldom entirely
eradicated, even after apologies have been made and accepted. Still,
when an offence has been given in writing, the atonement should be made
in writing also.
Much time is wasted (particularly by young ladies) in writing and
answering such epistles as are termed “letters of friendship,”—meaning
long documents (frequently with crossed lines) filled with regrets at
absence, asseverations of eternal affection, modest deprecations of your
humble self, and enthusiastic glorifyings of your exalted correspondent;
or else wonderments at both of you being so much alike, and so very
congenial; and anticipations of rapture at meeting again, and
lamentations at the slow progress of time, till the extatic hour of
re-union shall arrive—the _postscript_ usually containing some
confidential allusion to a lover, (either real or supposed,) and perhaps
a kind enquiry about a real or supposed lover of your friend’s.
Now such letters as these are of no manner of use but to foster a
sickly, morbid feeling, (very often a fictitious one,) and to encourage
nonsense, and destroy all relish for such true friendship as is good and
wholesome.
A still worse species of voluminous female correspondence is that which
turns _entirely_ upon love, or rather on what are called “beaux;” or
entirely on hate—for instance, hatred of step-mothers. This topic is
considered the more _piquant_ from its impropriety, and from its being
carried on in secret.
Then there are young ladies born with the organ of letter-writing
amazingly developed, and increased by perpetual practice, who can
scarcely become acquainted with a gentleman possessing brains, without
volunteering a correspondence with him. And then ensues a long
epistolary dialogue about nothing, or at least nothing worth reading or
remembering; trenching closely on gallantry, but still not quite _that_;
affected flippancy on the part of the lady; and unaffected impertinence
on that of the gentleman, “which serves her right”—alternating with
pretended poutings on her side, and half or whole-laughing apologies on
his. Sometimes there are attempts at moralizing, or criticising, or
sentimentalizing—but nothing is ever elicited that, to a third person,
can afford the least amusement or improvement, or excite the least
interest. Yet, strange to say, gentlemen have been inveigled into this
sort of correspondence, even by ladies who have made a business of
afterward selling the letters for publication, and making money out of
them. And such epistles have actually been printed. We do not suppose
they have been read. The public is very stubborn in refusing to read
what neither amuses, interests, or improves—even when a publisher is
actually so weak as to print such things.
No young lady ever engages in a correspondence with a gentleman that is
neither her relative or her betrothed, without eventually lessening
herself in his eyes. Of this she may rest assured. With some men, it is
even dangerous for a lady to write a note on the commonest subject. He
may show the superscription, or the signature, or both, to his idle
companions, and make insinuations much to her disadvantage, which his
comrades will be sure to circulate and exaggerate.
Above all, let no lady correspond with a married man, unless she is
obliged to consult him on business; and from that plain, straight path
let her not diverge. Even if the wife sees and reads every letter, she
will, in all probability, feel a touch of jealousy, (or more than a
touch,) if she finds that they excite interest in her husband, or give
him pleasure. This will inevitably be the case if the married lady is
inferior in intellect to the single one, and has a lurking consciousness
that she is so.
Having hinted what the correspondence of young ladies ought _not_ to be,
we will try to convey some idea of what it ought. Let us premise that
there is no danger of _any_ errors in grammar or spelling, and but few
faults of punctuation, and that the fair writers are aware that a
sentence should always conclude with a period or full stop, to be
followed by a capital letter beginning the next sentence; and that a new
paragraph should be allotted to every change of subject, provided that
there is room on the sheet of paper. And still, it is well to have
always at hand a dictionary and a grammar, in case of unaccountable
lapses of memory. However, persons who have read much, and read to
advantage, generally find themselves at no loss in orthography, grammar,
and punctuation. To spell badly is disgraceful in a lady or gentleman,
and it looks as if they had quitted reading as soon as they quitted
school.
To write a legible and handsome hand is an accomplishment not
sufficiently valued. And yet of what importance it is! We are always
vexed when we hear people of talent making a sort of boast of the
illegibility of their writing, and relating anecdotes of the difficulty
with which it has been read, and the mistakes made by its decipherers.
There are persons who affect bad writing, and boast of it, because the
worst signatures extant are those of Shakspeare, Bonaparte, and Byron.
These men were great in spite of their autographs, not because of them.
The caliph Haroun Alraschid, who was well imbued with Arabic learning,
sent an elegantly written letter to Charlemagne, with a splendid cover
and seals; not being aware that the European emperor’s signature was
made by dipping his thumb into the ink and giving a smear—sealing with
the hilt of his dagger.
The “wording” of your letter should be as much like conversation as
possible, containing (in a condensed form) just what you would be most
likely to talk about if you saw your friend. A letter is of no use
unless it conveys some information, excites some interest, or affords
some improvement. It may be handsomely written, correct in spelling,
punctuation, and grammar, and yet stiff and formal in style—affectedly
didactic, and therefore tiresome—or mawkishly sentimental, and therefore
foolish. It may be refined, or high-flown in words, but flat and barren
in ideas, containing nothing that a correspondent cares to know.
Read over each page of your letter, as you finish it, to see that there
are no errors. If you find any, correct them carefully. In writing a
familiar letter, a very common fault is tautology, or a too frequent
repetition of the same word—for instance, “Yesterday I received a letter
from sister Mary, which was the first letter I have received from sister
since she left.” The sentence should be, “Yesterday I received a letter
from my sister Mary, the first since she left us.”
Unless you are writing to one of your own family, put always the pronoun
“_my_” before the word “sister.” Say also—“my father,” “my mother,” and
not “father,” “mother,” as if they were also the parents of your
correspondent.
To end the sentence with the word “left,” (for departed,) is awkward and
unsatisfactory—for instance, “It is two days since he left.” Left what?
It is one of the absurd innovations that have crept in among us of late
years, and are supposed to be fashionable. Another is the ridiculous way
of omitting the possessive S in words ending with that letter; for
instance, “Sims’ Hotel” instead of “Sims’s Hotel”—“Jenkins’ Bakery” for
“Jenkins’s Bakery.” Would any one, in talking, say they had stayed at
Sims’ Hotel, or that they bought their bread at Jenkins’ Bakery. This is
ungrammatical, as it obliterates the possessive case, and is therefore
indefinite; and moreover, it looks and sounds awkwardly.
Many persons who think themselves good grammarians put on their cards
“The Misses Brown,”—“The Misses Smith.” Those who _really_ are so, write
“The Miss Browns”—“The Miss Smiths”—the plural being always on the
substantive, and never on the adjective. Would we say “the whites glove”
instead of “the white gloves”—or the “blues ribbon” for the “blue
ribbons.” Does any lady in talking say, “The two Misses Brown called to
see me?”
It is also wrong to say “two _spoons_ful,” instead of two _spoon_fuls.
Thus, “two spoonsful of milk” seems to imply two separate spoons with
milk in each; while “two spoonfuls of milk” gives the true idea—one
spoon twice filled.
Avoid in writing, as in talking, all words that do not express the true
meaning. We are sorry to say that sometimes even among educated people,
when attempting smartness or wit, we find a sort of conventional slang
that has, in truth, a strong tinge of vulgarity, being the wilful
substitution of bad words or bad phrases for good ones. When we find
them issuing from the lips or the pen of a _lady_, we fear she is
unfortunate in a reprobate husband, or brother, from whom she must have
learnt them. Yet even reprobates dislike to hear their wives and sisters
talking coarsely.
Unless you know that your correspondent is well versed in French,
refrain from interlarding your letters with Gallic words or phrases.
Do not introduce long quotations from poetry. Three or four lines of
verse are sufficient. One line, or two, are better still. Write them
rather smaller than your usual hand, and leave a space at the beginning
and end; marking their commencement and termination with inverted
commas, thus “ ”.
One of our young relatives when seven or eight years old, tried her hand
at story-writing. In finishing the history of a naughty girl, much
addicted to falsehood, the terminating sentence ran thus:—
“Arabella did not cure herself of this fault; but when she grew up, and
became an authoress, she never marked her quotations.”
If your letter is longer than can be comprised in one sheet, number the
pages, placing the number near the upper corner. If engaged in a regular
correspondence on business or other things, or in writing from a foreign
country to your family at home, number not only the pages, but the
letter itself, putting that figure in the centre at the top of the first
page. Thus, if your friend, having received No. 10, finds the next
letter that comes to hand is No. 12, she will know that No. 11 is
missing, and will tell you so in her reply. Keep a memorandum of the
letters you have sent, that you may know how to number the next. Before
commencing a long letter, it is well to put down on a slip of paper, a
list of the subjects you intend to write on.
Unless to persons living in the same house, do not inclose one letter in
another. And even then, it is not always safe to do so. Let each letter
be transmitted on its own account, by mail, with its own full direction,
and its own post-office stamp. We know an instance where the peace of a
family was entirely ruined by one of its members suppressing enclosed
letters. Confide to no one the delivery of an important letter intended
for another person. It is better to trust to the mail, and send a
duplicate by the next post.
To break the seal of a letter directed to another person is punishable
by law. To read _secretly_ the letter of another is morally as
felonious. A woman who would act thus meanly is worse than those who
apply their eyes or ears to key-holes, or door-cracks, or who listen
under windows, or look down from attics upon their neighbours; or who,
in a dusky parlour, before the lamps are lighted, ensconce themselves in
a corner, and give no note of their presence while listening to a
conversation not intended for them to hear.
We do not conceive that, unless he authorizes her to do so, (which he
had best not,) a wife is justifiable in opening her husband’s letters,
or he in reading hers. Neither wife nor husband has any right to entrust
to the other the secrets of their friends; and letters may contain such
secrets. Unless under extraordinary circumstances, parents should not
consider themselves privileged to inspect the correspondence of grown-up
children. Brothers and sisters always take care that their epistles
shall not be unceremoniously opened by each other. In short, a letter is
the property of the person to whom it is addressed, and nobody has a
right to read it without permission.
If you are shown an autograph signature at the bottom of a letter, be
satisfied to look at _that only_; and do not open out, and read the
whole—unless desired.
Some years ago, in one of our most popular magazines, were several pages
containing fac-simile signatures of a number of distinguished literary
women—chiefly English. We saw an original letter, from a lady, who
complained that some mischievous person had taken _her_ magazine out of
the post-office before it reached her, and shamefully _scribbled women’s
names_ in it, disfiguring it so as to render it unfit for binding;
therefore she desired the publisher to send her a clean copy in place of
it.
In putting up packets to send away, either tie them round and across,
with red tape, (sealing them also where the tape crosses,) or seal them
without any tape. If the paper is strong, the wax good, and the contents
of the parcel not too heavy, sealing will in most cases be sufficient.
Twine or cord may cut the paper, and therefore is best omitted. Never
put up a parcel in newspaper. It looks mean and disrespectful, and will
soil the articles inside.
Keep yourself provided with different sorts and sizes of wrapping-paper.
A large packet requires more than one seal; the seals rather larger than
for a letter.
Put up newspapers, for transmission, in thin whitish or brownish paper,
pasting the cover, and leaving one end open. Newspaper-stamps cost but
one cent, and are indispensable to the transmission of the paper.
Avoid giving letters of introduction to people whose acquaintance cannot
possibly afford any pleasure or advantage to those whose civilities are
desired for them, or who have not leisure to attend to strangers.
Artists, authors, and all other persons to whom “time is money,” and
whose income stops whenever their hands and eyes are unemployed, are
peculiarly annoyed by the frequency of introductory letters, brought by
people with whom they can feel no congeniality, and whom they never
would have sought for. Among the children of genius, but few are in a
situation to entertain strangers _handsomely_, as it is called, which
means, _expensively_. Many are kept always in straitened circumstances,
from the incessant demands on their time and attention. And in numerous
instances, letters are asked and given with no better motive than the
gratification of idle curiosity.
We advise all persons obtaining an introductory letter to a painter, to
ascertain, before presenting it, what branch of the art he professes. We
have been asked whether a certain artist (one of the most distinguished
in London) painted “figures, flowers, or landscapes.” Also, no one
should presume to request an introduction to an authoress, if they are
ignorant whether she writes prose or verse. Not that they are expected
to talk to her, immediately, on literary subjects. Far from it; but if
they know nothing of her works, they deserve no letter. In America,
books, or at least newspapers, are accessible to all who can read.
Bores are peculiarly addicted to asking letters of introduction, in
accordance with their system of “bestowing their tediousness” upon as
many people as possible. We pity the kind friends from whom these
missives are required, and who have not courage to refuse, or address
enough to excuse themselves plausibly from complying.
We have known instances of stupid, vulgar persons, on preparing to visit
another city, obtaining letters to families of the really highest class,
and receiving from them the usual civilities, which they knew not how to
appreciate.
On the other hand, how pleasant it is, by means of an introductory
letter, to bring together two kindred spirits, whose personal
intercourse must inevitably produce mutual satisfaction, who are glad to
know each other, glad to meet frequently, and grateful to the friend who
has made them acquainted.
Letters of introduction should not be sealed. To do so is rude, and
mean. If you wish to write on the same day to the same person, take
another sheet, write as long an epistle as you please, seal it, and send
it _by mail_.
It is best to deliver an introductory letter in person, as the lady or
gentleman whose civilities have been requested in your behalf, may thus
be spared the trouble of calling at your lodgings, with the risk of not
finding you at home. This is very likely to happen, if you _send_
instead of taking it yourself. If you _do_ send it, enclose a card with
your residence. Also, it is more respectful to go yourself, than to
expect them to come to you.
As soon as you are shown into the parlour, send up the letter, and wait
till the receiver comes to you.
When a letter is brought to you by a private hand, the usual ceremony is
to defer reading it till the bringer has departed, unless he desires you
to read it at once, which he will, if it is evidently a short letter. If
a long one, request him to excuse you a moment while you look at the
beginning, to see if your correspondent is well.
On farewell cards, it is usual to write with a pencil the letters “t. t.
l.,” “to take leave”—or “p. p. c.,” “pour prendre congé.” A lady
complained to us that an acquaintance of hers, about to leave town, had
left a card for her with “p. d. a.” upon it. Not understanding the
meaning of these letters, she had applied to a friend for explanation,
who told her they meant “poor dear adieu.” “Now,” continued she—“I
cannot understand why a mere acquaintance should be so familiar as to
call me ‘poor dear;’ why am I a poor dear to her?” We relieved her by
explaining that “pour dire adieu” was French for “to bid adieu.”
To conclude—let nothing induce you to give a letter of introduction to
any person whose moral character is disreputable.
CHAPTER XIV.
PRESENTS.
Having accepted a present, it is your duty, and ought to be your
pleasure, to let the giver see that you make use of it as intended, and
that it is not thrown away upon you. If it is an article of dress, or of
personal decoration, take occasion, on the first _suitable_ opportunity,
to wear it in presence of the giver. If an ornament for the
centre-table, or the mantel-piece, place it there. If a book, do not
delay reading it. Afterward, speak of it to her as favourably as you
can. If of fruit or flowers, refer to them the next time you see her.
In all cases, when a gift is sent to you, return a note of thanks; or at
least a verbal message to that effect.
Never enquire of the giver what was the price of her gift, or where she
bought it. To do so is considered exceedingly rude.
When an article is presented to you for a specified purpose, it is your
duty to use it for _that_ purpose, and for no other, according to the
wish of the donor. It is mean and dishonourable to give away a present;
at least without first obtaining permission from the original giver. You
have no right to be liberal or generous at the expense of another, or to
accept a gift with a secret determination to bestow it _yourself_ on
somebody else. If it is an article that you do not want, that you
possess already, or that you cannot use for yourself, it is best to say
so candidly, at once; expressing your thanks for the offer, and
requesting your friend to keep it for some other person to whom it will
be advantageous. It is fit that the purchaser of the gift should have
the pleasure of doing a kindness with her own hand, and eliciting the
gratitude of one whom she knows herself. It is paltry in you to deprive
her of this pleasure, by first accepting a present, and then secretly
giving it away as from yourself.
There are instances of women whose circumstances did not allow them to
indulge often in delicacies, that on a present of early fruit, or some
other nice thing being sent to them by a kind friend, have
ostentatiously transferred the gift to a wealthy neighbour, with a view
of having it supposed that they had bought it themselves, and that to
_them_ such things were no rarities. This is contemptible—but it is
sometimes done.
Making a valuable present to a rich person is in most cases, a work of
supererogation; unless the gift is of something rare or _unique_, which
cannot be purchased, and which may be seen and used to more advantage at
the house of your friend than while in your own possession. But to give
an expensive article of dress, jewellery, or furniture to one whose
means of buying such things are quite equal (if not superior) to your
own, is an absurdity; though not a very uncommon one, as society is now
constituted. Such gifts elicit no real gratitude, for in all
probability, they may not suit the pampered taste of those to whom fine
things are no novelties. Or they may be regarded (however unjustly) as
baits or nets to catch, in return, something of still greater cost.
There are persons, who, believing that presents are generally made with
some mercenary view, and being unwilling themselves to receive favours,
or incur obligations, make a point of repaying them as soon as possible,
by a gift of something equivalent. This at once implies that they
suspect the motive. If sincere in her friendship, the donor of the first
present will feel hurt at being directly paid for it, and consider that
she has been treated rudely, and unjustly. On the other hand, if
compensation _was_ secretly desired, and really expected, she will be
disappointed at receiving nothing in return. Therefore, we repeat, that
among persons who can conveniently provide themselves with whatever they
may desire, the bestowal of presents is generally a most unthankful
business. If you are in opulent circumstances, it is best to limit your
generosity to such friends only as do not abound in the gifts of
fortune, and whose situation denies them the means of indulging their
tastes. By them such acts of kindness will be duly appreciated, and
gratefully remembered; and the article presented will have a double
value, if it is to them a novelty.
Gratitude is a very pleasant sensation, both for those who feel and to
those who excite it. No one who confers a favour can say _with truth_,
that “they want no thanks.” They always do.
We know not why, when a young lady of fortune is going to be married,
her friends should all be expected to present her with bridal gifts. It
is a custom that sometimes bears heavily on those whose condition allows
them but little to spare. And from that little it may be very hard for
them to squeeze out enough to purchase some superfluous ornament, or
some bauble for a centre-table, when it is already glittering with the
gifts of the opulent;—gifts lavished on one who is really in no need of
such things; and whose marriage confers no benefit on any one but
herself. Why should she be rewarded for gratifying her own inclination
in marrying the man of her choice? Now that it is fashionable to display
all the wedding-gifts arranged in due form on tables, and labelled with
the names of the donors, the seeming necessity of giving something
expensive, or at least elegant, has become more onerous than ever. For
instance, poor Miss Cassin can barely afford a simple brooch that costs
about five dollars; but she strains the utmost capacity of her slender
purse to buy one at ten dollars, that it may not disgrace the brilliant
assemblage of jewellery that glitters on the bridal table of her wealthy
friend Miss Denham. And after all, she finds that her modest little
trinket looks really contemptible beside the diamond pin given by Mrs.
Farley the millionaire. After all, she sees no one notice it, and hears
no one say that it is even neat and pretty. To be sure, the bride, when
it was sent with a note on the preceding day, did vouchsafe a polite
answer. But then, if poor Miss C. does not make a wedding present to
rich Miss D., it might be supposed that Miss C. cannot afford it.
Neither she can. And her making the effort elicits perhaps some
satirical remarks, that would be very mortifying to Miss Cassin if she
heard them.
We repeat, that we cannot exactly perceive why, when the union of a
couple of lovers, in many cases, adds to the happiness, honour, and
glory of the married pair alone, their friends should think it a duty to
levy on themselves these contributions; so often inconvenient to the
givers, and not much cared for by the receivers.
When the young couple are not abounding in what are called “the goods of
this world,” the case is altered; and it may then be an act of real
kindness for the opulent friends of the bride to present her with any
handsome article of dress, or of furniture, that they think will be
acceptable. What we contend is, that on a marriage in a wealthy family,
the making of presents should be confined to the immediate relatives of
the lady, and only to such of _them_ as can well afford it.
Much of the money wasted in making ostentatious gifts to brides whose
fathers have already given them a splendid outfit, might be far better
employed, in assisting to purchase the _trousseaus_ and the furniture of
deserving young women in humble life, on their marriage with respectable
tradesmen or mechanics. How many ladies of fortune have it in their
power to do this—yet how seldom it is done!
At christenings, it is fortunately the sponsors only that are expected
to make gifts to the infant. Therefore, invite no persons as sponsors,
who cannot well afford this expense; unless you are sufficiently
intimate to request them, privately, not to comply with the custom;
being unwilling that they should cause themselves inconvenience by doing
so.
The presentation of Christmas and New-Year’s gifts is often a severe tax
on persons with whom money is not plenty. It would be well if it were
the universal custom to expect and receive no presents from any but the
rich.
In making gifts to children, choose for them only such things as will
afford them somewhat of lasting amusement. For boys, kites, tops, balls,
marbles, wheelbarrows, carts, gardening utensils, and carpenter’s tools,
&c. Showy toys, that are merely to look at, and from which they can
derive no enjoyment but in breaking them to pieces, are not worth
buying. Little girls delight in little tea-sets, and dinner-sets, in
which they can “make feasts,” miniature kitchen-utensils, to play at
cooking, washing, &c.; and dolls so dressed that all the clothes can be
taken off and put on at pleasure. They soon grow tired of a doll whose
glittering habiliments are sewed fast upon her. A wax doll in elegant
attire is too precarious and expensive a plaything to make them happy;
as they are always afraid of injuring her. We knew a little girl for
whom a magnificent wax doll, splendidly dressed, was brought from
France; and for an hour she was highly delighted. But next morning she
was found still more happy in carrying about her favourite baby, a
sofa-pillow, with an old shawl pinned round it for a frock; feeling
perfect freedom to toss it about as she pleased. Children like their
doll-babies to be very substantial, and rather heavy than light. A
large, well-made _rag_-doll is for a small child far better than any
other,—occasionally putting a clean new face upon it.
We have seen country children perfectly satisfied with a doll that was
nothing but a hard ear of Indian corn, arrayed in a coarse towel pinned
round it. A little farm-house boy, of three years old, made a pet of a
large squash, which he dressed in a pocket-handkerchief, and called
Phebe Ann. We heard him say, as he passed his hand over its lumpy neck,
“Poor Phebe Ann! what hives she has!”
To an intelligent child, no gifts are so valuable as entertaining
books—provided they really _are_ entertaining. Children are generally
wise enough to prefer an amusing book in a plain cover, to a dull one
shining with gold. When children are able to read fluently, they lose
much of their desire for mere picture-books. If the cuts are badly
executed, and give ugly, disagreeable ideas of the characters in the
stories, they only trouble and annoy the little readers, instead of
pleasing them. Some of the most popular juvenile books have no pictures
inside, and no gilding outside. Bad engravings, (beside uselessly
enhancing the price,) spoil the taste of the children. We highly
recommend to the publishers of juvenile books to omit the cuts entirely,
if they cannot afford very good ones. Many children have better judgment
in these things than their parents suppose; and some of them more than
the parents themselves.
Children have less enjoyment than is supposed in being taken to shops to
choose gifts for themselves, or even in laying out their own money. It
is always a long time before they can decide on what to buy, and as soon
as they have fixed upon one thing, they immediately see something they
like better. And often, after getting home, they are dissatisfied with
their choice, and sorry they bought it. Also, they frequently wear out
the patience of the shopkeepers; being desirous of seeing every thing,
and pondering so long before they can determine on buying any thing.
It is every way better to go to the shops without them, buy what you
think proper, and then give them an agreeable surprise by the
presentation.
Young ladies should be careful how they accept presents from gentlemen.
No truly modest and dignified woman will incur such obligations. And no
gentleman who really respects her will offer her any thing more than a
bouquet, a book, one or two autographs of distinguished persons, or a
few relics or mementos of memorable places—things that derive their
chief value from associations. But to present a young lady with articles
of jewellery, or of dress, or with a costly ornament for the
centre-table, (unless she is his affianced wife,) ought to be regarded
as an offence, rather than a compliment, excusable only in a man sadly
ignorant of the refinements of society. And if he is so, she should set
him right, and civilly, but firmly, refuse to be his debtor.
Yet, we are sorry to say, that there are ladies so rapacious, and so
mean, that they are not ashamed to give broad hints to gentlemen,
(particularly those gentlemen who are either very young or very old,)
regarding certain beautiful card-cases, bracelets, essence-bottles, &c.
which they have seen and admired,—even going so far as to fall in love
with elegant shawls, scarfs, splendid fans, and embroidered
handkerchiefs. And their admiration is so violent, and so reiterated,
that the gentleman knows not how to resist; he therefore puts them in
possession of a gift far too costly for any woman of delicacy to accept.
In such cases, the father or mother of the young lady should oblige her
to return the present. This has been done.
There are ladies who keep themselves supplied with certain articles of
finery, (for instance, white kid gloves,) by laying ridiculous wagers
with gentlemen, knowing that, whether winning or losing, the gentleman,
out of gallantry, always pays. No lady should ever lay wagers, even with
one of her own sex. It is foolish and unfeminine—and no man likes her
any the better for indulging in the practice.
Some young ladies, who profess a sort of daughterly regard for certain
wealthy old gentlemen, are so kind as to knit purses or work slippers
for them, or some other nick-nacks, (provided always that the “dear old
man” has a character for generosity,) for they know that he will reward
them by a handsome present of some bijou of real value. And yet they may
be assured that the kind old gentleman (whom “they mind no more than if
he was their pa”) sees through the whole plan, knows why the purse was
knit, or the slippers worked, and esteems the kind young lady
accordingly.
Another, and highly reprehensible way of extorting a gift, is to have
what is called a philopena with a gentleman. This very silly joke is
when a young lady, in cracking almonds, chances to find two kernels in
one shell; she shares them with a beau; which ever first calls out
“_philopena_,” on their next meeting, is entitled to receive a present
from the other; and she is to remind him of it till he remembers to
comply. So much nonsense is often talked on the occasion, that it seems
to expand into something of importance; and the gentleman thinks he can
do no less, than purchase for the lady something very elegant, or
valuable; particularly if he has heard her tell of the munificence of
other beaux in their philopenas.
There is great want of delicacy and self-respect in philopenaism, and no
lady who has a proper sense of her dignity _as a lady_ will engage in
anything of the sort.
In presenting a dress to a friend whose circumstances are not so
affluent as your own, and who you know will gladly receive it, select
one of excellent quality, and of a colour that you think she will like.
She will feel mortified, if you give her one that is low-priced, flimsy,
and of an unbecoming tint. Get an ample quantity, so as to allow a piece
to be cut off and laid by for a new body and sleeves, when necessary.
And to make the gift complete, buy linen for the body-lining; stiff,
glazed muslin for the facings; buttons, sewing-silk, and whatever else
may be wanted. This will save her the cost of these things.
When you give a dress to a poor woman, it is far better to buy for her a
substantial new one, than to bestow on her an old thin gown of your own.
The poor have little leisure to sew for themselves; and second-hand fine
clothes last them but a very short time before they are fit only for the
rag-bag.
If you are going to have a party, and among your very _intimate_ friends
is one whose circumstances will not permit her to incur the expense of
buying a handsome new dress for the occasion, and if she has no choice
but to stay away, or to appear in a costume very inferior to that of the
other ladies, you may (if you can well afford it) obviate this
difficulty by presenting her with a proper dress-pattern, and other
accessories. This may be managed anonymously, but it will be better to
do it with her knowledge. It will be a very gratifying mark of your
friendship; and she ought to consider it as such, and not refuse it from
a feeling of false pride. Of course, it will be kept a secret from all
but yourselves. In the overflow of gratitude _she_ may speak of it to
others, but for _you_ to mention it would be ungenerous and indelicate
in the extreme. We are glad to say that ladies of fortune often make
gifts of party-dresses to their less-favoured friends.
In sending a present, always pay in advance the expense of transmitting
it, so that it may cost nothing at all to the receiver. You may send by
the Mail a package of any size, weighing not more than four pounds,
paying the postage yourself at the office from whence it goes. It will
then be delivered at the door of your friend, without further charge.
CHAPTER XV.
CONVERSATION.
Conversation is the verbal interchange of thoughts and feelings. To form
a _perfect_ conversationist, many qualifications are requisite. There
must be knowledge of the world, knowledge of books, and a facility of
imparting that knowledge; together with originality, memory, an
intuitive perception of what is best to say, and best to omit, good
taste, good temper, and good manners. An agreeable and instructive
talker has the faculty of going “from gay to grave, from lively to
serene,” without any apparent effort; neither skimming so slightly over
a variety of topics as to leave no impression of any, or dwelling so
long upon one subject as to weary the attention of the hearers. Persons
labouring under a monomania, such as absorbs their whole mind into one
prevailing idea, are never pleasant or impressive talkers. They defeat
their own purpose by recurring to it perpetually, and rendering it a
perpetual fatigue. A good talker should cultivate a temperance in
talking; so as not to talk too much, to the exclusion of other good
talkers. Conversation is dialogue, not monologue. It was said of Madame
de Stael that she did not converse, but delivered orations.
To be a perfect conversationist, a good voice is indispensable—a voice
that is clear, distinct, and silver-toned. If you find that you have a
habit of speaking too low, “reform it altogether.” It is a bad one; and
will render your talk unintelligible.
Few things are more delightful than for one intelligent and well-stored
mind to find itself in company with a kindred spirit—each understanding
the other, catching every idea, and comprehending every allusion. Such
persons will become as intimate in half an hour, as if they had been
personally acquainted for years.
On the other hand, the pleasure of society is much lessened by the habit
in which many persons indulge, of placing themselves always in the
opposition, controverting every opinion, and doubting every fact. They
talk to you as a lawyer examines a witness at the bar; trying to catch
you in some discrepancy that will invalidate your testimony; fixing
their scrutinizing eyes upon your face “as if they would look you
through,” and scarcely permitting you to say, “It is a fine day,”
without making you prove your words. Such people are never popular.
Nobody likes perpetual contradiction, especially when the subject of
argument is of little or no consequence. In young people this dogmatic
practice is generally based upon vanity and impertinence. In the old it
is prompted by pride and selfishness. We doubt if in the present day the
talk and manners of Johnson would have been tolerated in really good
society.
Unless he first refers to it himself, never talk to a gentleman
concerning his profession; at least do not question him about it. For
instance, you must not expect a physician to tell you how his patients
are affected, or to confide to you any particulars of their maladies.
These are subjects that he will discuss only with their relatives, or
their nurses. It is also very improper to ask a lawyer about his
clients, or the cases in which he is employed. A clergyman does not like
always to be talking about the church. A merchant, when away from his
counting-house, has no wish to engage in business-talk with ladies; and
a mechanic is ever willing “to leave the shop behind him.” Every
American is to be supposed capable of conversing on miscellaneous
subjects; and he considers it no compliment to be treated as if he knew
nothing but what the Scotch call his “bread-winner.” Still, there are
some few individuals who like to talk of their bread-winner. If you
perceive this disposition, indulge them, and listen attentively. You
will learn something useful, and worth remembering.
Women who have begun the world in humble life, and have been
necessitated to give most of their attention to household affairs, are
generally very shy in talking of housewifery, after their husbands have
become rich, and are living in style, as it is called. Therefore, do not
annoy them by questions on domestic economy. But converse as if they had
been ladies always.
Lord Erskine, having lived a bachelor to an advanced age, finally
married his cook, by way of securing her services, as she had frequently
threatened to leave him. After she became Lady Erskine she lost all
knowledge of cookery, and it was a mortal affront to hint the
possibility of her knowing how any sort of eatable should be prepared
for the table.
Never remind any one of the time when their situation was less genteel,
or less affluent than at present, or tell them that you remember their
living in a small house, or in a remote street. If they have not moral
courage to talk of such things themselves, it is rude in you to make any
allusion to them.
On the other hand, if invited to a fashionable house, and to meet
fashionable company, it is not the time or place for you to set forth
the comparative obscurity of your own origin, by way of showing that you
are not proud. If _you_ are not proud, it is most likely that your
entertainers may be, and they will not be pleased at your
ultra-magnanimity in thus lowering yourself before their aristocratic
guests. These communications should be reserved for _tête-à-têtes_ with
old or familiar friends, who have no more pride than yourself.
When listening to a circumstance that is stated to have actually
occurred to the relater, even if it strikes you as being very
extraordinary, and not in conformity to your own experience, it is rude
to reply, “Such a thing never happened to _me_.” It is rude because it
seems to imply a doubt of the narrator’s veracity; and it is foolish,
because its not having happened to _you_ is no proof that it could not
have happened to any body else. Slowness in belief is sometimes an
evidence of ignorance, rather than of knowledge. People who have read
but little, travelled but little, and seen but little of the world out
of their own immediate circle, and whose intellect is too obtuse to
desire any new accession to their own small stock of ideas, are apt to
think that nothing can be true unless it has fallen under their own
limited experience. Also, they may be so circumstanced that nothing in
the least out of the common way is likely to disturb the still water of
their pond-like existence.
A certain English nobleman always listens incredulously when he hears
any person descanting on the inconveniences of travelling on the
continent, and relating instances of bad accommodations and bad fare;
uncomfortable vehicles, and uncomfortable inns; the short beds and
narrow sheets of Germany; the slow and lumbering diligence-riding of
France; the garlicky stews of Spain with a feline foundation; the little
vine-twig fires in the chilly winters of Northern Italy; and various
other ills which the flesh of travellers is heir to;—the duke always
saying, “Now really _I_ never experienced any of these discomforts, much
as I have traversed the continent. None of these inconveniences ever
come in my way.” And how should they, when, being a man of enormous
wealth, he always travels with a cavalcade of carriages; a retinue of
servants; a wagon-load of bedding and other furniture; a cook, with
cooking-utensils, and lots of luxurious eatables to be cooked at
stopping-places—his body-coach (as it is called) being a horse-drawn
palace. What inconveniences can possibly happen to _him_?
When you hear a gentleman speak in praise of a lady whom you do not
think deserving of his commendations, you will gain nothing by
attempting to undeceive him; particularly if she is handsome. Your
dissenting from his opinion he will, in all probability, impute to envy,
or ill-nature; and therefore the only impression you can make will be
against yourself.
Even if you have reason to dislike the lady, recollect that few are
without some good points both of person and character. And it will be
much better for you to pass over her faults in silence, and agree with
him in commending what is really commendable about her. What he would,
perhaps, believe implicitly if told to him by a man, he would attribute
entirely to jealousy, or to a love of detraction if related by a woman.
Above all, if a gentleman descants on the beauty of a lady, and in your
own mind you do not coincide with his opinion, refrain, on your part,
from criticizing invidiously her face and figure, and do not say that
“though her complexion may be fine, her features are not regular;” that
“her nose is too small,” or “her eyes too large,” or “her mouth too
wide.” Still less disclose to him the secret of her wearing false hair,
artificial teeth, or tinging her cheeks with rouge. If she is a bold,
forward woman, he will find that out as soon as yourself, and sooner
too,—and you may be sure that though he may amuse himself by talking and
flirting with her, he in reality regards her as she deserves.
If a foreigner chances, in your presence, to make an unfavourable remark
upon some custom or habit peculiar to your country, do not immediately
take fire and resent it; for, perhaps, upon reflection, you may find
that he is right, or nearly so. All countries have their national
character, and no character is perfect, whether that of a nation or an
individual. If you know that the stranger has imbibed an erroneous
impression, you may calmly, and in a few words, endeavour to convince
him of it. But if he shows an unwillingness to be convinced, and tells
you that what he has said he heard from good authority; or that, before
he came to America, “his mind was made up,” it will be worse than
useless for you to continue the argument. Therefore change the subject,
or turn and address your conversation to some one else.
Lady Morgan’s Duchess of Belmont very properly checks O’Donnell for his
ultra-nationality, and advises him not to be always running a tilt with
every Englishman he talks to, continually seeming as if ready with the
war-cry of “St. Patrick for Ireland, against St. George for England.”
Dr. Johnson was speaking of Scotland with his usual severity, when a
Caledonian who was present, started up, and called out, “Sir, _I_ was
born in Scotland.” “Very well, sir,” said the cynic calmly, “I do not
see why so small a circumstance should make any change in the national
character.”
English strangers complain (and with reason) of the American practice of
imposing on their credulity, by giving them false and exaggerated
accounts of certain things peculiar to this country, and telling them,
as truths, stories that are absolute impossibilities; the amusement
being to see how the John Bulls swallow these absurdities. Even General
Washington diverted himself by mystifying Weld the English traveller,
who complained to him at Mount Vernon of musquitoes so large and fierce
that they bit through his cloth coat. “Those are nothing,” said
Washington, “to musquitoes I have met with, that bite through a thick
leather boot.” Weld expressed his astonishment, (as well he might;) and,
when he “put out a book,” inserted the story of the boot-piercing
insects, which he said _must_ be true, as he had it from no less a
person than General Washington.
It is a work of supererogation to furnish falsehoods for British
travellers. They can manufacture them fast enough. Also, it is
ungenerous thus to sport with their ignorance, and betray them into
ridiculous caricatures, which they present to the English world in good
faith. We hope these tricks are not played upon any of the best class of
European travel-writers.
When in Europe, (in England particularly,) be not over sensitive as to
remarks that may be made on your own country; and do not expect every
one around you to keep perpetually in mind that you are an American; nor
require that they should guard every word, and keep a constant check on
their conversation, lest they should chance to offend your republican
feelings. The English, as they become better acquainted with America,
regard us with more favour, and are fast getting rid of their old
prejudices, and opening their eyes as to the advantages to be derived
from cultivating our friendship instead of provoking our enmity. They
have, at last, all learnt that our language is theirs, and they no
longer compliment newly-arrived Americans on speaking English “quite
well.” It is not many years since two young ladies from one of our
Western States, being at a party at a very fashionable mansion in
London, were requested by the lady of the house to talk a little
American; several of her guests being desirous of hearing a specimen of
that language. One of the young ladies mischievously giving a hint to
the other, they commenced a conversation in what school-girls call
_gibberish_; and the listeners, when they had finished, gave various
opinions on the American tongue, some pronouncing it very soft, and
rather musical; others could not help saying candidly that they found it
rather harsh. But all agreed that it resembled no language they had
heard before.
There is no doubt that by the masses, better English is spoken in
America than in England.
However an Englishman or an Englishwoman may boast of their intimacy
with “the nobility and gentry,” there is one infallible rule by which
the falsehood of these pretensions may be detected. And that is in the
misuse of the letter H, putting it where it should not be, and omitting
it where it should. This unaccountable practice prevails, more or less,
in all parts of England, but is unknown in Scotland and Ireland. It is
never found but among the middle and lower classes, and by polished and
well-educated people is as much laughed at in England as it is with us.
A relative of ours being in a stationer’s shop in St. Paul’s Church
Yard, (the street surrounding the cathedral,) heard the stationer call
his boy, and tell him to “go and take the babby out, and give him a
_hairing_—the babby having had no _hair_ for a week.” We have heard an
Englishman talk of “taking an _ouse_ that should have an _ot_ water
pipe, and a _hoven_.” The same man asked a young lady “if she had _eels_
on her boots.” We heard an Englishwoman tell a servant to “bring the
_arth_ brush, and sweep up the _hashes_.” Another assured us that “the
American ladies were quite _hignorant_ of _hetiquette_.”
We have actually seen a ridiculous bill sent seriously by a Yorkshireman
who kept a livery-stable in Philadelphia. The items were, _verbatim_—
D. C.
anosafada 2 50
takinonimome 0 37
No reader can possibly guess this—so we will explain that the first
line, in which all the words run into one, signifies “An orse af a
day,”—or “A horse half a day.” The second line means “takin on im
ome,”—or “Taking of him home.”
English travellers are justly severe on the tobacco-chewing and
spitting, that though exploded in the best society, is still too
prevalent among the million. All American ladies can speak feelingly on
this subject, for they suffer from it in various ways. First, the
sickening disgust without which they cannot witness the act of
expectoration performed before their faces. Next, the danger of
tobacco-saliva falling on their dresses in the street, or while
travelling in steamers and rail-cars. Then the necessity of walking
through the abomination when leaving those conveyances; treading in it
with their shoes; and wiping it up with the hems of their gowns. We know
an instance of the crown of a lady’s white-silk bonnet being bespattered
with tobacco-juice, by a man spitting out of a window in one of the New
York hotels. A lady on the second seat of a box at the Chestnut-street
theatre, found, when she went home, the back of her pelisse entirely
spoilt, by some man behind not having succeeded in trying to spit past
her—or perhaps he did not try. Why should ladies endure all this, that
men may indulge in a vulgar and deleterious practice, pernicious to
their own health, and which they cannot acquire without going through a
seasoning of disgust and nausea?
It is very unmannerly when a person begins to relate a circumstance or
an anecdote, to stop them short by saying, “I have heard it before.”
Still worse, to say you do not wish to hear it at all. There are people
who set themselves against listening to any thing that can possibly
excite melancholy or painful feelings; and profess to hear nothing that
may give them a sad or unpleasant sensation. Those who have so much
tenderness for themselves, have usually but little tenderness for
others. It is impossible to go through the world with perpetual sunshine
over head, and unfading flowers under foot. Clouds will gather in the
brightest sky, and weeds choke up the fairest primroses and violets. And
we should all endeavour to prepare ourselves for these changes, by
listening with sympathy to the manner in which they have affected
others.
No person of good feelings, good manners, or true refinement, will
entertain their friends with minute descriptions of sickening horrors,
such as barbarous executions, revolting punishments, or inhuman
cruelties perpetrated on animals. We have never heard an officer dilate
on the dreadful spectacle of a battle-field; a scene of which no
description can ever present an adequate idea; and which no painter has
ever exhibited in all its shocking and disgusting details. Physicians do
not talk of the dissecting-room.
Unless you are speaking to a physician, and are interested in a patient
he is attending, refrain in conversation from entering into the
particulars of revolting diseases, such as scrofula, ulcers, cutaneous
afflictions, &c. and discuss no terrible operations—especially at table.
There are women who seem to delight in dwelling on such disagreeable
topics.
If you are attending the sick-bed of a friend, and are called down to a
visiter, speak of her illness with delicacy, and do not disclose all the
unpleasant circumstances connected with it; things which it would grieve
her to know, may, if once told, be circulated among married women, and
by them repeated to their husbands. In truth, upon most occasions, a
married woman is not a safe confidant. She will assuredly tell every
thing to her husband; and in all probability to his mother and sisters
also—that is, every thing concerning her friends—always, perhaps, under
a strict injunction of secrecy. But a secret entrusted to more than two
or three persons, is soon diffused throughout the whole community.
A man of some humour was to read aloud a deed. He commenced with the
words, “Know one woman by these presents.” He was interrupted, and asked
why he changed the words, which were in the usual form, “Know all men by
these presents.” “Oh!” said he, “’tis very certain that all men will
soon know it, if one woman does.”
Generally speaking, it is injudicious for ladies to attempt arguing with
gentlemen on political or financial topics. All the information that a
woman can possibly acquire or remember on these subjects is so small, in
comparison with the knowledge of men, that the discussion will not
elevate them in the opinion of masculine minds. Still, it is well for a
woman to desire enlightenment, that she may comprehend something of
these discussions, when she hears them from the other sex; therefore let
her listen as understandingly as she can, but refrain from controversy
and argument on such topics as the grasp of a female mind is seldom
capable of seizing or retaining. Men are very intolerant toward women
who are prone to contradiction and contention, when the talk is of
things considered out of their sphere; but very indulgent toward a
modest and attentive listener, who only asks questions for the sake of
information. Men like to dispense knowledge; but few of them believe
that in departments exclusively their own, they can profit much by the
suggestions of women. It is true there are and have been women who have
distinguished themselves greatly in the higher branches of science and
literature, and on whom the light of genius has clearly descended. But
can the annals of woman produce a female Shakspeare, a female Milton, a
Goldsmith, a Campbell, or a Scott? What woman has painted like Raphael
or Titian, or like the best artists of our own times? Mrs. Damer and
Mrs. Siddons had a talent for sculpture; so had Marie of Orleans, the
accomplished daughter of Louis Philippe. Yet what are the productions of
these talented ladies compared to those of Thorwaldsen, Canova,
Chantrey, and the master chisels of the great American statuaries. Women
have been excellent musicians, and have made fortunes by their voices.
But is there among them a Mozart, a Bellini, a Michael Kelly, an Auber,
a Boieldieu? Has a woman made an improvement on steam-engines, or on any
thing connected with the mechanic arts? And yet these things have been
done by men of no early education—by self-taught men. A good tailor
fits, cuts out, and sews better than the most celebrated female
dress-maker. A good man-cook far excels a good woman-cook. Whatever may
be their merits as assistants, women are rarely found who are very
successful at the head of any establishment that requires energy and
originality of mind. Men make fortunes, women make livings. And none
make poorer livings than those who waste their time, and bore their
friends, by writing and lecturing upon the equality of the sexes, and
what they call “Women’s Rights.” How is it that most of these ladies
live separately from their husbands; either despising them, or being
despised by them?
Truth is, the female sex is really as inferior to the male in vigour of
mind as in strength of body; and all arguments to the contrary are
founded on a few anomalies, or based on theories that can never be
reduced to practice. Because there was a Joan of Arc, and an Augustina
of Saragossa, should females expose themselves to all the dangers and
terrors of “the battle-field’s dreadful array.” The women of the
American Revolution effected much good to their country’s cause, without
encroaching upon the province of its brave defenders. They were faithful
and patriotic; but they left the conduct of that tremendous struggle to
abler heads, stronger arms, and sterner hearts.
We envy not the female who can look unmoved upon physical horrors—even
the sickening horrors of the dissecting-room.
Yet women are endowed with power to meet misfortune with fortitude; to
endure pain with patience; to resign themselves calmly, piously, and
hopefully to the last awful change that awaits every created being; to
hazard their own lives for those that they love; to toil cheerfully and
industriously for the support of their orphan children, or their aged
parents; to watch with untiring tenderness the sick-bed of a friend, or
even of a stranger; to limit their own expenses and their own pleasures,
that they may have something to bestow on deserving objects of charity;
to smooth the ruggedness of man; to soften his asperities of temper; to
refine his manners; to make his home a happy one; and to improve the
minds and hearts of their children. All this women can—and do. And this
is their true mission.
In talking with a stranger, if the conversation should turn toward
sectarian religion, enquire to what church he belongs; and then mention
your own church. This, among people of good sense and good manners, and
we may add of true piety, will preclude all danger of remarks being made
on either side which may be painful to either party. Happily we live in
a land of universal toleration, where all religions are equal in the
sight of the law and the government; and where no text is more powerful
and more universally received than the wise and incontrovertible
words—“By their fruits ye shall know them.” He that acts well is a good
man, and a religious man, at whatever altar he may worship. He that acts
ill is a bad man, and has no true sense of religion; no matter how
punctual his attendance at church, if of that church he is an unworthy
member. Ostentatious sanctimony may deceive man, but it cannot deceive
God.
On this earth there are many roads to heaven; and each traveller
supposes his own to be the best. But they must all unite in one road at
the last. It is only Omniscience that can decide. And it will then be
found that no sect is excluded because of its faith; or if its members
have acted honestly and conscientiously according to the lights they
had, and molesting no one for believing in the tenets of a different
church. The religion of Jesus, as our Saviour left it to us, was one of
peace and good-will to men, and of unlimited faith in the wisdom and
goodness, and power and majesty of God. It is not for a frail human
being to place limits to his mercy, and say what church is the only true
one—and the only one that leads to salvation. Let all men keep in mind
this self-evident truth—“He can’t be wrong whose life is in the right;”
and try to act up to the Divine command of “doing unto all men as you
would they should do unto you.”
In America, no religious person of good sense or good manners ever
attempts, in company, to controvert, uncalled for, the sectarian
opinions of another. No clergyman that is a gentleman, (and they all are
so, or ought to be,) ever will make the drawing-room an arena for
religious disputation, or will offer a single deprecatory remark, on
finding the person with whom he is conversing to be a member of a church
essentially differing from his own. And if clergymen have that
forbearance, it is doubly presumptuous for a woman, (perhaps a silly
young girl,) to take such a liberty. “Fools rush in, where angels fear
to tread.”
Nothing is more apt to defeat even a good purpose than the mistaken and
ill-judged zeal of those that are not competent to understand it in all
its bearings.
Truly does the Scripture tell us—“There is a time for all things.” We
know an instance of a young lady at a ball attempting violently to make
a proselyte of a gentleman of twice her age, a man of strong sense and
high moral character, whose church (of which he was a sincere member)
differed materially from her own. After listening awhile, he told her
that a ball-room was no place for such discussions, and made his bow and
left her. At another party we saw a young girl going round among the
matrons, and trying to bring them all to a confession of faith.
Religion is too sacred a subject for discussion at balls and parties.
If you find that an intimate friend has a leaning toward the church in
which you worship, first ascertain truly if her parents have no
objection, and then, but not else, you may be justified in inducing her
to adopt your opinions. Still, in most cases, it is best not to
interfere.
In giving your opinion of a new book, a picture, or a piece of music,
when conversing with a distinguished author, an artist or a musician,
say modestly, that “so it appears to _you_,”—that “it has given _you_
pleasure,” or the contrary. But do not positively and dogmatically
assert that it _is_ good, or that it _is_ bad. The person with whom you
are talking is, in all probability, a far more competent judge than
yourself; therefore, listen attentively, and he may correct your
opinion, and set you right. If he fail to convince you, remain silent,
or change the subject. Vulgar ladies have often a way of saying, when
disputing on the merits of a thing they are incapable of understanding,
“Any how, _I_ like it,” or, “It is quite good enough for _me_.”—Which is
no proof of its being good enough for any body else.
In being asked your candid opinion of a person, be very cautious to whom
you confide that opinion; for if repeated as yours, it may lead to
unpleasant consequences. It is only to an intimate and long-tried friend
that you may safely entrust certain things, which if known, might
produce mischief. Even very intimate friends are not always to be
trusted, and when they have actually told something that they heard
under the injunction of secrecy, they will consider it a sufficient
atonement to say, “Indeed I did not mean to tell it, but somehow it
slipped out;” or, “I really intended to guard the secret faithfully, but
I was so questioned and cross-examined, and bewildered, that I knew not
how to answer without disclosing enough to make them guess the whole. I
am very sorry, and will try to be more cautious in future. But these
slips of the tongue will happen.”
The lady whose confidence has been thus betrayed, should be “more
cautious in future,” and put no farther trust in she of the slippery
tongue—giving her up, entirely, as unworthy of farther friendship.
No circumstances will induce an honourable and right-minded woman to
reveal a secret after promising secrecy. But she should refuse being
made the depository of any extraordinary fact which it may be wrong to
conceal, and wrong to disclose.
We can scarcely find words sufficiently strong to contemn the heinous
practice, so prevalent with low-minded people, of repeating to their
friends whatever they hear to their disadvantage. By low-minded people,
we do not exclusively mean persons of low station. The low-minded are
not always “born in a garret, in a kitchen bred.” Unhappily, there are
(so-called) ladies—ladies of fortune and fashion—who will descend to
meannesses of which the higher ranks ought to be considered incapable,
and who, without compunction, will wantonly lacerate the feelings and
mortify the self-love of those whom they call their friends, telling
them what has been said about them by other friends.
It is sometimes said of a notorious tatler and mischief-maker, that “she
has, notwithstanding, a good heart.” How is this possible, when it is
her pastime to scatter dissension, ill-feeling, and unhappiness among
all whom she calls her friends? She may, perhaps, give alms to beggars,
or belong to sewing circles, or to Bible societies, or be officious in
visiting the sick. All this is meritorious, and it is well if there is
some good in her. But if she violates the charities of social life, and
takes a malignant pleasure in giving pain, and causing trouble—depend on
it, her show of benevolence is mere ostentation, and her acts of
kindness spring not from the heart. She will convert the sewing circle
into a scandal circle. If she is assiduous in visiting her sick friends,
she will turn to the worst account, particulars she may thus acquire of
the sanctities of private life and the humiliating mysteries of the
sick-chamber.
If indeed it can be possible that tatling and mischief-making may be
only (as is sometimes alleged) a bad habit, proceeding from an inability
to govern the tongue—shame on those who have allowed themselves to
acquire such a habit, and who make no effort to subdue it, or who have
encouraged it in their children, and perhaps set them the example.
If you are so unfortunate as to know one of these pests of society, get
rid of her acquaintance as soon as you can. If allowed to go on, she
will infallibly bring you into some difficulty, if not into disgrace. If
she begins by telling you—“I had a hard battle to fight in your behalf
last evening at Mrs. Morley’s. Miss Jewson, whom you believe to be one
of your best friends, said some very severe things about you, which, to
my surprise, were echoed by Miss Warden, who said she knew them to be
true. But I contradicted them warmly. Still they would not be convinced,
and said I must be blind and deaf not to know better. How very hard it
is to distinguish those who love from those who hate us!”
Instead of encouraging the mischief-maker to relate the particulars, and
explain exactly what these severe things really were, the true and
dignified course should be to say as calmly as you can—“I consider no
person my friend, who comes to tell such things as must give me pain and
mortification, and lessen my regard for those I have hitherto esteemed,
and in whose society I have found pleasure. I have always liked Miss
Jewson and Miss Warden, and am sorry to hear that they do not like _me_.
Still, as I am not certain of the exact truth, (being in no place where
I could myself overhear the discussion,) it will make no difference in
my behaviour to those young ladies. And now then we will change the
subject, never to resume it. My true friends do not bring me such
tales.”
By-the-bye, tatlers are always listeners, and are frequently the
atrocious writers of anonymous letters, for which they should be
expelled from society.
Let it be remembered that all who are capable of detailing unpleasant
truths, (such as can answer no purpose but to produce bad feeling, and
undying enmity,) are likewise capable of exaggerating and
misrepresenting facts, that do not seem quite strong enough to excite
much indignation. Tale-bearing always leads to lying. She who begins
with the first of these vices, soon arrives at the second.
Some prelude these atrocious communications with—“I think it my duty to
tell how Miss Jackson and Mrs. Wilson talk about you, for it is right
that you should know your friends from your enemies.” You listen,
believe, and from that time become the enemy of Miss Jackson and Mrs.
Wilson—having too much pride to investigate the truth, and learn what
they really said.
Others will commence with—“I’m a plain-spoken woman, and consider it
right, for your own sake, to inform you that since your return from
Europe, you talk quite too much of your travels.”
You endeavour to defend yourself from this accusation, by replying that
“having seen much when abroad, it is perfectly natural that you should
allude to what you have seen.”
“Oh! but there should be moderation in all things. To be candid—your
friend Mrs. Willet says she is tired of hearing of France and Italy.”
“Why then does she always try to get a seat next to me, and ask me to
tell her something more of those countries?”
“Well, I don’t know. People are so deceitful! There is Mr. Liddard, who
says you bore him to death with talking about England.”
“And yet whenever I do talk about England, I always find him at the back
of my chair. And when I pause, he draws me on to say more.”
“Men are such flatterers! Well, I always tell the plain truth. So it is
best you should know Colonel Greenfield declares that since your return
from Europe you are absolutely intolerable. Excuse my telling you these
things. It is only to show that every body else thinks just as I do.
Mrs. Gray says it is a pity you ever crossed the Atlantic.”
Do not excuse her—but drop her acquaintance as soon as you can, without
coming to a quarrel, in which case you will most probably get the worst.
A plain-spoken woman is always to be dreaded. Her cold-blooded
affectation of frankness is only a pretext to introduce something that
will wound your feelings; and then she will tell you “that Mrs. A. B. C.
and D., and Mr. E. and Mr. F. also, have said a hundred times that you
are a woman of violent temper, and cannot listen to advice without
flying into a passion.”
And she will quietly take her leave, informing you that she is your best
friend, and that all she has said was entirely for your own good, and
that she shall continue to admonish you whenever she sees occasion.
A plain-spoken woman will tell you that you were thought to look very
ill at Mrs. Thomson’s party, your dress being rather in bad taste; that
you ought to give up singing in company, your best friends saying that
your style is now a little old-fashioned; that you should not attempt
talking French to French ladies, as Mr. Leroux and Mr. Dufond say that
your French is not quite Parisian, &c. &c. She will say these things
upon no authority but her own.
When any one prefaces an enquiry by the vulgarism, “If it is a fair
question?” you may be very certain that the question is a most _un_fair
one—that is, a question which it is impertinent to ask, and of no
consequence whatever to the asker.
If a person begins by telling you, “Do not be offended at what I am
going to say,” prepare yourself for something that she knows will
certainly offend you. But as she has given you notice, try to listen,
and answer with calmness.
It is a delicate and thankless business to tell a friend of her faults,
unless you are certain that, in return, you can bear without anger to
hear her point out your own. She will undoubtedly recriminate.
It is not true that an irritable temper cannot be controlled. It can,
and is, whenever the worldly interest of the _enragée_ depends on its
suppression.
Frederick the Great severely reprimanded a Prussian officer for striking
a soldier at a review. “I could not refrain,” said the officer. “I have
a high temper, your majesty, and I cannot avoid showing it, when I see a
man looking sternly at me.” “Yes, you can,” replied the king. “I am
looking sternly at you, and I am giving you ten times as much cause of
offence as that poor soldier—yet you do not strike _me_.”
A naturally irritable disposition can always be tamed down, by a strong
and persevering effort to subdue it, and by determining always to check
it on its first approaches to passion. The indulgence of temper renders
a man (and still more a woman) the dread and shame of the whole house.
It wears out the affection of husbands, wives, and children—of brothers
and sisters; destroys friendship; disturbs the enjoyment of social
intercourse; causes incessant changing of servants; and is a constant
source of misery to that most unhappy of all classes, poor relations.
That a violent temper is generally accompanied by a good heart, is a
popular fallacy. On the contrary, the indulgence of it hardens the
heart. And even if its ebullitions are always succeeded by “compunctious
visitings,” and followed by apologies and expressions of regret, still
it leaves wounds that time cannot always efface, and which we may
forgive, but cannot forget.
Ill-tempered women are very apt to call themselves nervous, and to
attribute their violent fits of passion to a weakness of the nerves.
This is not true. A real nervous affection shows itself “more in sorrow
than in anger,” producing tears, tremor, and head-ache, fears without
adequate cause, and general depression of spirits—the feelings becoming
tender to a fault.
When a woman abandons herself to terrible fits of anger with little or
no cause, and makes herself a frightful spectacle, by turning white with
rage, rolling up her eyes, drawing in her lips, gritting her teeth,
clenching her hands, and stamping her feet, depend on it, she is not of
a nervous, but of a furious temperament. A looking-glass held before
her, to let her see what a shocking object she has made herself, would,
we think, have an excellent effect. We have seen but a few females in
this revolting state, and only three of them were ladies—but we have
heard of many.
When the paroxysm is over, all the atonement she can make is to
apologize humbly, and to pray contritely. If she has really any goodness
of heart, and any true sense of religion, she will do this promptly, and
prove her sincerity by being very kind to those whom she has outraged
and insulted—and whose best course during these fits of fury is to make
no answer, or to leave the room.
As out of nothing, nothing can come, to be a good conversationist, you
must have a well-stored mind, originality of ideas, and a retentive
memory. Without making a lumber-room of your head, and stuffing it with
all manner of useless and unnecessary things not worth retaining, you
should select only such as are useful or ornamental, interesting or
amusing. Your talk must flow as if spontaneously; one subject suggesting
another, none being dwelt upon too long. Anecdotes may be introduced
with much effect. They should be short, and related in such words as
will give them the most point. We have heard the same anecdote told by
two persons. With one it became prosy and tiresome, and the point was
not perceptible from its being smothered in ill-chosen words. With the
other narrator, the anecdote was “all light and spirit; soon told, and
not soon forgotten.” Brevity is the soul of wit, and wit is the soul of
anecdote. And where wit is wanting, humour is an excellent substitute.
Every body likes to laugh, or ought to. Yet there is a time for all
things; and after listening to a serious or interesting incident well
related, it is exceedingly annoying to hear some silly and heartless
girl follow it with a ridiculous remark, intended to be funny—such as
“Quite solemncolly!”—or, “We are all getting into the doldrums.”
You may chance to find yourself in a company where no one is capable of
appreciating the best sort of conversation, and where to be understood,
or indeed to keep them awake, you must talk down to the capacities of
your hearers. You must manage this adroitly, or they may find you out,
and be offended. So, after all, it is, perhaps, safest to go on and
scatter pearls where wax beads would be equally valued. Only in such
society, do not introduce quotations from the poets, especially from
Shakspeare, or your hearers may wonder what queer words you are saying.
Another time, and with congenial companions, you can indulge in “the
feast of reason, and the flow of soul.”
If placed beside a lady so taciturn that no effort on your part can draw
her out, or elicit more than a monosyllable, and that only at long
intervals, you may safely conclude that there is nothing in her, and
leave her to her own dullness, or to be enlivened by the approach of one
of the other sex. That will make her talk.
Few persons are good talkers who are not extensive and miscellaneous
readers. You cannot attentively read the best authors without obtaining
a great command of words, so that you can always, with ease and fluency,
clothe your ideas in appropriate language.
Knowledge is of course the basis of conversation—the root whose deepened
strength and vigour gives life to the tree, multiplicity to its
branches, and beauty to its foliage.
Much that is bad and foolish in women would have no existence if their
minds were less barren. In a waste field, worthless and bitter weeds
will spring up which it is hard to eradicate; while a soil that is
judiciously cultivated produces abundant grain, luxuriant grass, and
beautiful flowers.
There are ladies so exceedingly satisfied with themselves, and so
desirous of being thought the special favourites of Providence, that
they are always desiring to hold out an idea “that pain and sorrow can
come not near them,” and that they enjoy a happy exemption from “all the
ills that flesh is heir to.” They complain of nothing, for they profess
to have nothing to complain of. They feel not the cold of winter, nor
the heat of summer. The temperature is always exactly what _they_ like.
To them the street is never muddy with rain, nor slippery with ice.
Unwholesome food agrees perfectly with _them_. They sleep soundly in bad
beds, or rather no beds are bad. Travelling never fatigues them. Nobody
imposes on them, nobody offends them. Other people may be ill—they are
always in good health and spirits. To them all books are delightful—all
pictures beautiful—all music charming. Other people may have trouble
with their children—_they_ have none. Other people may have bad
servants—_theirs_ are always excellent.
Now if all this were true, the lot of such persons would indeed be
enviable, and we should endeavour to learn by what process such complete
felicity has been attained—and why they see every thing through such a
roseate medium. But it is not true. This is all overweening vanity, and
a desire “to set themselves up above the rest of the world.” We have
always noticed that these over-fortunate, over-happy women have, in
reality, a discontented, care-worn look, resulting from the incessant
painful effort to seem what they are not. And if any body will take the
trouble, it is very easy to catch them in discrepancies and
contradictions. But it is not polite to do so. Therefore let them pass.
As mothers are always on the _qui vive_, (and very naturally,) be
careful what you say of their children. Unless he is a decidedly
handsome man, you may give offence by remarking, “The boy is the very
image of his father.” If the mother is a vain woman, she would much
rather hear that all the children are the very image of herself. Refrain
from praising too much the children of another family, particularly if
the two sets of children are cousins. It is often dangerous to tell a
mother that “little Willy is growing quite handsome.” She will probably
answer, “I had hoped my child was handsome always.” With some mothers it
is especially imprudent to remark that “little Mary looks like her aunt,
or her grandmother.” Again, if you prudently say nothing about the looks
of the little dears, you may be suspected and perhaps accused of taking
no interest in children. Young ladies, when in presence of gentlemen,
are too apt to go on the other extreme, and over-act their parts, in the
excessive fondling and kissing and hugging of children not in the least
engaging, or even good-looking. We cannot believe that any female, not
the mother, can really fall into raptures with a cross, ugly child. But
how pleasant it is to play with and amuse, an intelligent, affectionate,
and good-tempered little thing, to hear its innocent sayings, and to see
the first buddings of its infant mind.
When you are visiting another city, and receiving civilities from some
of its inhabitants, it is an ill requital for their attentions to
disparage their place, and glorify your own. In every town there is
something to praise; and in large cities there is a great deal to amuse,
to interest, and to give pleasure. Yet there are travellers who (like
Smelfungus) are never satisfied with the place they are in—who exclaim
all the time against the east winds of Boston, the sea-air of New York,
the summer heats of Philadelphia, the hilly streets of Baltimore, and
the dusty avenues of Washington. We have heard people from New Orleans
call Philadelphia the hottest city in the Union, and people from Quebec
call it the coldest. If there are two successive days of rain, then poor
Philadelphia is the rainiest of all places. If it snows twice in two
weeks, then it is the snowiest. If a fire breaks out, it is the city of
fires. If there is an Irish fight in Moyamensing, it is the city of
perpetual riots. By-the-bye, after that summer when we really had
several successive riots up-town, and down-town, we saw an English
caricature of the City of Brotherly Love, where the spirit of William
Penn, in hat and wig, was looking down sadly from the clouds at the
rioters, who were all represented as Quakers, in strait, plain clothes,
and broad brims, knocking each other about with sticks and stones,
firing pistols, and slashing with bowie-knives. Alas, poor Quakers! how
guiltless ye were of all this! It is a common belief in England, that of
this sect are _all_ the people of Pennsylvania.
In talking to an elderly lady, it is justly considered very rude to make
any allusion to her age; even if she is unmistakably an old woman, and
acknowledges it herself. For instance, do not say— “This silk of yours
is very suitable for an elderly person”—or—“Will you take this chair?—an
old lady like you will find it very comfortable”—or—“Look, baby—is not
that grandma?”—or—“I told the servant to attend first to you, on account
of your age”—or—“Children, don’t make such a noise—have you no respect
for old people?”
All this we have heard.
CHAPTER XVI.
INCORRECT WORDS.
Every one who sees much of the world must observe with pain and surprise
various unaccountable instances of improper and incorrect words that
sometimes disfigure the phraseology of females who have gone through a
course of fashionable education, and mixed in what is really genteel
society. These instances, it is true, are becoming every day more rare;
but we regret that they should exist at all. Early impressions are hard
to eradicate. Bad habits of speaking are formed in childhood: sometimes
from the society of illiterate parents, but more frequently from that of
nurses and servants; and if not corrected or shaken off in due time,
will cling like burrs to the diction of women who are really ladies in
every thing else. Such women will say “that there,” and “this
here”—“them girls”—“them boys”—“I don’t want no more”—“I didn’t hear
nothing about it”—“I didn’t see nobody there”—“I won’t do so no more.”
And other similar violations of grammar; and grammar is never more
palpably outraged than when two negatives are used for an affirmative.
It is surely shorter and easier to say, “I want no more”—“I heard
nothing about it”—“I saw nobody there”—“I will do so no more.”
Another grammatical error, less glaring, but equally incorrect, is the
too common practice of converting a certainty into an uncertainty by
saying, “I have no doubt but he was there.” As if his being there was
your only doubt. You should say, “I have no doubt of his being there.”
“I have no doubt but that he wrote it,” seems to signify that you do
doubt his writing it, and that you are nearly sure he did not. The
proper phrase is, “I have no doubt of his writing it.” “I do not doubt
but that she knew it long ago,” implies that you do doubt her having
known it. It should be, “I do not doubt her knowing it long ago.” Leave
out _but_, when you talk of doubting.
No word is proper that does not express the true meaning. For instance,
it is not right to call a township a town. A township is a section of
land that may consist entirely of forests and farms, and may not
comprise even a small village or hamlet. A town resembles a city in
being closely built up with streets of adjoining houses. Men cannot go
fishing or hunting in a _town_, though they may in a township. We are
surprised to find this misapplication of the word among some of the most
distinguished of the New England _literati_. Perhaps it explains
Jonathan’s perplexity in one of the old Yankee Doodle songs:
“He said he couldn’t see the town,
There were so many houses.”
We hope it is not necessary to caution our readers against the most
provincial of Yankee provincialisms, such as, “I hadn’t ought,” or “I
shouldn’t ought”—or “It warn’t,” instead of “It was not”—or the
exclamations, “Do tell!” or “I want to know,” ejaculated as a token of
surprise the moment after you have told, and made known. The common
English habit, or rather a habit of the common English, of using
continually the words “you know,” and “you know,” is very tiresome,
particularly when they are talking of something that you cannot possibly
be acquainted with. Check them by saying, “No, I do not know.” They also
make great use of the word “monstrous”—ugly as that word is. Do not
imitate them in saying that you are “monstrous glad,” or “monstrous
sorry,” or “monstrous tired,” or that a young lady is “monstrous
pretty.” We have heard even “monstrous little.”
We advise our New England friends to eschew, both in speaking and
writing, all Yankee phrases that do not convey the exact meaning of the
words. For instance, to “_turn out_ the tea,” instead of to “_pour_ it
out.” There can be no turn given, in this process, to the spout or
handle of the tea-pot. On the contrary, it cannot pour well unless it is
held straight. To “cut the eggs,” instead of to beat them. The motion of
beating eggs does not cut them. “Braiding eggs,” is still worse. But we
believe that this braiding is not the same as cutting. What is it?
Two young officers were travelling in the far West, when they stopped to
take supper at a small road-side tavern, kept by a very rough Yankee
woman. The landlady, in a calico sun-bonnet, and bare feet, stood at the
head of the table to pour out. She enquired of her guests, “if they
chose long sweetening, or short sweetening in their coffee.” The first
officer, supposing that “long sweetening” meant a large portion of that
article, chose it accordingly. What was his dismay when he saw their
hostess dip her finger deep down into an earthen jar of honey that stood
near her, and then stir it (the finger) round in the coffee. His
companion, seeing this, preferred “short sweetening.” Upon which the
woman picked up a large lump of maple sugar that lay in a brown paper on
the floor beside her, and biting off a piece, put it into his cup. Both
the gentlemen dispensed with coffee that evening. This anecdote we heard
from the sister of one of those officers.
“Emptyings” is not a good name for yeast. “Up chamber, up garret, down
cellar,” are all wrong. Why not say, “up in the chamber, up in the
garret, down in the kitchen, down in the cellar?” &c. Why should a
mirthful fit of laughter be called “a gale!” “Last evening we were all
in such a gale!”
Snow and ice are not the same. Therefore a snowball should not be called
an ice-ball, which latter might be a very dangerous missile.
Pincushions are pincushions, and not pin-balls, unless they are of a
globular shape. If in the form of hearts, diamonds, &c., they are not
balls.
When you are greatly fatigued, say so—and not that you are “almost beat
out.” When the Yankees are “beat out,” the English are quite “knocked
up.” The English are “starved with cold”—Americans only starve with
hunger. They may perish with cold; but unless hunger is added, they will
not starve.
It is wrong to say that certain articles of food are healthy or
unhealthy. Wholesome and unwholesome are the right words. A pig may be
healthy or unhealthy while alive; but after he is killed and becomes
pork, he can enjoy no health, and suffer no sickness.
If you have been accustomed to pronounce the word “does” as “doos,” get
rid of the custom as soon as you can. Also, give up saying “pint” for
“point,” “jint” for “joint,” “anint” for “anoint,” &c. Above all, cease
saying “featur, creatur, natur, and raptur.”
In New England it is not uncommon to hear the word “ugly” applied to a
bad temper. We have heard, “He will never do for president, because he
is so ugly.” On our observing that we had always considered the
gentleman in question, as rather a handsome man, it was explained that
he was considered ugly in disposition.
A British traveller, walking one day in a suburb of Boston, saw a woman
out on a door-step whipping a screaming child. “Good woman,” said the
stranger, “why do you whip that boy so severely.” She answered, “I
_will_ whip him, because he is so ugly.” The Englishman walked on; but
put down in his journal that “American mothers are so cruel as to beat
their children, merely because they are not handsome.”
No genteel Bostonian should call Faneuil Hall, “Old Funnel,” or talk of
the “Quinsey market,” instead of Quincy, or speak of “Bacon street,” or
“Bacon Hill.” That place was so called from a beacon, or signal-pole
with a light at the top, and never was particularly celebrated for the
pickling and smoking of pork.
The word “slump,” or “slumped,” has too coarse a sound to be used by a
lady.
When you have exchanged one article for another, say so, and not that
you have “traded it.”
Do not say, “I should admire to read that book,” “I should admire to
hear that song,” “I should admire to see the president.” Substitute, “I
should like to read that book,” “I should like to hear that song,” “I
should like to see the president.”
Using the word “love” instead of “like” is not peculiar to the ladies of
any section of the Union. But they may assure themselves it is wrong to
talk of _loving_ any thing that is eatable. They may _like_ terrapins,
oysters, chicken-salad, or ice-cream; but they need not _love_ terrapins
or oysters, or _love_ chicken-salad.
We remember, in the farce of Modern Antiques, laughing at an awkward
servant-girl bringing in a dish of salad to a supper-table, before the
company had assembled, and, after taking a large bite, turning her
foolish face toward the audience, and saying, “I loves beet-root.”
Even if you are a provincial New-Yorker, give up calling the door-step
or porch by the ancient Dutch name of “stoop,” (stoep,) and do not talk
of going out on the stoop, or sitting in the stoop. When a load of wood
or coal is put down at your door, say not that it is “dumped.” Never
speak of visiting friends that “live to Brooklyn,” or “live to Newark.”
They live _at_ those places, not _to_ them. The word “muss” sounds
badly, when a young lady says, “her scarf is mussed,” or her collar is
“mussed”—or that her bureau drawers are all in a muss. The English
synonyme, “mess,” has _rather_ a better sound. Be it also remembered
that a stool is not a bench. A bench holds several people, a stool but
one.
When you mean that an article of dress (a bonnet or a cap) is neat and
pretty, do not say that it is cunning. An inanimate object cannot be
cunning. To be cunning requires some mind. We are sorry to say that we
have heard females who, when they intend to be witty, talk of taking a
snooze, (which means a nap,) and speak of a comic anecdote as being
“rich,” and of a man in faded clothes as looking “seedy.” We have heard
Philadelphia ladies speak of a “great big” house, or a “great big” ship;
and there are still some who _expect_ what has already come to pass—as,
“I expect it rained somewhere last night”—“I expect she arrived
yesterday”—“I expect he went to Baltimore.” In all these cases the
proper term is “I suppose,” and not “I expect.”
The word “mayhap” (instead of perhaps) is a positive vulgarism. It is of
English origin, but is only used in England by very low people—and by
English writers, never.
We have little tolerance for young ladies, who, having in reality
neither wit nor humour, set up for both, and having nothing of the right
stock to go upon, substitute coarseness and impertinence, (not to say
impudence,) and try to excite laughter, and attract the attention of
gentlemen, by talking slang. Where do they get it? How do they pick it
up? From low newspapers, or from vulgar books? Surely not from low
companions?
We have heard one of these ladies, when her collar chanced to be pinned
awry, say that it was put on drunk—also that her bonnet was drunk,
meaning crooked on her head. When disconcerted, she was “floored.” When
submitting to do a thing unwillingly, “she was brought to the scratch.”
Sometimes “she did things on the sly.” She talked of a certain great
vocalist “singing like a beast.” She believed it very smart and piquant
to use these vile expressions. It is true, when at parties, she always
had half a dozen gentlemen about her; their curiosity being excited as
to what she would say next. And yet she was a woman of many good
qualities; and one who boasted of having always “lived in society.”
We think that gentlemen lose a particle of their respect for young
ladies who allow their names to be abbreviated into such cognomens as
Kate, Madge, Bess, Nell, &c. Surely it is more lady-like to be called
Catharine, Margaret, Eliza, or Ellen. We have heard the beautiful name
Virginia degraded into Jinny; and Harriet called Hatty, or even Hadge.
A very silly practice has been introduced of writing Sally,
Sallie—Fanny, Fannie—Mary, Marie—Abby, Abbie, &c. What would our
grand-parents have thought of Pollie, Mollie, Peggie, Kittie, Nancie?
Suppose young men were to adopt it, and sign themselves, Sammie, Billie,
Dickie, Tommie, &c.!
By-the-bye, unless he is a relation, let no young lady address a
gentleman by his christian name. It is a familiarity which he will not
like.
CHAPTER XVII.
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.
CHAPTER XVIII.
OFFENCES.
If the visits of an acquaintance become less frequent than formerly, the
falling off is not always to be imputed to want of regard for you, or to
having lost all pleasure in your society. The cause may be want of time,
removal to a distance, precarious health, care of children, absence from
town, family troubles, depressed fortunes, and various other
circumstances. Also, with none of these causes, visiting may gradually
and almost insensibly decline, and neither of the parties have the
slightest dislike to each other. If no offence has been intended, none
should be taken; and when you chance to meet, instead of consuming the
time in complaints of estrangement, meet as if your intercourse had
never been interrupted, and you will find it very easy to renew it; and
perhaps on a better footing than before. The renewal should be marked by
a prompt interchange of special invitations—followed by visits.
Unless your rooms are spacious, you cannot have what is called a large
general party. Some of your acquaintances must be omitted, and all that
are left out, are generally offended. Therefore it is not well ever to
have such parties, unless your accommodations are ample. _Squeezes_ are
out of fashion in the best American society. We have heard of parties at
great houses in London, where, after the rooms were crowded to
suffocation, a large portion of the company had to pass the evening on
the stairs; and where coaches, unable to draw up from the immense number
of these vehicles that were in advance, had to remain all night at the
foot of the line, with ladies sitting in them. When morning came, they
had to turn back, and drive home, the carriages being all they saw of
the party.
It is better to give two or three moderate entertainments in the course
of the season, than to crowd your rooms uncomfortably; and even then to
risk giving offence to those who could not be added to the number.
If such offence has been given, try to atone for it by inviting the
offended to dine with you, or to pass an evening, and asking at the same
time a few pleasant people whom you know she likes.
You may have a very intimate and sincere friend who does not find it
convenient to send for you every time she has company. If, in all things
else, she treats you with uniform kindness, and gives reason to believe
that she has a true affection for you, pass over these occasional
omissions of invitation, and do not call her to account, or treat her
coolly when you see her. True friendship ought not depend upon
_parties_. It should be based on a better foundation.
If no answer is returned to a note of invitation, be not hasty in
supposing that the omission has sprung from rudeness or neglect. Trust
that your friend is neither rude nor neglectful; and believe that the
answer was duly sent, but that it miscarried from some accidental
circumstance.
A friend may inadvertently say something that you do not like to hear,
or may make a remark that is not pleasant to you. Unless it is prefaced
with a _previous_ apology; or unless she desires you “not to be offended
at what she is going to say;” or unless she informs you that “she
considers it her duty always to speak her mind,”—you have no right to
suppose the offence premeditated, and therefore you should restrain your
temper, and calmly endeavour to convince her that she is wrong; or else
acknowledge that she is right. She ought then to apologize for what she
said, and you should immediately change the subject, and never again
refer to it. In this way quarrels may be prevented, and ill-feeling
crushed in the bud. When what is called “a coolness” takes place between
friends, the longer it goes on the more difficult it is to get over. But
“better late than never.” If, on consideration, you find that _you_ were
in the wrong, let no false pride, no stubborn perverseness prevent you
from making that acknowledgement. If your friend, on her part, first
shows a desire for reconciliation, meet her half-way. A vindictive
disposition is a bad one, and revenge is a most unchristian feeling.
People of sense (unless the injury is very great, and of lasting
consequences) are easy to appease, because they generally have good
feelings, and know how to listen to reason. Dr. Watts most truly says—
“The wise will let their anger cool,
At least before ’tis night;
But in the bosom of a fool,
It burns till morning light.”
Should you chance to be thrown into the presence of persons who have
proved themselves your enemies, and with whom you can have no
intercourse, say nothing either _to_ them or _at_ them; and do not place
yourself in their vicinity. To talk _at_ a person, is mean and vulgar.
Those who do it are fully capable of writing anonymous and insulting
letters; and they often do so. High-minded people will always be
scrupulously careful in observing toward those with whom they are at
variance, all the ceremonies usual in polite society—particularly the
conventional civilities of the table.
If you have, unfortunately, had a quarrel with a friend, talk of it to
others as little as possible; lest in the heat of anger, you may give an
exaggerated account, and represent your adversary in darker colours than
she deserves. You may be very sure these misrepresentations will reach
her ear, and be greatly magnified by every successive relater. In this
way a trifle may be swelled into importance; a mole-hill may become a
mountain; and a slight affront may embitter the feelings of future
years. “Blessed are the peacemakers,”—and a mutual friend, if
well-disposed toward both opponents, generally has it in her power to
effect a reconciliation, by repeating, kindly, any favourable remark she
may chance to have heard one of the offended parties make on the other.
In truth, we wish it were the universal custom for all people to tell
other people whatever good they may hear of them—instead of the wicked
and hateful practice of telling only the bad. Make it a rule to repeat
to your friends all the pleasant remarks that (as far as you know) are
made on them, and you will increase their happiness, and your own
popularity. We do not mean that you should flatter them, by reciting
compliments that are not true; but truth is not flattery, and there is
no reason why agreeable truths should not always be told. There would
then be far more kind feeling in the world. Few persons are so bad as
not to have some good in them. Let them hear of the good. Few are so
ugly as not to have about them something commendable even externally, if
it is only a becoming dress. Let them hear of that dress. Flattery is
praise without foundation. To tell a person with heavy, dull gray eyes,
that her eyes are of a bright and beautiful blue; to talk of her golden
locks to a woman with positive red hair of the tint called carroty; to
tell a long, thin, stoop-shouldered girl, that she possesses the light
and airy form of a sylph; or a short-necked, fat one that her figure has
the dignity of an empress; to assure a faded matron that she looks like
a young girl; to fall into raptures on listening to bad music, or when
viewing a drawing that depicts nothing intelligible; or praising album
poetry that has neither “rhyme nor reason,”—all this is gross flattery,
which the object (if she has any sense) will easily detect, and suspect
that you are trying experiments on her vanity and credulity.
Still where agreeable qualities _really_ exist, it is not amiss to
allude to them delicately. It will give pleasure without compromising
veracity.
When any thing complimentary is said to you, acknowledge it by a bow and
smile, but do not attempt an answer unless you can say something in
return that will be equally sincere and pleasant. Most probably you
cannot; therefore look gratified, and bow your thanks, but remain
silent. Few ladies are distinguished, like the Harriet Byron of
Grandison, “for a very pretty manner of returning a compliment.” Do not
reject the compliment by pretending to prove that you do not deserve it.
But if it is a piece of bare-faced flattery, the best answer is to look
gravely, and say or do nothing.
Should you chance accidentally to overhear a remark to your
disadvantage, consider first if there may not be some truth in it. If
you feel that there is, turn it to profitable account, and try to
improve, or to get rid of the fault, whatever it may be. But never show
resentment at any thing not intended for your ear, unless it is
something of such vital importance as to render it necessary that you
should come forward in self-defence. These instances, however, are of
rare occurrence.
If you are so placed that you can hear the conversation of persons who
are talking about you, it is very mean to sit there and listen.
Immediately remove to a distance far enough to be out of hearing.
It is a proverb that listeners seldom hear any good of themselves. It
were a pity if they should. Eavesdropping or listening beneath an open
window, the crack of a door, or through a key-hole, are as dishonourable
as to pick pockets.
CHAPTER XIX.
OBLIGATIONS TO GENTLEMEN.
In her intercourse with gentlemen, a lady should take care to avoid all
pecuniary obligations. The civility that a gentleman conventionally owes
to a lady is a sufficient tax—more she has no right to expect, or to
accept. A man of good sense, and of true politeness, will not be
offended at her unwillingness to become his debtor. On the contrary, he
will respect her delicacy, and approve her dignity; and consent at once
to her becoming her own banker on all occasions where expense is to be
incurred. This is the custom in Europe; and is, in most cases, a very
good one.
When invited to join a party to a place of amusement, let her consent,
if she wishes; but let her state expressly that it is only on condition
of being permitted to pay for her own ticket. If she steadily adheres to
this custom, it will soon be understood that such is always her
commendable practice; and she can then, with perfect propriety, at any
time, ask for a seat among friends who intend going. To this
accommodation she could not invite herself, if in the continual habit of
visiting public places at the expense of others. The best time for a
lady to pay for herself is to put her money into the hand of the
gentleman _previous_ to their departure for the place of performance. He
will not be so rude as to refuse to take it. If he does refuse, she
should evince her resentment by going with him no more.
Young men of limited means are frequently drawn into expenses they can
ill afford, by being acquainted with young ladies who profess a passion
for equestrian exercises—a most inconvenient passion for one who has not
a horse of her own, or who lives in a family where no horses are kept.
If her gentleman is obliged to hire, not only a horse for himself, but
also one for the lady, let her have sufficient consideration _not_ to
propose to him that they should take rides together—and let her not draw
him into an invitation, by her dwelling excessively on the delight of
horseback excursions. In cities, these rides are expensive luxuries to
those who keep no horses. Few city ladies ride well, (even if they have
been at riding-school,) for want of daily practice out of doors. They
are not exactly at ease on the horse, and always seem somewhat afraid of
him; at least till they are “off the stones,” and out in the open
country. While in the streets, the rare sight of a lady on horseback
attracts much attention, and a crowd of boys gathers round to see her
mount her steed, or alight from it. This to a young lady of delicacy is
very embarrassing, or ought to be.
In the country, the case is totally different. There, “practice makes
perfect.” The ladies, being accustomed to riding their own horses from
childhood, acquire the art without any trouble, have no fear, feel
perfectly at home in the saddle, and therefore sit gracefully, and
manage their steeds easily. And as every country gentleman has a
riding-horse of his own, he can accompany a lady without the expense of
hiring.
Lay no wagers with gentlemen, and have no philopenas with them. In
betting with a lady, it is customary for the gentleman to pay whether he
wins or loses. What then does the wager imply, but a rapacious and mean
desire on the part of the lady to “get a present out of him”—as such
ladies would express it. No delicate and refined female ever bets at
all. It is a very coarse and masculine way of asserting an opinion or a
belief; and always reminds gentlemen of the race-course, or the
gaming-table.
We disapprove of ladies going to charity-fairs in the evening, when they
require a male escort—and when that escort is likely to be drawn into
paying exorbitant prices for gifts to his fair companion—particularly,
if induced to do so from the fear of appearing mean, or of being thought
wanting in benevolence. In the evening, the young ladies who “have
tables,” are apt to become especially importunate in urging the sale of
their goods—and appear to great disadvantage as imitation-shop-keepers,
exhibiting a boldness in teazing that no real saleswoman would presume
to display. Then the crowd is generally great; the squeezing and pushing
very uncomfortable; and most of the company far from genteel. Ladies who
_are_ ladies, should only visit fancy-fairs in the day-time, when they
can go without gentlemen; none of whom take much pleasure in this mode
of raising money; or rather of levying contributions for special
purposes. There are other ways that are more lady-like, more effective,
less fatiguing, and more satisfactory to all concerned—and far less
detrimental to the interests of the numerous poor women who get their
living by their needles, or by their ingenuity in making ornamental
nick-nacks for sale, and who ask but a fair price for them. Dress-makers
are frequently induced to keep back portions of silk, the rightful
property of their customers, who may afterwards be put to great
inconvenience for want of them, when the dress is to be altered or
repaired. And these pieces are given to the ladies who go about begging
for materials to make pincushions, &c. for fancy-fairs. This is
dishonest. Let them go to a store and buy small pieces of silk, velvet,
ribbon, and whatever they want for these purposes.
If you have occasion to send by a gentleman a package to a
transportation-office, give him along with it the money to pay for its
carriage. If you borrow change, (even one cent,) return it to him
punctually. He ought to take it as a thing of course, without any
comment. When you commission him to buy any thing for you, if you know
the price, give the money beforehand; otherwise, pay it as soon as he
brings the article. Do all such things promptly, lest they should escape
your memory if delayed.
When visiting a fancy-store with a gentleman, refrain from excessively
admiring any handsome or expensive article you may chance to see there.
Above all, express no wish that you were able to buy it, and no regret
that you cannot, lest he should construe these extreme tokens of
admiration into hints that you wish him to buy it for you. To allow him
to do so, would on your part be very mean and indelicate, and on his
very foolish.
It ought to be a very painful office (and is a very improper one) for
young ladies to go round soliciting from gentlemen subscriptions for
charitable purposes. Still it is done. Subscription-papers should only
be offered by persons somewhat advanced in life, and of undoubted
respectability—and then the application should be made, exclusively, to
those whose circumstances are known to be affluent. People who have not
much to give, generally prefer giving that little to objects of charity
within their own knowledge. Who is there that does not know a poor
family? And without actually giving money, (which in too many instances,
is immediately appropriated by a drunken husband to supply himself with
more drink,) much may be done to procure a few comforts for a miserable
wife and children.
When you ask money for a charitable purpose, do so only when quite alone
with the person to whom you apply. It is taking an undue advantage to
make the request in presence of others—particularly if, as before
observed, there is not wealth as well as benevolence. There is a time
for all things—and young ladies are deservedly unpopular when, even in
the cause of charity, they seize every opportunity to levy contributions
on the purses of gentlemen.
It is wrong to trouble gentlemen with commissions that may cause them
inconvenience or expense. In the awful days of bandboxes, unfortunate
young men riding in stages were sometimes required to convey one of
these cumbrous receptacles of bonnets and caps a day’s journey upon
their knees, to save it from rain outside. Sometimes an immense package
containing an immense shawl. We knew an officer who, by particular
desire, actually carried _three_ great shawls several hundred miles;
each bundle to be delivered at a different house in “the City of
Magnificent Distances.” But as to officers, “sufferance is the badge of
all their tribe.” Now these shawls should all have been sent by the
public line, even if the transportation _did_ cost something.
We repeat, that a lady cannot be too particular in placing herself under
obligations to a gentleman. She should scrupulously avoid it in every
little thing that may involve him in expense on her account. And he will
respect her the more.
CHAPTER XX.
CONDUCT TO LITERARY WOMEN.
On being introduced to a female writer, it is rude to say that “you have
long had a great _curiosity_ to see her.” Curiosity is not the right
word. It is polite to imply that, “knowing her well by reputation, you
are glad to have an opportunity of making her personal acquaintance.”
Say nothing concerning her writings, unless you chance to be alone with
her. Take care not to speak of her first work as being her best; for if
it is really so, she must have been retrograding from that time; a
falling off that she will not like to hear of. Perhaps the truth may be,
that you yourself have read only her _first_ work; and if you tell her
this, she will not be much flattered in supposing that you, in reality,
cared so little for her first book, as to feel no desire to try a
second. But she will be really gratified to learn that you are
acquainted with most of her writings; and, in the course of
conversation, it will be very pleasant for her to hear you quote
something from them.
If she is a writer of fiction, and you presume to take the liberty of
criticising her works, (as you may at her own request, or if you are
her intimate friend,) refrain from urging that certain incidents are
_improbable_, and certain characters _unnatural_. Of this it is
impossible for you to judge, unless you could have lived the very same
life that she has; known exactly the same people; and inhabited with
her the same places. Remember always that “Truth is stranger than
fiction.” The French say—“Le vrai n’est pas toujours le plus
vraisemblable,”—which, literally translated, means that “Truth is not
always the most truthlike.” Also, be it understood that a woman of
quick perception and good memory can see and recollect a thousand
things which would never be noticed or remembered by an obtuse or
shallow, common-place capacity. And the intellect of a good writer of
fiction is always brightened by the practice of taking in and laying
up ideas with a view toward turning them to professional use. Trust in
her, and believe that she _has_ painted from life. A sensible
fictionist always does. At the same time, be not too curious in
questioning her as to the identity of her personages and the reality
of her incidents. You have no right to expect that she will expose to
you, or to any one else, her process of arranging the story, bringing
out the characters, or concocting the dialogue. The machinery of her
work, and the hidden springs which set it in motion, she naturally
wishes to keep to herself; and she cannot be expected to lay them bare
for the gratification of impertinent curiosity, letting them become
subjects of idle gossip. Be satisfied to take her works as you find
them. If you like them, read and commend them; but do not ask her to
conduct you behind the scenes, and show you the mysteries of her
art—for writing is really an art, and one that cannot be acquired, to
any advantage, without a certain amount of talent, taste, and
cultivation, to say nothing of genius. What right have you to expect
that your literary friend will trust you with “the secrets of her
prison-house,” and put it into your power to betray her confidence by
acquainting the world that a certain popular novelist has informed you
with her own lips (“but it must on no account be mentioned, as the
disclosure would give mortal offence, and create for her hosts of
enemies,”) that by her character of Fanny Gadfly she really means Lucy
Giddings; that Mr. Hardcastle signifies Mr. Stone; that Old Wigmore
was modelled on no less a person than Isaac Baldwin; that Mrs.
Baskings was taken from Mrs. Sunning; and Mrs. Babes from Mrs.
Childers—&c. &c. Also, do not expect her to tell you on what facts her
incidents were founded, and whether there was any truth in them, or if
they were mere invention.
Be not inquisitive as to the length of time consumed in writing this
book or that—or how soon the work now on hand will be finished. It can
scarcely be any concern of yours, and the writer may have reasons for
keeping back the information. Rest assured that whenever a public
announcement of a new book is expedient, it will certainly be made in
print.
There are persons so rude as to question a literary woman (even on a
slight acquaintance) as to the remuneration she receives for her
writings—in plain terms, “How much did you get for that? and how much
are you to have for this? And how much do you make in the course of a
year? And how much a page do you get? And how many pages can you write
in a day?”
To any impertinent questions from a stranger lady concerning the profits
of your pen, reply concisely, that these things are secrets between
yourself and your publishers. If you kindly condescend to answer without
evasion, these polite enquiries, you will probably hear such
exclamations as, “Why, really—you must be coining money. I think I’ll
write books myself! There can’t be a better trade,” &c.
Ignorant people always suppose that popular writers are wonderfully
well-paid—and must be making rapid fortunes—because they neither starve
in garrets, nor wear rags—at least in America.
Never ask one writer what is her _real_ opinion of a cotemporary author.
She may be unwilling to entrust it to you, as she can have no guarantee
that you will not whisper it round till it gets into print. If she
voluntarily expresses her own opinion of another writer, and it _is_
unfavourable, be honourable enough not to repeat it; but guard it
sedulously from betrayal, and avoid mentioning it to any one.
When in company with literary women, make no allusions to “learned
ladies,” or “blue stockings,” or express surprise that they should have
any knowledge of housewifery, or needle-work, or dress; or that they are
able to talk on “common things.” It is rude and foolish, and shows that
you really know nothing about them, either as a class or as individuals.
Never tell an authoress that “you are afraid of her”—or entreat her “not
to put you into a book.” Be assured there is no danger.
An authoress has seldom leisure to entertain morning visiters; so much
of her time being professionally occupied either in writing, or in
reading what will prepare her for writing. She should apprize all her
friends of the hours in which she is usually engaged; and then none who
are really her friends and well-wishers, will encroach upon her
convenience for any purpose of their own; unless under extraordinary
circumstances. To tell her that you were “just passing by,” or “just in
the neighbourhood,” and “just thought you would stop in,” is a very
selfish, or at least a very inconsiderate excuse. Is she to suppose that
you do not consider her conversation worthy of a visit made on purpose?
Recollect that to a woman who gets her living by her pen, “time is
money,” as it is to an artist. Therefore, encroaching on her time is
lessening her income. And yet how often is this done (either heedlessly
or selfishly) by persons professing to be her friends, and who are
habitually in the practice of interrupting her in her writing hours,
which should always be in the morning, if possible. They think it
sufficient to say, like Paul Pry, “I hope I don’t intrude”—knowing all
the time that they _do_, and pretending to believe her when civility
obliges her to tell them they do _not_. Even if the visit is not a long
one, it is still an interruption. In one minute it may break a chain of
ideas which cannot be reunited, dispel thoughts that can never be
recalled, disturb the construction of a sentence, and obliterate a
recollection that will not return. And to all this the literary lady
must submit, because her so-called friend “chanced to be out that
morning shopping”—or “happened to be visiting in that part of the
town”—and therefore has called on _her_ by way of “killing two birds
with one stone.” Very likely, the visiter will say to the unfortunate
visited, “I know it is inconvenient to you to see your friends in the
morning, but I never feel like going out in the afternoon. As soon as
dinner is over I must have my nap; and by the time that is finished, it
is too late for any thing else.”
In consequence of these ill-timed visits, the printer may have to send
in vain for “copy” that is not yet ready; and an article written
expressly for a magazine may arrive too late for the next month, and be
therefore deferred a month later, which may subject her not only to
inconvenience, but to actual pecuniary loss—loss of money. Or, at least,
the interruption may compel her to the painful effort of trying to
finish it even by sitting up late at night, and straining her weary eyes
by lamp-light. Yet this she must endure because it suits an idle and
thoughtless _friend_ to make her a long and inopportune visit. The
children of the pen and the pencil might say to these intruders, like
the frogs in the pond when the boys were pelting them with stones—“This
may be sport to you, but it is death to us.”
If, when admitted into her study, you should find her writing-table in
what appears to you like great confusion, recollect that there is really
no wit in a remark too common on such occasions,—“Why, you look quite
_littery_,”—a poor play on the words _literary_ and _litter_. In all
probability, she knows precisely where to lay her hand upon every paper
on the table: having in reality placed them exactly to suit her
convenience. Though their arrangement may be quite unintelligible to the
uninitiated, there is no doubt method (her own method, at least) in
their apparent disorder. It is not likely she may have time to put her
writing table in nice-looking order every day. To have it done by
servants is out of the question, as _they_ would make “confusion worse
confounded;” being of course unable to comprehend how _such a table_
should be arranged.
If you chance to find an authoress occupied with her needle, express no
astonishment, and refrain from exclaiming, “What! can _you_ sew?” or, “I
never supposed a literary lady could even hem a handkerchief!”
This is a false, and if expressed in words, an insulting idea. A large
number of literary females are excellent needle-women, and good
housewives; and there is no reason why they should not be. The same
vigour of character and activity of intellect which renders a woman a
_good_ writer, will also enable her to acquire with a quickness, almost
intuitive, a competent knowledge of household affairs, and of the art of
needle-work. And she will find, upon making the attempt, that, with a
little time and a little perseverance, she may become as notable a
personage (both in theory and practice) as if she had never read a book,
or written a page.
The Dora of David Copperfield is an admirable illustration of the fact
that a silly, illiterate woman may be the worst of housewives. Dickens
has unquestionably painted this character exactly from life. But that he
always does. He must have known a Dora. And who has not?
If you find your literary friend in deshabille, and she apologizes for
it—(she had best _not_ apologize)—tell her not that “authoresses are
privileged persons, and are never expected to pay any attention to
dress.” Now, literary slatterns are not more frequent than slatterns who
are not literary. It is true that women of enlarged minds, and really
good taste, do not think it necessary to follow closely all the changes
and follies of fashion, and to wear things that are inconvenient,
uncomfortable, and unbecoming, merely because milliners, dress-makers,
&c. have pronounced them “the last new style.”
It is ill-manners to refer in any way to the profession of the person to
whom you are talking, unless that person is an intimate friend, and you
are alone with her; and unless she herself begins the subject. Still
worse, to allude to their profession as if you supposed it rendered them
different from the rest of the world, and marked them with peculiarities
from which other people are exempt.
It is true that authorlings and poetizers are apt to affect
eccentricity. Real authors, and even real poets, (by real we mean good
ones,) have generally a large portion of common sense to balance their
genius, and are therefore seldom guilty of the queernesses unjustly
imputed to the whole fraternity.
When in company with a literary lady with whom you are not on very
confidential terms, it is bad taste to talk to her exclusively of books,
and to endeavour to draw out her opinion of authors with whom she is
personally acquainted—and whom she will, of course, be unwilling to
criticise, (at least in miscellaneous society,) lest her remarks should
be invidiously or imprudently repeated, and even get into print. “Any
thing new in the literary world?” is a question by which some people
always commence conversation with an author. Why should it be supposed
that they always “carry the shop along with them,” or that they take no
interest or pleasure in things not connected with books. On the
contrary, they are glad to be allowed the privilege of unbending like
other people. And a good writer is almost always a good talker, and
fully capable of conversing well on various subjects. Try her.
It was beautifully said of Jane Taylor, the charming author of a popular
and never-tiring little book of “Original Poems for Children,” that “you
only knew that the stream of literature had passed over her mind by the
fertility it left behind it.”
We have witnessed, when two distinguished lady-writers chanced to be at
the same party, an unmannerly disposition to “pit them against each
other”—placing them side by side, or _vis-a-vis_, and saying something
about, “When Greek meets Greek,” &c., and absolutely collecting a circle
round them, to be amused or edified by the expected dialogue. This is
rude and foolish.
It is not treating a talented woman with due consideration, to be active
in introducing to her the silliest and flattest people in the room,
because the said flats have been worked up into a desire of seeing, face
to face, “a live authoress”—though in all probability they have not read
one of her works.
That notorious lion-hunter, the Countess of Cork, was so candid as to
say to certain celebrated writers, “I’ll sit by _you_ because you are
famous.” To a very charming American lady whom she was persuading to
come to her party, she frankly added, “My dear, you really must not
refuse me. Don’t you know you are my decoy-duck.”
There are mothers (called pattern-mothers) who uphold the theory that
every thing in the world must bend to the advantage (real or supposed)
of children, that is, of their own children—and who have continually on
their lips the saying, “a mother’s first duty is to her children.” So it
is, and it is her duty not to render them vain, impertinent, conceited,
and obtrusive, by allowing them to suppose that they must on all
occasions be brought forward; and that their mother’s visiters have
nothing to do but to improve and amuse _them_. Therefore a literary lady
often receives a more than hint from such a mother to talk only on
edifying subjects when the dear little creatures are present; and then
the conversation is required to take a Penny-Magazine tone,
exclusively—the darlings being, most probably, restless and impatient
all the time, the girls sitting uneasily on their chairs and looking
tired, and the boys suddenly bolting out of the room to get back to
their sports. It is true the children will be less impatient if the
visiter will trouble herself to “tell them stories” all the time; but it
is rude to ask her to do so.
When directing a letter to “a woman of letters,” it is not considered
polite to insert the word “Authoress” after her name. And yet we have
seen this done by persons who ought to know better. If you are
unacquainted with the number and street of her residence, direct to the
care of her publisher; whose place you may always find, by referring to
the title-page of one of her last works, and by seeing his
advertisements in the newspapers. The booksellers always know where
their authors are to be found. So do the printers—for their boys convey
the proof-sheets.
Observe that the term “learned lady” is not correctly applied to a
female, unless she has successfully cultivated what is understood to be
the learning of colleges—for instance, the dead languages, &c.
Unfortunately, the term is now seldom used but in derision, and to
denote a woman whose studies have been entirely of the masculine order.
You may speak of a well-informed, well-read, talented, intellectual,
accomplished lady; but call her not _learned_, unless she is well versed
in the Greek and Latin classics, and able to discuss them from their
original language. Even then, spare her the appellation of _learned_, if
gentlemen are present. In the dark ages, when not every lady could read
and write, the few that _were_ entitled to the “benefit of clergy,”
frequently “drank deep in tasting the Pierian spring,” and proceeded to
study the learned languages with great success; for instance, Lady Jane
Grey and Queen Elizabeth.
In desiring the autograph of a literary lady, do not expect her to write
in your album “a piece of poetry.” Be satisfied with her signature only.
There is a spice of meanness in requesting from her, as a gift, any
portion of her stock in trade. As well might you ask Mr. Stewart, or Mr.
Levy, to present you with an embroidered collar, or a pair of gloves.
For the same reason, never request an artist to “draw something” in your
album. It is only amateur poets, and amateur artists, that can afford to
write and draw in albums. Those who make a living by their profession,
have no time to spare for gratuitous performances; and it is as wrong to
ask them, as it is to invite public singers to “favour the company with
a song” at private parties, where they are invited as guests. It is,
however, not unusual for professional musicians to kindly and politely
gratify the company by inviting themselves to sing; saying, “Perhaps you
would like to hear my last song.” And sometimes, if quite “in the vein,”
a real poet, when modestly asked for merely his signature, will
voluntarily add a few lines of verse. But do not expect it.
There are pretty little books of fine paper, handsomely bound, that are
used for the purpose of containing signature autographs; one on each
page. A lady owning such a book, can send it to any distinguished person
of whose hand-writing she wishes to possess a specimen.
When the name at the bottom of a letter is shown to you as an autograph,
it is rude to take the letter into your own hand, and read the whole, or
even to glance your eye over it. It is not intended that you shall see
any thing but the signature.
We will now address a few words to beginners in the art of writing, with
reference to their intercourse with women of well-established literary
reputation. If these ladies of decided standing in the republic of
letters have sufficient leisure, they will generally be very kind in
assisting with their counsel a young aspirant, who shows any evidence of
talent for the profession. Unluckily, too many novices in the art,
mistake a mere desire to get into print, for that rarest of
gifts—genius. And without genius, there is no possibility of gaining by
the pen, either fame, or fortune.
Long manuscripts are frequently sent for the revisal “at leisure” of a
person who has little or no leisure. Yet in the intervals of toiling for
herself, she is expected to toil for some one else; probably for a
stranger whom she does not know, in whom she can take no interest, and
who has evidently “no writing in her soul.” If, however, the modest
request is kindly complied with, in all probability the corrections will
only give offence, and may perhaps be crossed out before the manuscript
is offered to the publisher, who very likely may reject it for want of
these very corrections. We have known such incidents.
The least talented of the numerous females pretending to authorship, are
generally the most conceited and the most obtrusive. They are frequently
very great annoyances to women “well-up the ladder,” who are expected,
in many instances, not only to revise the manuscript, but immediately to
find a purchaser for it—a purchaser of high rank among publishers—one
who will bring it out handsomely, ensure it an immense circulation, pay
promptly, and pay as much as is given to the standard authors. And
besides being desired to “get it published,” the reviser of the
manuscript will, perhaps, be requested to correct the proofs; that is,
if the literary novice should chance to know what proof-sheets are.
The work thus arrogantly thrust upon the time and attention of a
deservedly-popular writer may be a book of “sweet poetry,” on weak,
worn-out, common-place subjects, done into feeble, halting, ill-rhyming
verses, such as few read, and none remember. Or the aspirant after fame,
may have chosen the easier path of prose, and produced a fiction without
fancy, a novel without novelty, “a thrilling tale” that thrills nobody,
a picture of fashionable life after no fashion that ever existed, or “a
pathetic story of domestic life,” neither pathetic nor domestic.
Yet if a practised and successful author ventures to pronounce an
_unfavourable_ verdict on such productions, because the writer desired
her _candid_ opinion, she will probably light up a flame of resentment,
that may never be extinguished, and make an enemy for life; the
objections being imputed to “sheer envy,” and to a malignant design of
“extinguishing a rising star.”
A sufficient introduction to a publisher is to send him the manuscript,
accompanied by a note requesting his opinion as soon as convenient. If
he approves it, and believes it will be profitable, there is no doubt of
his being willing to print the work. And if he thinks he shall make
nothing by it, it is equally certain that he will decline the offer. It
is too much to expect that he will be so regardless of his own interest
as to publish a book, the sale of which will not remunerate him for the
cost of paper and printing.
Ladies who live in the same house with an authoress, have opportunities
enough of seeing her in the parlour, and at table; therefore they may
dispense with visiting her in her own room. Spare her all interruptions
of applying for the loan of books, paper, pens, ink, &c. Do not expect
that, because she writes, she must necessarily keep a free circulating
library, or a gratuitous stationer’s shop. Supply yourself with all such
conveniences from the regular sources. Buy them, and pay for them,
instead of troubling one who has not time to be troubled. Above all,
refrain from the meanness of asking her to lend you any book written by
herself. If she volunteers the loan, then receive it thankfully; and
take care to return it speedily, and in good condition. It is _her_
interest, and the interest of her publishers, that a large number of
copies shall be _sold_; not lent, or given away. Many persons
erroneously suppose that an author has always on hand an unlimited
number of her own books; or that the publisher will kindly give her as
many as she can want for herself and friends. This is by no means the
case. It is usual, when the first edition comes out, for the publisher
to send the author half a dozen copies of the book, or a dozen, if it is
a small one. After that, if she wants any more, she is expected to buy
them of the bookseller. Therefore, she has none to _give away_, except
to members of her own family, or to friends whose circumstances will not
permit them to expend money in books, and who have an ardent love for
reading without the means of gratifying it. We have known ladies,
possessing diamonds and India shawls, and living in splendid houses, ask
the author for the loan of a cookery-book, with the avowed purpose of
“copying out the best receipts.”
Apropos to cookery-books:—If you have faithfully followed a receipt, and
the result is not quite satisfactory, there is nothing amiss in your
acquainting the writer with that fact, provided it _is_ a fact. On the
contrary, you may do her a kindness, by enabling her to detect an error
in the directions, and to rectify that error in a future edition.
Women often assert that the receipt was not a good one, and that upon
trial it proved a failure, when, on investigation, you will find that,
from false economy, some of the ingredients were left out; or the
relative proportions diminished in quantity—too much of the cheapest
articles being put in, and not enough of the more costly. Or else, that
sufficient time and pains were not bestowed on the mixing and preparing;
or that the thing was not sufficiently cooked.
By-the-bye, remember that a receipt for cookery, is not to be called a
_recipe_. The word _recipe_ belongs to pharmacy, and is only used with
reference to medical prescriptions. The cook uses _receipts_, the
apothecary _recipes_.
Whatever article you may wish to borrow from an inmate of the same
house, apply first to persons whose time is of comparatively small
importance to them, before you disturb and interrupt a literary lady. Do
not trouble her for the loan of umbrellas, over-shoes, hoods, calashes,
&c., or send to her for small change.
We once lived in a house where coal-fires were scarce, and wood-fires
plenty. Our own fire-arrangement was wood in a Franklin stove, and no
other person in the house was the fortunate owner of a pair of bellows.
Liking always to be comfortable, we had bought a pair for ourselves.
Ten times a day we were disturbed by a knock at the door, from a
coloured girl who came “a-borrowing” this implement to revive the fire
of some other room. She called it by a pleasing variety of names—running
through all the vowels. Sometimes she wanted the bellow_sas_; sometimes
the bellow_ses_; or the bellow_sis_, the bellow_sos_, or the
bellow_sus_. These frequent interruptions, with others that were
similar, became a real grievance. We thought it would cost us less to
present the bellows to the house, and buy another pair for ourselves. We
did so—but very soon the first pair was somehow missing, and our own was
again in requisition.
Since that winter we have burnt anthracite, and therefore have no
bellow_sas_ to lend.
CHAPTER XXI.
SUGGESTIONS TO INEXPERIENCED AUTHORS.
There is some economy and much convenience in buying your paper by the
ream, (twenty quires,) having first tried a sample. The surface of the
paper should be smooth, and somewhat glossy; particularly if you write
with metallic pens. That which is soft and spongy, though a little lower
in price, wears out the pen so fast that what is saved in paper is lost
in pens; also, there is no possibility of writing on it with ease and
expedition. You will find it best to use paper ruled in lines. If you
write a large hand, take foolscap; if a small hand, use letter-paper
size. But note-paper is too small, when you are writing for the press.
Before you commence your manuscript, take a quire, and prepare each
sheet by splitting it all down the folded side, with a sharp
paper-cutter, thus dividing it into half-sheets. You can do this better
on a flat table than on the slope of a desk. Keep your left hand
pressing down hard on the quire, while you are cutting it with your
right.
The best paper-cutters are those of real ivory. A handle is of no
advantage to them, but rather the contrary. They should be thin, plain,
and perfectly straight, except being rounded off at the two ends. Ivory
paper-knives of this form are generally used by the book-binders, an
evidence that they are convenient and expeditious. Those of bone or horn
are scarcely worth buying, though but half the price; the edges soon
becoming blunt, and therefore useless. Wooden paper-knives are good for
nothing. Paper-knives of mother of pearl, and other ornamental
substances, are of little utility, being rarely sharp enough, (even when
new,) and in a short time becoming quite dull. Also, they break very
easily. Avoid cutting a sheet of paper, or the leaves of a book, with
scissors; it is comparatively a slow and awkward process; and cannot,
even with great care, be effected as smoothly and evenly as with a
cutter of ivory.
Before you split or divide the sheet, press the paper-knife all along
the fold, so as to flatten the crease, and make it cut evenly and
easily. Having split your whole sheets into leaves or half-sheets, take
each half-sheet separately, and fold over an inch or more all along the
left-hand edge; so as to leave a margin or space for sewing the
manuscript when finished. Do this with the paper-knife. Lay a pile of
these half-sheets beside you when you sit down to write, and take them
as you want them.
Write only on one side of the paper. If written on both sides, it will
cause trouble and inconvenience to the printers, by obliging them to
turn over at the end of every page. This rule, however, may be dispensed
with, when a manuscript is so short that it may be comprised in one
sheet, and is to be transmitted by mail. This may be the more easily
managed, by drawing with a pencil or pen a straight perpendicular line
down the middle of each page, so as to divide it into columns. When it
is finished, enclose it in an envelope, direct, and seal it, and put on
a post-office stamp. If the manuscript occupies two or three sheets, put
two or three stamps side by side. There are large envelopes that will
hold foolscap paper, properly folded.
Do not use _blue_ ink; for if any part of your manuscript should chance
to get wet, there is a risk of the blue ink being effaced or obliterated
by the damp, so as to render the writing illegible; and this has
frequently happened.
Let your writing be large enough, and plain enough to be read with ease,
and the compositor will be less likely to make mistakes. Printers,
though accustomed to read all sorts of writing, are sometimes completely
at a loss in deciphering a very bad hand. There is no excuse for a
person in respectable life persisting in writing illegibly, as it is
never too late to improve. You have only to take lessons of a good
instructor, and apply yourself sedulously to acquiring a new hand, and
you will succeed in doing so.
Do not, in writing for the press, affect the crowquill calligraphy that
is fashionable for album verses and complimentary billets. When your
manuscript is finished, sew the leaves _evenly_ together, with nothing
more than a strong thread; or, if it is very thick, it may be sewed with
a fine twine put into a large needle. A handsome cover, daintily
fastened with a pretty ribbon, is of no account in a printing-office,
where the first thing that is done with a manuscript is to remove the
cover, and cut the leaves loose from the fastening. The printers will
gladly dispense with covers, ribbons, and fairy-like penmanship, in
favour of a plain legible hand, pages regularly numbered, and leaves
written on one side only.
In commencing a manuscript, write the title or caption in large letters,
at some distance from the top of the first page; and if you are not
anonymous, put your name a little below the title. Then begin the
_first_ line of the first paragraph, several inches distant from the
left-hand side, or margin. In this manner commence every paragraph. The
length of the paragraphs may be regulated by the time when you think a
pause longer than that of a period or full stop may be effective; or to
give the reader an opportunity of resting for a minute; or to denote the
commencement of another subject.
In writing a dialogue, begin every separate speech with a capital, and
commence each speech on a new line, and at some distance from the
left-hand margin. Also mark the beginning and end of every speech with
double commas. If the names of the speakers are given at the
_commencement_ of every speech, write those names in _large_ letters,
putting a dot and a dash after them. All these arrangements are the same
in writing as in printing.
If you are, unfortunately, not familiar with the rules of punctuation,
refresh your memory by referring to them in a grammar-book. They must be
strictly observed; otherwise your meaning will be unintelligible. Always
remember that every period or full stop, and every note of
interrogation, or of admiration, must be followed by a capital letter,
beginning the next word. Dashes, particularly in a dialogue, add much to
the effect, if not used too lavishly.
Errors of orthography are rarely committed by any one who presumes to
write for the press. It is scarcely possible for a person who reads much
to spell incorrectly, as the appearance of the printed words becomes
insensibly and indelibly fixed in the mind. Still it may be well to
write with a dictionary on your table, in case you should have any doubt
as to the proper spelling and meaning of a word with which you may not
be very familiar.
Keep also a grammar on your table. Grammatical errors are annoying to
the reader, and disgraceful to the writer, unless it is well known that
she has not had the advantage of an education, even at a common school.
Then she is to be pitied. But it is never too late to study grammar, and
she had best do so before she ventures to write for the public. If she
writes ungrammatically, how must she talk! In a work of fiction it is
shocking to have lords and ladies, or the noble and dignified hero, and
the elegant and refined heroine, conversing in “bad grammar,” because
the author knew no better. Yet such books we have seen. There are,
luckily, not many of them. But there should be none.
Every morning, previous to commencing your task, revise carefully all
that you have written on the preceding day, and correct and alter
whatever you may deem susceptible of improvement. Some authors revise
every page as soon as they have written it. But, unless you are much
pressed for time, it is best to do this next morning, when your
perceptions are fresh and clear. In crossing or blotting out, do it
effectually, so that the original words may not appear through, and
remain still legible. If you find that you have omitted a word, or if
you wish to change one word for another, interline it; inserting the new
word just above the line to which it belongs, and placing this mark Ʌ
below. Lay aside each page as you finish it. Be particular in numbering
every page; and it is best to do this before you begin, placing the
number near the top of the right-hand corner. Let not your lines be too
close, or there will not be space enough for legible interlining.
If the publisher lives in your own town, it will be sufficient to roll
up the manuscript in clean white paper, twisted at each end, and wafered
in the middle. But however short the distance, write on the outside of
the paper the full direction of the publishing office; that, in case of
its being dropped in the street, any person finding it may know exactly
where to take it.
In putting up a large manuscript, in a packet for transmission to a
distant place, use strong nankeen paper for the cover, and secure it
with wafers, or paste, if it is to go a voyage in a steamer, as a wax
seal may be melted by the heat of the fire. If it will reach its
destination in a few hours, you may seal it with wax, having tied red
tape about. Do not use twine, as that may cut the paper. Newspapers are
generally put up in a brownish paper cover, pasted at the side and
bottom, with one end left open.
Postage is now so cheap, that manuscripts had best always be transmitted
by mail; putting a sufficient number of stamps on the outside, all close
to each other.
Few women can write well enough for publication, without going twice
over the subject; first in what is called the rough copy, and then
making a fair copy with all the original errors corrected, and all
proper alterations inserted. If you have time, make _two_ fair copies;
one for the printer, and one to keep for yourself, in case the other
should be accidentally destroyed or lost—retaining it till after the
work is actually in print. Much postage is wasted, and much annoyance is
given to the editors of periodicals, by applications for the restoration
of unpublished verses, and other “Rejected Addresses,” consisting,
perhaps, of a sheet of poetry, or a few pages of prose, of which it
would have been very easy to have made another copy for the author’s
keeping.
In writing articles for Annuals, let it be remembered that the printing
of these books is always completed some months before they are published
or announced for sale. Therefore, all contributions should be sent to
the publisher before February, or March at farthest. For a magazine,
they should be transmitted at least two months in advance. For a weekly
paper, two weeks ahead.
Those who write for periodicals should remember that it is the custom to
address all letters on compensations, copies of work, &c. to the
publisher; and not to the editor, who seldom has any concern in the
pecuniary affairs, his business being solely to receive, and read the
manuscripts, to accept or reject them, and to arrange them for the
press. It is not usual for the compensation to be paid till after the
book is published. Some publishers send to every contributor one copy of
the work. Others do not present a copy when the article is very
short—for instance, a few stanzas of verse. Prose obtains a higher price
than poetry, of which there is always a superabundance in the market.
Much poetry is published without any pay at all; the writers being
contented with seeing their effusions in print. No _good_ author has any
occasion to write gratuitously. A “merely passable” or “just tolerable”
writer of poetry or fiction, should give up the inventive line, and try
something else—something for which genius is not indispensable; and from
which, by patience and industry, a sort of living may be wrought out.
In composing poetry, a common, but unpardonable fault is that of
introducing a lame or halting line—a line with one syllable too many, or
too few. And if the author does not understand that it is an intolerable
blemish, and sends it uncorrected to the press, she is unworthy of being
called a poetess. We are inclined to believe that no person devoid of an
ear for music, can write poetry deserving of the name. The ideas may be
good, but the lines will have no melody, and will move harshly and
ruggedly, very much like rough prose.
Some writers seem to think that blank verse is nothing but prose with a
capital at the beginning of each line; never having learnt or remembered
that though the lines do not rhyme, they must all comprise ten
syllables, (syllables, not words,) otherwise the effect when read, will,
to even a tolerable ear, be absolutely painful. We saw a play, (the
first attempt of a since distinguished dramatist,) the dialogue of which
was unintelligible to the audience, and nearly impracticable to the
actors, who found it absolutely beyond their skill to enunciate; or
rather beneath it. We afterward heard the manager of the Chestnut-street
Theatre explain, that the difficulty, both with the speakers and the
hearers, was the execrable blank verse in which the play was written;
some of the lines containing but seven or eight syllables, (instead of
ten,) and some twelve or fourteen. A very few English authors write
irregular blank verse; but we are sorry to say that a great many
Americans do not seem to understand the process, simple as it is, of
confining themselves to ten syllables only,—neither more nor less. Can
they have read Shakspeare?
There is no blank verse in French poetry. That language seems incapable
of it.
If you are writing for a periodical, and are desirous of ascertaining
beforehand how many pages your manuscript will make when printed, take,
at random, any printed page of the work, and copy it in your usual hand,
and on a sheet of the same paper you intend using throughout. You will
thus, by comparison, be able to judge with tolerable accuracy, how much
of your writing will make a page when printed.
Keep a memorandum-book for the express purpose of setting down whatever
relates to your literary affairs. Insert the day when you commenced a
manuscript, the day when you finished it, and the day on which it went
to the publisher. Also, the whole number of its pages. When you see it
in print, put down the number of its printed pages. In this book, set
down, _immediately on receiving them_, whatever sums are paid to you for
your writings.
If you are a writer of fiction, have a large book for memorandums, of
any amusing or remarkable things you may chance to hear, and which you
may turn to account afterward. If you write truth only, keep a book for
the reception of useful or interesting facts. A written book of names,
alphabetically arranged, (surnames and christian names,) will be of
great advantage in selecting appellations for your characters. Do not
give elegant names to your common people; or to your patrician
characters names that are coarse and vulgar. A fault in Dickens is that
nearly all his names are rugged, uncouth, and ill-sounding, and seldom
characteristic. Why should a very excellent and generous brother and
sister be called Tom Pinch and Ruth Pinch. What did they pinch?
There is a proof-reader in every printing-office, but after he has done,
the proofs are generally sent to the author for farther revisal.
In correcting proof-sheets, first see that they are quite dry. Draw your
pen through any word you desire to change, and then write the new word
on the margin, placing it even with the line of the rejected word. When
you alter the punctuation, converting a comma into a semicolon, or a
period into a note of admiration, make a slight mark on the margin of
that line, that the printer may not overlook it. If you have occasion to
change a whole sentence, cross it out, and put the new sentence on the
margin at the bottom of the page.
If the printer’s boy can wait, you had best correct the proofs while he
stays.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHILDREN.
Miss Edgworth says that the education of a child begins at three months
old. It is true that both bad and good habits may seem to commence at
this early age; but we do not believe that in so slight a soil they take
a very deep root, or that what is called a cross baby is sure to grow up
an ill-tempered adult. Infants, when they are not really sick,
frequently cry from some incidental annoyance, and not from a fretful
disposition. If they feel comfortably they will usually be good humoured
and pleasant. Much of their comfort is sacrificed to the vanity of the
mother in dressing them fashionably and expensively. We knew a baby that
was very good in the morning, but very cross in the afternoon, or when
dressed for show. And no wonder, for in her show-costume she was
tortured with necklace, sleeve-loops, and bracelets of fine branchy, or
rather briary coral, scratching and irritating her delicate skin, and
leaving the print in red marks. On our representing this to the mother
as the probable cause of the baby’s fretfulness, the thorny ornaments
were left off, and the child became amiable. Gold chains are also very
irritating to the neck and arms of an infant. Coral beads of a smooth
round form, strung evenly on a simple thread of silk, without any
intermingling of gold chain, are, perhaps, the most comfortable
necklaces for children, and are also very becoming; but as they are not
expensive, they are of course not fashionable.
Fortunately, the days of worked caps are over. Young ladies are no
longer expected to cover pieces of cambric with elaborate cotton
embroidery for the babies of their married friends, and the tender heads
of the babies are no longer chafed with rough needle-work rubbing
incessantly upon them, or heated with a silk lining to the cambric
already thickened all over with close, heavy patterns. We wish also that
mothers, generally, were less proud of seeing their babies with
“luxuriant heads of hair,” which if it has no natural tendency to curl,
disfigures the child and gives it a wild, ungenteel look. If it does
curl, it still heats the head and neck, and is said to draw away much
strength from the system. The most healthy infants we have seen, had
very little hair, or it was judiciously kept closely cut. To curl
children’s hair in papers is barbarous. They pay dearly for the glory of
appearing in ringlets during the day, if they are made to pass their
nights lying upon a mass of hard, rough bobs, about as pleasant as if
they had their heads in a bag of hickory-nuts. But then the mother has
the gratification of hearing their curls admired!
Among other sufferings inflicted on babies is that of sending them out
in bleak winter days with brimless hats, that, so far from screening
their faces from the cold wind, do not even afford the slightest shade
to their eyes, which are winking and watering all the time from the
glare of the sun and snow. We have seen false curls pinned to these
babies’ hats, and dangling in their eyes.
Another detestable practice is that of making the waists of children’s
frocks ridiculously long and painfully tight; particularly over the
chest and body, which are thus pressed flat, to the utter ruin of the
figure, and the risk of producing incurable diseases—such as consumption
of the lungs, and projection of the spine; to say nothing of the various
complaints connected with the stomach, which is thus squeezed into half
its natural compass. Also, the sleeve-holes are so small and tight as to
push up the shoulders. Then the hips are pressed downward far below
their proper place, and the legs are consequently in danger of becoming
short and bandy. Is it possible this vile fashion can continue much
longer!—and are “the rising generation” really to grow up with high
shoulders, round backs, flat chests, bodies that seem longer than their
legs, and hips almost where their knees ought to be.
Also, these limbs must suffer from cold in winter with no other covering
than cotton stockings, the skirts of the dress scarcely reaching to the
knees—the little boys disfigured with the ugliest of all garments, short
knee-breeches.
Add to all the rest of these abominations, tight boots with peaked toes,
and can we wonder that children, even beyond the period of infancy,
should, at times, be cross, irritable, and unamiable. How can they be
otherwise, when they seldom feel comfortably? Then, if the parents can
afford it, (or whether or not,) the unhappy children are bedizened with
all manner of expensive finery, and interdicted from romping, lest they
should injure it. But, what matter if the children suffer—the mother’s
vanity _must_ be gratified, and she _must_ have the delight of seeing
that her boys and girls are as fashionably dressed as the little
Thomsons and Wilsons and Jacksons.
We look back with regret to the days when little girls, as well as boys,
wore their hair closely cropped; convenient and cool, and showing to
advantage the form of the head, till they were twelve or thirteen—and
they wore only washable dresses, descending far below the knees, and
with pantalets down to their ancles. In summer their frocks, had short
wide sleeves, and were _not_ close up to the throat. The bodies were of
a natural length, the outside gathered full upon a moderately tight
lining. If there is no lining to a full frock-body it will puff out at
the back and front, and give the waist a look of deformity before and
behind. Then the little girls went out in close cottage-bonnets of straw
in summer, and beaver in winter—shading and screening their faces—and
were kept warm when out of doors with long wide cloaks or coats of cloth
or merino, instead of the fantastic short things now worn, with open
sleeves and open fronts. Then, when at home, how innocent and childlike
they looked in their long-sleeved convenient bib-aprons!—so much better
than the short silk ones now worn, trimmed and bordered and ribboned,
and rendered so fine that the children are expected to be as careful of
injuring their showy aprons as of soiling their showy frocks.
Formerly, children learned to play various amusing games, such as “Hot
buttered beans,” “Blind-man’s buff,” &c. Now their play is chiefly
running and squealing, and chasing each other about, without any
definite object, except that of making a noise. Then, at a juvenile
party, the amusement was chiefly in the varieties of these entertaining
games. Now it is dancing—for as many as can find places to dance—and
nothing at all for those who cannot, but to grow tired and sleepy. In
former times, children’s parties commenced at two o’clock in the
afternoon in winter, and at four in summer. They played till they were
summoned to a large and well-supplied tea-table, and were sent for to
come home by eight o’clock, being then quite tired enough to go to bed
and sleep soundly, and waken with pleasant recollections of yesterday.
If the party was very large, the elder children sat round the room, and
tea, &c. was handed to them, while the little ones were accommodated at
a table where the hostess presided. The children of that time really
enjoyed these parties, and so would those of the present time, if they
could have such. The juvenile-party dress was then but a simple white
muslin frock with a ribbon sash. We have since seen little girls at a
summer party steadfastly refuse strawberries and cream, in obedience to
the interdiction of their mothers; who had enjoined them to do so, lest
they should stain or otherwise injure their elegant silk dresses.
Fortunately, it is no longer fashionable for mothers to take their
children with them on morning visits. On these occasions small children
rarely behave well. They soon grow tired, and restless, and begin
teazing to go somewhere else. Their presence is (or ought to be) a
restraint on conversation, as much may be said during a visit that is
not well for them to hear. They comprehend certain things far more
easily than is supposed. Great mischief has ensued from allowing
children to sit and listen; and there is no dependence on their
discretion or secrecy.
It is not well to put a small child “through its facings,” by trying to
make it exhibit any of its little feats before strangers. They are
generally very reluctant to make this exhibition. Sometimes they are
bashful, sometimes perverse; but if the mother persists in her attempt
to show them off, it will probably prove a complete failure, and end in
a cry, or that outbreak usually called a tantrum. By-the-bye, there is
no better way of stopping a tantrum than quietly to divert the child’s
attention to something else.
Beware of trusting an infant, too confidingly, to an European nurse; and
when she carries out the baby, it would be well if an older sister or
the mother herself could go along. Instead of carrying it to one of the
public squares, or to some other place where there is air and shade, she
may take it into dirty alleys, on a visit to some of her own relations,
perhaps newly arrived in an emigrant ship, with the filth and diseases
of a steerage passage still about them. This we know to have been done,
and the child has in consequence taken a disgusting disease. Or,
believing it a meritorious act, an Irish nurse may secretly carry the
infant to a priest, and have it baptized in the Catholic church, herself
standing godmother. Of this there have been numerous instances. Young
children frequently acquire, from being too much with ignorant and
vulgar nurses, bad habits of talking that are exceedingly difficult to
eradicate—so lasting are early impressions. We have heard an Irish
brogue from infantine lips; and the letter H sadly misused by the
American nursling of a low Englishwoman. Above all, do not permit your
own children to play with the children of their nurse. No good ever
accrues from it.
Children should not be brought to table till they are able to feed
themselves, first with a spoon, and next with a fork. And not then,
unless they can be depended on to keep quiet, and not talk. The
chattering of children all dinner-time is a great annoyance to grown
people. The shrill voice of a child can be distinguished annoyingly amid
those of a whole company. They should be made to understand that if they
talk at table, they are to be immediately taken away to finish their
dinner in the nursery. On no consideration should they be admitted to
table when there is a dinner-party. The foolish custom of having all the
children dressed for the purpose, and brought in with the dessert, is
now obsolete. It never was very prevalent, except in England.
We have seen children so well and so early trained that they could be
trusted to come to table every day without the least fear of their
misbehaving by talking or otherwise. They sat quietly, asked for
nothing, took contentedly whatever was put on their plates, made no
attempt at helping themselves, and neither greased nor slopped the
table-cloth; and when done, wiped their mouths and hands on their
napkins, before they quitted their chairs, which they did at a sign from
their mother; going out without noise, and neither leaving the door open
nor slamming it hard. It is very easy to accustom children to these
observances. Also, they may be taught very early, how to behave to
visiters. For instance, not to pass between them and the fire, not to
hang on the back of a lady’s chair; or to squeeze close to her; or to
get on her lap; or to finger her dress; or to search her reticule, or
her pocket; or to ask a stranger for pennies or sixpences; or to tell
her that she is not pretty; or to enquire “why she wears such an ugly
bonnet?”
We have known a fine little boy, not three years old, who, on the
entrance of a friend of his mother’s, would haul up a chair for her, and
invite her to a seat near the fire, place a footstool at her feet, ask
her to let him take her bonnet, and invite her to stay to dinner, to
stay all day, and to “stay for ever,” adding, “I try to be polite.”
There are very little girls who, if their mother is from home, can do
the honours in her place; seat the visiter on the sofa, and press her to
stay till their mother comes in; and if the lady declines doing so, they
will ask her at least to stay awhile, and rest herself, and have a glass
of cool water; and while she stays, they will do their best to entertain
her. Such children always grow up with polished manners, if not removed
from the influence that made them so in early life.
Children should be early taught not to repeat the conversation of grown
persons, and never to tell the servants any thing they have heard in the
parlour. When they come home from school, they ought not to be
encouraged in telling school-tales. If they dine out, never question
them concerning what they had for dinner. Forbid their relating any
circumstances concerning the domestic economy of the house at which they
have been entertained.
If a child purloins cakes or sweetmeats, punish him by giving him none
the next time they are on table.
At four years of age, a beginning should be made in teaching them to
read, by hearing them the alphabet every day till they have learned it
perfectly; and afterwards the first spelling-tables. With a quarter of
an hour’s daily instruction, a child of common capacity will, in six
months, be able to spell in two or three syllables, and to read short
easy stories with the syllables divided. At the end of the year, if her
lessons are regular, and not so long as to tire her, she will, in all
probability, take pleasure in reading to herself, when her lessons are
over. Were they taught _out of story-books only_, there are few children
that at the age of six years would find any difficulty in reading
fluently. If _very_ intelligent, they often can read well at five. When
they can once read, encourage them in the love of books; but do not set
them at any other branch of education till they are eight. Then, their
hands being strong enough to guide the pen firmly, they may commence
writing copies. They should be supplied with slates and pencils at three
years old. If they have any dormant talent for drawing, this will call
it out. Little girls may begin to sew at four or five, but only as an
amusement, not as a task. The best and most satisfactory dolls for young
children are those of linen or rag, made very substantially. Much money
is wasted in toys that afford them no amusement whatever; and toys that,
being merely to look at, they grow tired of immediately, and delight in
breaking to pieces.
Never give an infant a book to play with. He will most assuredly tear
it; that being the only amusement it can afford him. It is possible at a
very early age to teach a tractable female child such a respect for
books that she will never attempt to injure them. When they are old
enough to take pleasure in looking at the pictures, it is easy to
accustom them to be always satisfied with the books being shown to them
in the hands of grown persons. Do not buy those books that have absurd
and revolting prints of people with gigantic heads and diminutive
bodies. Children always dislike them, and so they ought.
Rejoice when a little girl shews a fondness for reading, and by all
means encourage it. Keep her well supplied with good and entertaining
books, and you will have little trouble with her. Do not needlessly
interrupt, and call her off—but let her read in peace. It will do her
more good than any thing else, and lay the foundation of an intelligent
mind. A taste for reading, if not formed in early childhood, may perhaps
never come at all. And then what a solace it is in bodily illness! How
patiently a reading child, whose mind is stored with “pleasant
memories,” can bear pain, and submit to the confinement of a sick-bed.
We have known more than one instance of the illness of a reading child
taking a turn for the better, from the time she was indulged with an
amusing and interesting book.
There is no place in which children appear to greater disadvantage or
are less ungovernable than at hotels or boarding-houses. We are always
sorry when the circumstances of parents oblige them permanently to live
thus in public, with their young families, who are consequently brought
up in a manner which cannot but have an unfavourable effect in forming
the characters of the future men and women. By way of variety, and that
they may not always be confined up-stairs, the children are encouraged,
or at least permitted by their mothers, to spend much of their time in
the drawing-room, regardless of the annoyance which their noise and
romping never fails to inflict upon the legitimate occupants of that
apartment. The parents, loving their children too much to be incommoded
themselves by any thing that their offspring can say or do, seem not
aware that they can possibly interrupt or trouble the rest of the
company. Or else, conscious of their own inability to control them, they
are afraid to check the children lest they should turn restive, rebel,
or break out into a tantrum. “Any thing for the sake of peace,” is a
very foolish maxim where juveniles are concerned. By being firm once or
twice, and dismissing them from the room when they deserve it, you may
have peace ever after. The noisiest and most inconvenient time to have
children in a public parlour is in the interval between their tea and
their bed-time. Some children have no bed-time. And when they are tired
of scampering and shouting, they lie about sleeping on the sofas, and
cry if they are finally wakened, to go up with their mother when she
retires for the night.
Still worse is the practice that prevails in some hotels and
boarding-houses, of the mothers sending the nurse-maids with the babies,
to sit in the drawing-room among the ladies; who are thus liable to have
a vulgar and obtrusive servant-girl, most probably “from the old
country,” boldly taking her seat in the midst of them, or conspicuously
occupying one of the front-windows; either keeping up a perpetual
undercurrent of fulsome, foolish talk to the baby, or listening eagerly
to the conversation around her, and, perhaps, repeating it invidiously
as soon as she gets an opportunity. If one lady sends her nurse-maid to
sit in the drawing-room with the child, all the other mothers of babies
immediately follow suit, and the drawing-room becomes a mere nursery.
Every hotel should have a commodious and airy parlour set apart entirely
for the children and nurses. The proprietors could easily afford to keep
one good room for that purpose, if they would expend a little less on
the finery of the parlours, &c. We have heard of an embroidered
piano-cover, in a great hotel, costing fourteen hundred dollars, and the
children pulling it down and dragging it about the floor. With a
piano-cover of the usual cost, and other things less ostentatious, a
children’s parlour might well have been afforded in this very
establishment.
At a hotel, if the children come to the ladies’ table, they are always
in danger of eating food that is highly improper for them, and they very
soon learn to help themselves to much more than they want, and to eat
voraciously, in their desire to “have something of every thing.” There
is always a table purposely for those children whose parents pay
half-price for them; and at which the housekeeper presides. However good
this table may be, and though the pies and puddings may be excellent,
the mothers are frequently dissatisfied with the absence of ice-cream,
blanc-mange, charlotte-russe, &c., though certainly, were they in houses
of their own, they would not have such things every day. Therefore,
though it is “not in the bond,” the mothers carry away from the table
saucers of these delicacies, and the children learn to expect a daily
supply of them from the ladies’ dining-room. This, we must say, is a
mean practice. We have, however, known some mothers, who, really being
“honourable women,” sent every day to a confectioner’s to _buy_
ice-cream for their children.
There is danger at a hotel of little boys loitering about the bar or
office, encouraged by unthinking young men, who give them “tastes of
drink,” and even amuse themselves by teaching them to smoke segars.
And no children, either boys or girls, can live at a public house
without hearing and seeing much that it is best they should not know.
The English travellers deprecate the American practice of bringing up
young people in hotels or boarding-houses. And they are right.
When a lady, having with her a young child, and no nurse-maid, stops for
a day at a hotel, she can avoid the inconvenience of taking the child
with her to table, and incommoding herself and all who sit near her. She
has only to entrust the little traveller to a chambermaid up-stairs;
directing the girl how to take care of it, and promising her a gratuity
for her trouble. She will rarely have cause to regret such an
arrangement. It will spare the annoyance and mortification of having the
child make a noise at table, and perhaps compelling the mother to go
away with it.
CHAPTER XXIII.
DECORUM IN CHURCH.
We wish it were less customary to go to church in gay and costly
habiliments, converting its sacred precincts into a place for the
display of finery, and of rivalry to your equally bedizened neighbours.
In many Catholic countries,[17] a peculiar costume is universally
adopted for visiting a place of worship—a very plain gown of entire
black, with a long, black cloak, and a black hood finished with a veil
that shades the face. This dress is kept for the purpose of wearing at
church. We highly approve the custom, and wish that something similar
could be introduced into the United States—particularly on the solemn
occasions of taking the communion, or being confirmed as a christian
member. We have known young ladies to have elegant dresses made on
purpose, and to get their hair dressed by a barber when preparing for
confirmation.
In a Sacred Melody of Moore’s, St. Jerome tells us—
“Yet worldly is that heart at best,
Which beats beneath a broider’d veil;
And she who comes in glittering vest
To mourn her frailty—still is frail.”
Endeavour always to be in your pew before the service commences, and do
not hurry out of it, hastily, the moment the benediction is finished; or
begin visibly to prepare for departure as soon as it commences. Stay
quietly till the mass of the crowd has gone.
If you go into a strange church, or rather into a church where you are a
stranger, wait in the vestibule till you see the sexton; and then
request him to show you to a vacant seat, or rather to one which he
believes will be that day unoccupied—for instance, if the family owning
it is out of town. This is far better than to wander about the aisles
alone, or to intrude yourself into a pew where you may cause
inconvenience to its owners. If you see that a pew is full, you know, of
course, that you cannot obtain a seat in it without dislodging somebody.
Yet we have seen many a lady, on entering a church in which she was a
stranger, walk boldly up the middle aisle to one of the best pews near
the pulpit, and pertinaciously stand there, looking steadfastly at its
rightful occupants, till one of them quitted his own seat, and gave it
up to her, seeking for himself another place wherever he could find one.
Those who go to strange churches should be contented with seats near the
door; or at the lower end of the side-aisles; or up in the gallery.
If a family invites you to go to church with them, or to come thither,
and have a seat in their pew, do not take the liberty of asking a friend
of your own to accompany you; and above all, do not bring a child with
you.
Should you (having a pew of your own) ask another lady to go with you,
call for her in due time; and she ought to be quite ready. Place her in
a corner-seat, (it being the most comfortable,) and see that she is
accommodated with a footstool; and be assiduous in finding the places
for her in the prayer-book, or hymn-book.
In American churches there is much civility to strangers. We have often
seen, when a person of respectable appearance was in quest of a seat,
the doors of half a dozen pews kindly opened to admit him, and, as soon
as he entered, a prayer-book offered to him open at the proper place.
No good can result from taking children to church when they are too
young to read, or to understand. They are always eager to go, because
they like to go everywhere; but when once seated in the pew, they soon
become tired and restless; and frequently there is no way to keep them
quiet, but to let them go to sleep in the lap of the mother or elder
sister. And then they are apt to cry whenever they waken. If there are
two little boys, they are prone to get to playing, or what is far worse,
quarrelling. And then if they make a noise, some elder member of the
family is subjected to the mortification of conveying them out of
church—perhaps by desire of the minister audibly expressed from the
pulpit. We know clergymen who do not permit their children to be taken
to church till they can read—convinced that if their first recollections
of a place of worship are rather painful than pleasant, they are the
less likely to grow up with a due regard for religion—that is, for
religion of the heart—the spirit, and not merely the letter.
We are sorry to see young ladies, on their way to church, laughing and
talking loudly, and flirting with the beaux that are gallanting them
thither. It is too probable that these beaux will occupy a large share
of their thoughts during the hours of worship. Nay, there are some so
irreverent, and so regardless of the sanctity of the place, as to
indulge in frequent whispers to those near them, or to their friends in
the adjoining pews.
A lady of high fashion and fortune, formerly a resident of Philadelphia,
was noted for the scandalous lightness and levity of her behaviour in
church—laughing and talking, in more than whispers, nearly all the time,
to the idle young men whom she always brought with her, and who, to do
them justice, sometimes seemed rather ashamed of her conduct. Her pew
was directly in front of the pulpit. One Sunday morning, Bishop White
gave her a severe and merited rebuke, by stopping in his sermon, fixing
his eyes sadly upon her, and bowing to her, as an intimation that till
she had ceased he could not go on. We are sorry to add that the reproof
had no other effect than to excite her anger, and caused her immediately
to go out of church, highly exasperated. That lady went to live in
Europe, and has not yet become a good woman, but greatly the contrary.
“The Lord is in his holy temple; let all the earth keep silence before
him,” was the solemn and impressive inscription over the altar of St.
Augustine’s church in Philadelphia.
In visiting a church of a different denomination from your own, comply,
as far as you can, with all the ceremonies observed by the congregation,
particularly if you are in a foreign country. Even if some of these
observances are not the least in conformity with your own opinions and
feelings, remember that you are there as a guest, and have no right to
offend or give displeasure to your hosts by evincing a marked
disapprobation of their mode of worship. If you find it very irksome to
refrain, (which it should not be,) you need not go a second time. Every
religious sect believes its own faith to be the best; but God only knows
which really is. Christ has said, “By their fruits ye shall know them.”
CHAPTER XXIV.
EVENING PARTIES.
Having made out a list of the persons you intend to invite, proceed to
write the notes; or have them written in a neat, handsome hand, by an
experienced calligrapher. Fashion, in its various changes, sometimes
decrees that these notes, and their envelopes, shall be perfectly plain,
(though always of the finest paper,) and that the wax seals shall of
course be very small. At other times, the mode is to write on embossed
note paper, with bordered envelopes, secured by fancy wafers,
transparent, medallion, gold or silver. If the seals are gold or silver,
the edges or borders of the paper should be also gilt or silvered.
Sometimes, for a very large or splendid party, the notes are engraved
and printed on cards. Consult the Directory, to obtain the _exact_
address of those to whom you send them.
These invitations may be transmitted by one of the City post-offices;
first putting a stamp on each. Let the stamps be such as will leave
nothing additional to be paid by the receiver. If they go through the
United States Post-Office, the carrier will require another cent for
each, beside the stamp. In Philadelphia, Blood’s Dispatch Post may be
trusted, as to punctuality, (if faithfully put into the letter-box at
the proper time;) and there is no cost but that of the penny stamp which
you put on yourself.
Another way is to send round the notes by a reliable servant-man of your
own; or to engage, for this purpose, one of the public waiters that are
hired to attend at parties. The notes are usually sent either eight,
seven, or six days before the party—if it is to be very large, ten days
or two weeks. In the notes, always specify not only the day of the week,
but also the day of the month, when the party is to take place. It is
very customary now to designate the hour of assembling, and then the
company are expected to be punctual to that time. People, _really
genteel_, do not go ridiculously late. When a ball is intended, let the
word “Dancing” be introduced in small letters, at the lower left-hand
corner of the note.
For a bridal party, subsequent to a wedding, the words now used are
thus—
MR. AND MRS. S. M. MORLAND,
At Home, on Thursday evening, Sept. 22, 1853.
Their residence must be given beneath, in a corner, and in smaller
letters.
Oblong slices of plumb-cake, iced all over, are now sent round in very
pretty white card-board boxes, exactly fitting each slice, covered on
the inside with lace-paper, and an engraved card of the bride and groom
laid on the top of the cake. These boxes (to be had at the fancy
stationers,) are of various prices; some of them are very elegant and
costly.
At wedding-parties, it is usual for the bride and bridesmaids to appear
in exactly the same dresses they wore at the marriage; all of them
ranged in their respective stations before the company begin to arrive.
When the marriage-guests are not too numerous, it is customary to have
all the company shown into the largest parlour, when they first arrive;
the folding-doors being closed between. Meanwhile, the bride and groom,
bridesmaids and groomsmen, with the heads of the family, arrange
themselves in a line or a semi-circle; the most important personages in
the centre, with the clergyman in front of them. When all is ready, the
doors are thrown open, the guests advance, and the ceremony begins. When
it is over, and the bride is receiving the compliments of her friends,
we hope the silliest woman present will not go up and ask her the
foolish question, “If she does not feel already like an old married
woman?”
A crowd at a wedding is now obsolete. We once heard of a marriage in a
great family, where the company was so numerous that all the doors were
blocked up, and quite inaccessible; and the bride could only make her
entrance by being taken round outside, and lifted through a back
window—the groom jumping in after her.
Dancing at weddings is old-fashioned. A band of music playing in the
hall is of no use, as on such occasions no one listens to it, and some
complain of the noise. We think a marriage in church is not as fine a
spectacle as may be imagined. The effect is lost in the size of the
building, and broken up by the intervention of the aisles and pews; the
wedding guests seated in the latter, and the former occupied by people
out of the street, coming in to see the show. And this they will do, if
not forcibly excluded; particularly idle boys, and nurse-maids with
children, all trying to get as near the altar as possible.
If the bride and groom are to set out on a journey immediately after the
ceremony, it is best for her to be married in a handsome
travelling-dress—new for the occasion, of course. This is often done
now. She can reserve the usual wedding costume for her first party after
returning home.
In preparing for a party, it is well (especially if you have had but
little experience yourself,) to send for one of the _best_ public
waiters, and consult with him on the newest style of “doing these
things.” A respectable coloured man will be found the most efficient for
this purpose. He can also give you an idea of the probable expense. We
do not, of course, allude to magnificent entertainments, such as are
celebrated in the newspapers, and become a nine days’ wonder; and are
cited as costing, not hundreds, but thousands of dollars.
In case the required waiter should be pre-engaged, it is well to send
for, and consult him, a week or two before your party.
We knew a lady who, some years ago, sent for Carroll, (a very excellent
mulatto man, well known in Philadelphia,) to officiate at a projected
party. Carroll, in very polite terms, expressed that he was engaged for
that identical evening to attend at a ball. “Then,” said the lady, “you
must try to furnish me with some one else, in your place. Where is
Bogle?” “I know Bogle can’t come,” answered Carroll; “he is bespoke that
night for a wedding.” “Shepherd, then?” said the lady; “see if you
cannot send me Shepherd.” “As to Shepherd,” replied Carroll, “he is sick
in his bed, and like to keep so.” “Where is Solomon King, then?” pursued
the lady; “Solomon King will do very well.” “Indeed, ma’am,” answered
Carroll, “I don’t think Solomon King will suit you now, any how; he’s
taken very much to drink, and besides he’s dead!”
Apropos to the talk of coloured people.—We were told by a southern lady,
that one of her girls being dressed for an entertainment given by a
neighbour to the servants, came to her, and said: “Mistress, Becky has
come for me to go with her; and she says _her_ mistress has gave her two
grand words to say at the party.—Now, I want you to give _me_ two words
that shall beat Becky’s; for I know you are a heap smarter than _her_
mistress.”
“Tell me the words given by Becky’s mistress,” said my informant.
“Yes, ma’am.—One is _Desdemona_, and one is _Cataplasm_!”
No doubt, Becky, in some way, contrived to say them both.
In engaging your presiding genius, it is well to desire him to come on
the morning of the party; he will be found of great advantage in
assisting with the final preparations. He will attend to the silver, and
china, and glass; and see that the lamps are all in order, and that the
fires, coal-grates, furnaces, &c., are in proper trim for evening. He
will bring with him (at whatever hour you indicate,) his “young men,” as
he calls them; (if coloured youths, they are too genteel to answer to
the name of boys;) and these are his apprentices that he has in training
for the profession.
One of these men should be stationed in the vestibule, or just within
the front door. On that evening, (if not at other times,) let this door
be furnished with a lamp, placed on a shelf or bracket in the fan-light,
to illumine the steps, and shine down upon the pavement, where the
ladies cross it on alighting from the carriages. If the evening proves
rainy, let another man attend with an umbrella, to assist in sheltering
them on their way into the house. The ladies should all wear over-shoes,
to guard their thin slippers from the damp, in their transit from the
coach to the vestibule.
At the top, or on the landing-place, of the first staircase, let another
man be posted, to show the female guests to their dressing-room; while
still another waiter stays near the gentlemen’s room till the company
have done arriving.
In the apartment prepared as a fixing-room for the ladies, two or more
women should be all the evening in attendance; both rooms being well
warmed, well lighted, and furnished with all that may be requisite for
giving the last touches to head, feet, and figure, previous to entering
the drawing-room. When ready to go down, the ladies meet their gentlemen
in the passage between the respective dressing-rooms; the beaux being
there already, waiting for the belles, who must not detain them long—men
being very impatient on these, and all other occasions.
If any lady is without an escort, and has no acquaintances at hand to
take her under their wing, she should send for the master of the house
to meet her near the door, and give her his arm into the drawing-room.
He will then lead her to the hostess, and to a seat. Let her then bow,
as a sign that she releases him from farther attendance, and leaves him
at liberty to divide his civilities among his other guests.
In the ladies’ room, (beside two toilet glasses with their branches
lighted,) let a Psyche or Cheval glass be also there. Likewise, a
hand-mirror on each toilet to enable the ladies to see the back of their
heads; with an ample supply of pins, combs, brushes, hair pins, &c.; and
a work-box containing needles, thread, thimble, and scissors, to repair
accidents to articles of dress. Let there be bottles of fine eau de
cologne, and camphor and hartshorn, in case of faintings. Among the
furniture, have a sofa and several foot-stools, for the ladies to sit on
if they wish to change their shoes.
The women attending must take charge of the hoods, cloaks, shawls,
over-shoes, &c.; rolling up together the things that belong to each
lady, and putting each bundle in some place they can easily remember
when wanted at the breaking up of the assembly.
It is now the custom for the lady of the house (and those of her own
family,) to be drest rather plainly, showing no desire to eclipse any of
her guests, on this her own night. But her attire, though simple, should
be handsome, becoming, and in good taste. Her business is, without any
bustle or apparent officiousness, quietly and almost imperceptibly to
try and render the evening as pleasant as possible to all her guests;
introducing those who, though not yet acquainted, ought to be; and
finding seats for ladies who are not young enough to continue standing.
The custom that formerly prevailed in the absurd days of crowds and
jams, when dense masses were squeezed into small apartments, of removing
every seat and every piece of furniture from the room, is now obsolete.
A hard squeeze is no longer a high boast. Genteel people no longer go to
parties on the staircase, or in the passages. The ladies are not now so
compressed that nothing of them is seen but their heads; the sleeves,
skirts, &c., undergoing a continual demolition down below. We knew of a
lady, who, at a late hour, went to a crowded party in a real blonde
dress, which was rubbed entirely off her before she reached the centre
of the room, and it was hanging about her satin skirt in shreds, like
transparent rags dissolving into “air—thin air!” For this blonde she had
given two hundred dollars; and she was obliged to go home and exchange
its tatters for a costume that was likely to last out the evening.
In houses where space is not abundant, it is now customary to have
several _moderate_ parties in the course of the season, instead of
inviting all your “dear five hundred friends” on the self-same night.
When the hour of assembling is designated in the notes of invitation,
(as it always should be,) the guests, of course, will take care to
arrive as nearly as possible about that hour. At large parties, tea is
usually omitted—it being supposed that every one has already taken that
beverage at home, previous to commencing the business of the toilette.
Many truly hospitable ladies still continue the custom, thinking that it
makes a pleasant beginning to the evening, and exhilarates the ladies
after the fatigue of dressing and arriving. So it does. For a large
company, a table with tea, coffee, and cakes, may be set in the
ladies-room, women being in attendance to supply the guests with those
refreshments before they go down. Pitchers of ice-water and glasses
should also be kept in this room.
If there is no tea, the refreshments begin with lemonade, macaroons,
kisses, &c., sent round soon after the majority of the company has come.
If there _is_ tea, ice-water should be presented after it, to all;
otherwise, there will be much inconvenience by numerous ladies
despatching the servants, separately, to bring them some.
After a little time allotted to conversation, music is generally
introduced by one of the ladies of the family, if she plays well;
otherwise, she invites a competent friend to commence. A lady who can do
nothing “without her notes,” or who cannot read music, and play at
sight, is scarcely enough of a musician to perform in a large
company—for this incapacity is an evidence that she has not a good ear,
or rather a good memory for melody—or that her musical talent wants more
cultivation. A large party is no time or place for practising, or for
risking _attempts_ at new things, or for vainly trying to remember old
ones.
Some young ladies rarely sit down to a piano in any house but their own,
without complaining that the instrument is out of tune. “It is a way
they have.” We have known a fair amateur to whom this complaint was
habitual, and never omitted; even when we knew that, to provide against
it, the piano had really been tuned that very day.
The tuning of a harp immediately before playing is sometimes a very
tedious business. Would it not be well for the harpist to come a little
earlier than the rest, and tune it herself previous to their arrival?
And let her deem _that_ tuning sufficient for a while, and not repeat
the operation more than once again in the course of the evening,
especially in the midst of her first piece. However delicate may be her
own ear, or exquisitely fastidious her own taste, she may be assured
that few of her audience would detect any deficiency, if she only went
quietly on, and did not herself imply that deficiency.
Unless a gentleman is himself familiar with the air, let him not, on
“mounting guard beside the piano,” volunteer to turn over the pages for
the lady who is playing. He will certainly turn them over too soon or
too late, and therefore annoy and confuse her. Still worse, let him not
attempt to accompany her with his voice, unless he is an excellent
musician, or accustomed to singing with her.
For the hearers to crowd closely round the instrument, is smothering to
the vocalist. Let them keep at a proper distance, and she will sing the
better, and they will hear the better. It is so rude to talk during a
song, that it is never done in company; but a little low conversation is
sometimes tolerated in the adjoining room, during the performance of one
of those interminable pieces of instrumental music, whose chief merit
lies in its difficulty, and which (at least to the ears of the
uninitiated,) is rather a bore than a pleasure. We have read a French
novel, in which the only child of a farmer has just come home from a
provincial boarding-school, and the seigneur, or lord of the manor, has
volunteered a visit to these his respected tenants. The mother, amidst
all the bustle of preparing a great dinner for the occasion, comes in to
remind Annette that if the seigneur should ask her to play for him, she
is to curtsey very low, and thank him for the honour. “And then,
Annette,” adds the good old dame, “be sure to play that tune which your
father and I hate so much!”
By the bye, it is very old-fashioned to return thanks to a lady for her
singing, or to tell her she is very kind to oblige the company so often.
If she is conscious of really singing well, and sees that she delights
her hearers, she will not feel sensible of fatigue—at least till the
agreeable excitement of conscious success is over.
It is ill-mannered, when a lady has just finished a song, for
another lady to exclaim in her hearing—“Mary Jones sings that
delightfully!”—or—“How charmingly Susan Smith gives us that ballad!”
Let the glories of Mary Jones and Susan Smith rest, for that
evening, within the limits of their own circle.
Do not ask any lady for a song that has already been sung on this very
evening by another person.
People who have no idea of music sometimes make strange blunders in
their requests. We know of a female who, at a large party, hearing a
young lady accompany her voice on the national instrument of Spain,
became very urgent to have the Battle of Prague performed on the guitar.
It is sometimes fashionable, when the company is not too large for what
is called “a sitting party,” to vary the amusements of the evening by
introducing some of the numerous plays or games which are always the
delight of fine children, and which, by way of variety, frequently
afford much diversion to adults. It is not necessary that all these
plays should become “a keen encounter of the wits,” or that all the
players should be persons of talent. But it is certainly desirable that
the majority of the company should have some tact, and some quickness of
parts; that they should have read some books, and mixed somewhat with
the world—otherwise, they will not be clever even at playing plays.
Those who are incapable of understanding, or entering into the spirit of
a play, would do well to excuse themselves from joining in it, and
prefer sitting by as spectators. Many young ladies can play nothing
beyond “How do you like it?” and are not great at that—saying, when the
question is put to them—“Me! I am sure I don’t know how I like it—can’t
you pass me by?” You may as well take her at her word, pass her by, and
proceed on to her next neighbour; for if she _does_ concoct an answer,
it will probably, if the word is “_brush_,” be liked “to sweep the
hearth with;” or if “_Hat_” is the word, it will be liked “_of
Beaver_”—or something equally palpable.
Such plays as _The Lawyer_, and _The Secret Word_, are very entertaining
in good hands, but complete failures when attempted by the dull or
illiterate. The amusing game of Proverbs had best be given up for that
evening, if, on trial, it is found that few of the ladies have any
knowledge of those true, though homely aphorisms, that have been aptly
called “the concentrated wisdom of nations.”
We know a very ingenious gentleman who, in playing the Secret Word,
contrives to introduce that word in some very short and very humorous
anecdote.
A family, on one side of European origin, made a visit to the
transatlantic continent, where they found, still living in a certain
great city, a relative connected with an ancient branch of nobility.
This rendered them more genteel than ever—and when, covered with glory,
they returned to this poor republic of ours, the names of nobles, and
even of princes, with whom they had associated, were “familiar in their
mouths as household words.” At a party where these personages were so
engaged in talking, that they forgot to keep the run of the plays; a new
game was commenced by a young gentleman slipping out of the room, and
then returning with a very lugubrious visage, and announcing, in a
melancholy tone, the death of a certain monarch, whom all the company
were immediately to unite in lamenting loudly, on pain of paying
forfeits unless they steadily persisted in their dismal faces. On the
sad intelligence being proclaimed—“The king of Bohemia is dead!”—one of
our travelled ladies mistaking it for a solemn truth, turned to her
daughter with—“Ah! Caroline! did you hear that? The dear good king of
Bohemia, who was so kind to us whenever we attended his court!” “Oh!
mamma!” replied Caroline, putting her handkerchief to her eyes—“the news
is really heart-breaking. He paid us so much attention all the time we
were in ——, in his dominions. It will be long before we cease grieving
for the king of Bohemia.”
The gentleman who brought this deplorable news also had recourse to
_his_ handkerchief, and slipped out into the hall to indulge his mirth;
and several others slipped out after him for the same purpose. No one,
however, undeceived these ladies, and for several days at their morning
calls they continued to mourn for the king of Bohemia.
Conundrums[18] afford infinite diversion at a small party, provided the
company, like Billy Black’s cat, “almost always gives up.” Long guessing
occupies too much time; a commodity of which we Americans seldom have
any to spare.
Early in the Mexican war, a premium was awarded in Philadelphia for a
very clever conundrum, alluding to a certain “Bold Dragoon” at Palo
Alto. “In what manner did Captain May cheat the Mexicans?” “He charged
them with a troop of horse which they never got?”
Our confectioners, in making up the _bon bons_ called “_secrets_,”
instead of enfolding with the sugar-plumb a printed slip containing a
contemptible distich, would do well to have good conundrums printed,
(with the answer,) and enclosed in the ornamented papers. They would
certainly be more popular than the old-fashioned mottoes—such, for
instance, as
“My heart, like a candle of four to the pound,
Consumes all the day, and no comfort is found.”
Yet the above is one of the least bad. Most of these mottoes are so flat
as to be not even ridiculous.
At a dancing party, the ladies of the house decline joining in it, out
of politeness to their guests, till towards the latter part of the
evening, when the company begins to thin off, and the dancers are
fatigued.
We admire a charming girl, who, in her own house, being asked to dance
by an agreeable man, has the self-denial to say to him—“Being at home,
and desirous that my friends shall share as much as possible in the
enjoyments of the evening, I would rather refrain from dancing myself.
Let me present you to Miss Lindley, or to Miss Darwood; you will find
either of these young ladies a delightful partner.”
These amiable refusals we have heard from our amiable and unselfish
young friends, and such, we hope, are heard often in what is _truly_
“the best society.”
Ladies who are strangers in the place, are, by courtesy, entitled to
particular attention from those who know them.
We have sometimes seen, at a private ball, the least attractive woman
dancing every set, (though acquitting herself very ill,) while handsome
and agreeable ladies were sitting still. The mystery was solved on
finding that the lady of the house carried her ultra benevolence so very
far, as to make a business of procuring partners all the time for this
unlovely and unprepossessing female, lest she should feel neglected. Now
a certain portion of this officiousness is highly praiseworthy, but too
much of it is a great annoyance to the victimized gentlemen—especially
to those who, as a backwoodsman would say, are certainly “some
pumpkins.”
Even the most humane man, whatever may be the kindness of his heart,
would rather not exhibit himself on the floor with a partner _ni jeune
ni jolie_, who is ill-drest, looks badly, moves ungracefully, can
neither keep time to the music nor understand the figure, and in fact
has “no dancing in her soul.” If, with all the rest, she is dull and
stupid, it is cruel for any kind friend to inflict her on a gentleman as
a partner. Yet such things we have seen.
On one occasion we threw away a great deal of good pity on a youth, whom
we thought had been inveigled into quadrilling with a lady who made the
worst figure we ever saw in a ball-room. We afterwards learned that he
had actually solicited the introduction; and we saw that he devoted
himself to her all the remainder of the evening. She was a rich heiress.
Self-knowledge is a rare acquirement. But when a lady _does_ suspect
herself to be deficient in all the essential qualifications of a
ball-room, she should give up dancing entirely, and be magnanimous
enough always to excuse herself positively, when asked to dance;
especially if verging on “a certain age.” Let all “trippings on the
light fantastic toe” be left to the young and gay.
A deformed woman dancing is “a sorry sight.” She should never consent to
any such exhibition of her unhappy figure. She will only be asked out of
mere compassion, or from some interested and unworthy motive. We are
asked—“Why should not such a lady dance, if it gives her pleasure?” We
answer—“It should _not_ give her pleasure.”
When a lady is so unfortunate as to have a crooked or misshapen person,
it is well for her to conceal it as much as possible, by wearing a
shawl, a large cape, a mantilla, a long sacque, (not a polka jacket;)
and on no account a tight-bodied pelisse; or still worse, a spencer—than
which last, nothing is more trying to the form of the waist, except a
riding-habit.
We saw Frederika Bremer at an evening assemblage, and she was so
judiciously attired, that her personal defects did not prevent her from
looking really well. Over a rich black satin dress, she wore a long
loose sacque of black lace, lined with grey silk. From beneath the short
sleeves of her sacque, came down long wide sleeves of white lace,
confined with bracelets round her fair and delicate little hands. Her
throat was covered closely with a handsome collar of French embroidered
muslin, and her beautiful and becoming cap was of white lace, white
flowers, and white satin ribbon—her light hair being simply parted on
her broad and intellectual forehead. With her lively blue eyes, and the
bright and pleasant expression of her countenance, no one seemed to
notice the faults of her nose, mouth, and complexion—and those of her
figure were so well concealed as to be scarcely apparent. And then her
lady-like ease, and the total absence of all affectation, rendered her
graceful and prepossessing. True it is, that with a good heart and a
good mind no woman can be ugly; at least, they soon cease to be so
considered, even if nature has been unkind to them in feature, figure,
and complexion. An intelligent eye, and a good humoured mouth, are
excellent substitutes for the want of regular beauty. Physiognomists say
that the eye denotes the mind, and the mouth indicates the heart.
Now as a deformed lady may render herself very agreeable as a good
conversationist, we repeat that she has no occasion to exhibit the
defects of her person by treading the mazes of a cotillion, or above
all, in going down a country dance, should those “never-ending, still
beginning” performances come again into fashion. Young men say that an
ugly, misshapen female, who waltzes, or joins in a polka, or redowa, or
mazurka, deserves the penitentiary.
We deprecate the practice of keeping the small children of the family up
all the evening, running and scampering in every one’s way, or sleeping
about on the chairs and sofas, and crying when wakened up to be carried
to bed. Would it not be much better to have them sent to bed at their
usual time? We knew two well-trained little boys, who submitted
obediently to go to bed at their customary hour, on the night of their
mother’s party, of which they had seen nothing but the decorations of
the parlours. They told their parents next morning, that still they had
a great deal of pleasure, for after the carriages began to arrive, they
had lain awake, and “heard every ring.”
At a large party, or at a wedding, there is generally a supper-table;
lemonade and cakes having been sent round during the evening. The host
and hostess should see that _all_ the ladies are conducted thither, and
that none are neglected, particularly those that are timid, and stand
back. It is the business of the host to attend to those himself, or to
send the waiters to them.
If the party is so large that all the ladies cannot go to the table at
once, let the matrons be conducted thither first, and the young ladies
afterwards. If there is a crowd, it is not unusual to have a cord (a
handsome one, of course,) stretched across the door of the supper-room,
and guarded by a servant, who explains that no more are to pass till
after that cord is taken down. Meanwhile, the younger part of the
company amuse themselves in the adjacent rooms. No lady should take the
liberty of meddling with the flowers that ornament the table, or of
secreting “good things” to carry home to her children.
Apropos to flowers.—The stiff, hard bouquets are now obsolete, where the
flowers (stripped of their natural green leaves,) were tied _en masse_
on a wooden skewer, against a flat back-ground of cedar sprays. The more
elegant arrangement is revived of arranging them in a full round
cluster, with a fair portion of their real leaves; the largest and
finest flowers in the centre, (large white ones particularly); those of
middle size next; and the light, long, and branchy sprays and tendrils
at the extremities, the smallest near the bottom of the bouquet, which
is not so large and massy as formerly, but more graceful and select. The
bouquet may be carried on the young lady’s arm, suspended to a long and
handsome white ribbon tied in a bow—a _coloured_ ribbon will disturb the
effect of the flowers. There should be nothing to interfere with their
various and beautiful tints.
At a ball, let no _coloured_ chalks or crayons be used for the floor.
They will rub off on the white shoes of the ladies, and spoil them.
When, instead of _setting_ a supper-table, refreshments are handed round
to the ladies, the fashion has long since gone by of a gentleman walking
beside each waiter, and “assisting the ladies.” It is now found that if
the articles are properly arranged, and of the proper sort, the ladies
can much more conveniently help themselves, and with less risk of
staining or greasing their dresses. Unless the gentleman was “a
thorough-going party-man,” and stereotyped as such, he often committed
rather vexatious blunders, particularly if he was not _au-courant_ to
the new improvements, and accustomed to being “at good men’s feasts;” or
rather, at _women’s good feasts_. One evening at a party, we saw an
“ingenuous youth,” whose experience in that line must have been rather
limited, officiously undertake the portioning out to the ladies of a
composition hitherto quite new to himself. This was “a trifle,” being
the contents of a very large glass bowl, filled with macaroons, &c.,
dissolved in wine, &c., with profuse layers of custard, sweetmeats, &c.,
and covered in at the top with a dome of whipt cream heaped high and
thick over the whole. The pea-green youth assisted the ladies to nothing
but saucers of froth from the top, thinking that was the right way. At
last, the mulatto man, whose superior tact must have been all this time
in a state of suffering, explained to the novice in trifles, that a
portion of all the various contents of the glass bowl should be allotted
to each saucer. “That!” said the surprised doer of honours, “I thought
all that was only the grounds!” The coloured man relieved him by taking
the silver server round a second time to all the ladies, who had
hitherto missed the sediment of the syllabub.
At a summer evening party, the refreshments are of a much lighter
description than at a winter entertainment; consisting chiefly of
ice-creams, water-ices, fresh fruit, lady-cake, and almond sponge-cake.
Also strawberry or raspberry charlottes, which are made by arranging in
glass bowls slices of cake cut in even and regular forms, and spread
thickly over with the fruit mashed to a jam with white sugar—the bowls
being heaped with whipt cream.
The dresses of the ladies are of clear muslin, or some other light
material, and without any elaborate trimming. The hair is simply
arranged—curls being inconvenient in warm weather; and the only head
ornaments are ribbons, or _real_ flowers.
At summer evening parties the veranda is always put into requisition,
being cooler than any part of the house.
At summer dinner-parties, let the dessert be served in another and
cooler apartment; the company quitting the dining-room as soon as they
have done with the meats, &c. The beauties of the dessert appear to
greater advantage, when seen all at one view on a fresh table.
We will introduce a minute account of a very fashionable English
dinner-party, obtained from a friend who was one of the guests. It may
afford some hints for the routine of an elegant entertainment, _à
l’Anglais_, in our own country.
The guests were twenty-four in number, and they began to assemble at
half past seven, punctually. They were received in the library, where
the host and hostess were standing ready to receive them, introducing
those who were strangers to each other. When all had arrived, the butler
entered, and going up to the lady of the house, told her in a low voice
that “dinner was served.” The hostess then arranged those that were not
previously acquainted, and the gentlemen conducted the ladies to the
dining-room; the principal stranger taking the mistress of the house,
and the master giving his arm to the chief of the female guests. In
England, these arrangements are made according to the rank of the
ladies—that of the gentlemen is not considered. A duchess takes
precedence of a marchioness, a viscountess of a countess, a baroness of
a baron_et_’s lady, &c.,—for a baron is above a baronet. Going into the
dining-room, the company passed by the butler and eight footmen, all of
whom were stationed in two rows. The butler was drest entirely in
black—the footmen in their livery. According to a new fashion, they may
now wear long gaiters. White kid gloves are indispensable to the
footmen.
The table was set for twenty-six—and standing on it were elegant gilt
candelabras. _All_ the lights were wax candles. Chandeliers were
suspended from the ceiling. In the middle of the table was a magnificent
plateau, or centre ornament of gold; flowers surmounted the summit; and
the circular stages below were covered with confectionery elegantly
arranged. On each side of the plateau, and above and below, were tall
china fruit-baskets. In the centre of each basket were immense
pine-apples of hot-house growth, with their fresh green leaves. Below
the pine-apples were large bunches of purple and white hot-house grapes,
beautifully disposed, with leaves and tendrils hanging over the sides of
the baskets. Down each side of the whole long table, were placed large,
round, saucer-shaped fruit-dishes, heaped up with peaches, nectarines,
pears, plumbs, ripe gooseberries, cherries, currants, strawberries, &c.
All the fruits not in season were supplied from hot-houses. And
alternating with the fruit were all the _entreméts_ in covered dishes,
placed on long slips of damask the whole length of the table. All the
plate was superb. The dinner-set was of French china, gilt, and painted
with roses. At every plate was a caraffe of water, with a tumbler turned
down over it, and several wine-glasses. The napkins were large. The
side-board held only the show-silver and the wine. The side-tables were
covered with elegant damask cloths. On these were ranged, laid along in
numerous rows, the knives, forks, and spoons to be used at dinner. The
dessert-spoons were in the form of hollow leaves, the stems being the
handles. They were beautifully engraved in tasteful patterns. The
fruit-knives had silver blades and pearl handles. There were two soups
(white and brown,) standing on a side-table. Each servant handed the
things in his white kid gloves, and with a damask napkin under his
thumb. They offered (mentioning its name in a low voice,) a plate of
each soup to each guest. After the soup, Hock and Moselle wine were
offered to each guest, that they might choose either. A dish of fish was
then placed at each end of the table—one was salmon, the other turbot.
These dishes were immediately taken off to be helped by the servants,
both sorts of fish being offered to each person. Then the appropriate
sauce for the fish—also cucumbers to eat with the salmon. No castors
were on the large table, but they were handed round by the servants.
Directly after the fish came the _entrémets_, or French dishes. The wine
following the fish was Madeira and Sherry.
Afterwards, a saddle or haunch of Welsh mutton was placed at the
master’s end of the table, and at the lady’s end a boiled turkey. These
dishes being removed to the side-tables, very thin slices of each were
handed round. The poultry was not dissected—nothing being helped but the
breast. Ham and tongue was then supplied to those who took poultry; and
currant-jelly to the eaters of mutton. Next came the vegetables, handed
round on dishes divided into four compartments, each division containing
a different sort of vegetable.
Next, two dishes of game were put on—one before the master of the house,
and the other before the mistress. The game (which was perfectly
well-done,) was helped by them, and sent round with the appropriate
sauce. Then, placed along the table, were the sweet things—charlottes,
jellies, frozen fruit, &c. A lobster salad, drest and cut up large, was
put on with the sweets. On a side-table were stilton and cream cheese,
to be eaten with the salad. After this, port wine—the champagne being
early in the dinner. Next the sweets were handed round. With the sweets
were frozen fruits—fruits cut up, and frozen with isinglass-jelly, (red,
in moulds.)
Next, a dessert plate was given to each guest, and on it a ground glass
plate, about the size of a saucer. Between these plates was a
crochet-worked white doyly, of the size of the under-plate; the
crochet-work done with thread, so as to resemble lace. These doylies
were laid under the ground-glass plate, to deaden the noise of their
collision. Then was brought from the side-table a ground-glass plate of
ice-cream, or water-ice, which you took in exchange for that before you.
The water-ice was frozen in moulds, in the form of fruit, and suitably
coloured. The baskets containing the fruit were then removed to the
side-tables, where the servants had silver scissors, with which they
clipped off small bunches of the grapes, and the green tops of the
pine-apples, and a portion of the flesh of the fruit. The middle part
was then pared and sliced. On each dessert plate was placed a slice of
pine-apple, and small bunches of white and blue grapes. After the grapes
and pine-apples were thus handed round, the dishes of the other fruits
were then offered successively to every guest. After the ground-glass
and doylies, there was no farther change of plates.
After sitting a while over the fruit, the lady of the house gives the
signal, by looking and bowing to the ladies on each side, and the ladies
at this signal prepare to retire. The gentlemen all rise, and remain
standing while the ladies depart—the master of the house holding the
door open. The servants then all retire, except the butler, who remains
to wait on the gentlemen, while they linger awhile (not more than a
quarter of an hour,) over the fruit and wine.
CHAPTER XXIV.
MISCELLANIES.
It may be well to caution our young friends against certain bad
practices, easily contracted, but sometimes difficult to relinquish. The
following are things not to be done:—Biting your nails. Slipping a ring
up and down your finger. Sitting cross-kneed, and jogging your feet.
Drumming on the table with your knuckles; or, still worse, tinking on a
piano with _your fore-finger only_. Humming a tune before strangers.
Singing as you go up and down stairs. Putting your arm round the neck of
another young girl, or promenading the room with arms encircling waists.
Holding the hand of a friend all the time she sits beside you; or
kissing and fondling her before company. Sitting too closely.
Slapping a gentleman with your handkerchief, or tapping him with your
fan. Allowing him to take a ring off your finger, to look at it.
Permitting him to unclasp your bracelet, or, still worse, to inspect
your brooch. When these ornaments are to be shown to another person,
always take them off for the purpose. Pulling at your own ringlets, or
your own ear-rings—or fingering your neck ribbon. Suffering a gentleman
to touch your curls. Reading with a gentleman off the same book or
newspaper. Looking over the shoulder of any person who is reading or
writing. Taking up a _written_ paper from the table, and examining it.
To listen at door-cracks, and peep through key-holes, is vulgar and
contemptible. So it is to ask children questions concerning their
parents, though such things are still done.
If you mean that you were angry, do not say you were “mad.”—“It made me
so mad”—“I was quite mad at her,” are phrases not to be used by people
considering themselves genteel. Anger and madness are not the same, or
should not be; though it is true that ungoverned rage, is, sometimes,
carried so far as to seem like insanity.
Enter into no freaks of fashion that are silly, unmeaning, and
unlady-like; even if they _have_ been introduced by a belle, and
followed by other belles. Commit no absurdity because, a public singer
or dancer has done so in her ignorance of good behaviour. During the
Jenny Lind fever, there were young ladies who affected to skuttle into a
drawing-room all of a sudden, somewhat as the fair Swede came skuttling
in upon the concert stage, because in reality she knew not how to make
her entrance gracefully. Other demoiselles twined and waved about, with
body, head, and eyes, never a moment quiet. This squirming (as it was
called) originated in a very bad imitation of Fanny Elssler’s dancing
motions. At one time there were girls at parties, who stood on one foot,
and with the other kicked up their dresses behind, while talking to
gentlemen. This fashion began with a celebrated beauty who “dared do any
thing.” Luckily, these “whims and oddities” are always of short
duration, and are never adopted by young ladies of good taste and
refinement.
Do not nod your head, or beat time with fan or foot while listening to
music.
Never at a party consent to accompany another lady in a duet, unless you
are accustomed to singing with her. Still worse—do not volunteer to
“assist” her in a song that is not a duet. Each voice will interrupt and
spoil the other. A lady who sings by ear only, cannot accompany one that
sings by note.
One of the most horrible sounds imaginable is that produced by several
fine voices all singing different songs. This cats’ concert (as
school-girls call it) results in a shocking and yet ludicrous discord,
equally frightful and laughable. And yet all the performers are singing
individually well. Try it.
Raising a window-sash, in cold weather, without first ascertaining if
the rest of the company are, like yourself, too warm. Leaving the
parlour door open in winter—a perpetual occurrence at hotels and
boarding-houses.
Talking so loudly that you can be heard all over the room. Or so low
that you cannot be heard at all, even by those who are conversing with
you. This last fault is the worst. To talk with one who has a habit of
muttering unintelligibly, is like trying to read a letter illegibly
written.
Using too often the word “madam” or “ma’am,” which in fact, is now
nearly obsolete in familiar conversation. In the old French tragedies
the lovers addressed their mistresses as “madam.” But then the stage
Alexander wore a powdered wig, and a laced coat, knee-breeches, and a
long-skirted waistcoat; and Roxana figured in a hoop-petticoat, a
brocade gown, a flowered apron, and a towering gauze cap. The frequent
use of “sir” is also out of fashion. “Yes, ma’am,” “No, ma’am,” “Yes,
sir,” “No, sir,” no longer sounds well, except from children to their
elders. If you have not distinctly heard what another lady has just said
to you, do not denote it by saying, “Ma’am?” but remark to her, “Excuse
me, I did not exactly hear you!”
Never, in a public parlour, place yourself in a position where you can
secretly hear conversation that is not intended for you—for instance in
a corner behind a pillar. If you hear yourself talked of, it is mean to
stay and listen. It is a true adage that “Listeners seldom hear any good
of themselves.”
However smart and witty you may be considered, do not exercise your wit
in rallying and bantering your friends. If you do so, their friendship
will soon be worn out, or converted into positive enmity. A jest that
carries a sting with it can never give a pleasant sensation to the
object. The bite of a musquito is a very little thing, but it leaves
pain and inflammation behind it, and the more it is rubbed the longer it
rankles in the blood. No one likes to have their foibles or mishaps
turned into ridicule—before other persons especially. And few can
cordially join in a laugh that is raised against themselves.
The slightest jest on the personal defects of those you are conversing
with, is an enormity of rudeness and vulgarity. It is, in fact, a sneer
at the Creator that made them so. No human creature is accountable for
being too small, or too large; for an ill-formed figure, or for
ill-shaped limbs; for irregular features, or a bad complexion.
Still worse, to rally any person (especially a woman) on her age, or to
ask indirect questions with a view of discovering what her age really
is. If we continue to live, we must continue to grow old. We must either
advance in age, or we must die. Where then is the shame of surviving our
youth? And when youth departs, beauty goes along with it. At least as
much beauty as depends on complexion, hair, and teeth. In arriving at
middle age, (or a little beyond it,) a lady must compound for the loss
of either face or figure. About that period she generally becomes
thinner, or fatter. If thin, her features shrink, and her skin shrivels
and fades; even though she retains a slender and perhaps a girlish form.
If she grows fat, her skin may continue smooth, and her complexion fine,
and her neck and arms may be rounder and handsomer than in girlhood; but
then symmetry of shape will cease—and she must reconcile herself to the
change as best she can. But a woman with a good mind, a good heart, and
a good temper, can never at any age grow ugly—for an intelligent and
pleasant expression is in itself beauty, and the best sort of beauty.
Sad indeed is the condition of women in the decline of life when “No
lights of age adorn them.” When, having neglected in the spring and
summer to lay up any stores for the winter that is sure to come, they
find themselves left in the season of desolation with nothing to fall
back upon—no pleasant recollections of the acquisition of knowledge or
the performance of good deeds, and nothing to talk about but the idle
gossip of the day—striving painfully to look younger than they really
are; still haunting balls and parties, and enduring all the discomforts
of crowded watering-places, long after all pleasure in such scenes must
have passed away. But then they must linger in public because they are
miserable at home, having no resources within themselves, and few
enduring friends to enliven them with their society.
The woman that knows how to grow old gracefully, will adapt her dress to
her figure and her age, and wear colours that suit her present
complexion. If her neck and arms are thin, she will not expose them
under any circumstances. If her hair is grey, she will not decorate it
with flowers and flimsy ribbons. If her cheeks are hollow, she will not
make her face look still longer and thinner by shadowing it with long
ringlets; and setting her head-dress far back—but she will give it as
much softness as she can, by a light cap-border tied under her chin. She
will not squeeze herself out of all human shape by affecting a long
tight _corsage_; and she will wear no dresses glaring with huge flowers,
or loaded with gaudy trimmings. She will allude to her age as a thing of
course; she will speak without hesitation of former times, though the
recollection proves her to be really old. She will be kind and indulgent
to the young; and the young will respect and love her, and gladly
assemble near her chair, and be amused and unconsciously instructed. As
long as she lives and retains her faculties she will endeavour to
improve, and to become still a wiser and a better woman; never excusing
herself by indolently and obstinately averring that “she is too old to
learn,” or that she cannot give up her old-fashioned habits. If she
finds that those habits are unwarrantable, or that they are annoying to
her friends, she ought to relinquish them. No one with a mind
unimpaired, and a heart still fresh, is too old to learn.
This book is addressed chiefly to the young; but we shall be much
gratified by finding that even old ladies have found in it some
advantageous suggestions on points that had hitherto escaped their
notice.
THE END.
-----
Footnote 1:
So it is to order the carriage without first asking permission of your
hostess.
Footnote 2:
Where the City-Post is to be depended on, a note can always be sent in
that way.
Footnote 3:
If the visiter has been properly announced, a well-trained servant
will, in all probability, run up before her, and open the room-door.
Footnote 4:
It is well to present a lady or gentleman from another city, as “Miss
Ford of New York”—“Mrs. Stephens of Boston”—“Mr. Warren of New
Orleans.”
Footnote 5:
Distinguished men of all professions, doctors, lawyers, artists,
authors, and officers of the army and navy, frequently receive the
honour of knighthood.
Footnote 6:
It would be well if all the public offices at Washington were
furnished with copies of the British Peerage. Perhaps they are.
Footnote 7:
When circumstances render it expedient to carry much money out with
you, divide it; putting half in one purse or pocket-book, and half in
another, and put these portions into two pockets.
Footnote 8:
In a former work of the author’s, _The House Book_, published by A.
Hart, Philadelphia, will be found ample directions for packing trunks,
&c.
Footnote 9:
Nevertheless, it is not good manners to make any remark (even to a
friend) on their coming to breakfast late or early. It is no concern
of yours, and they have reasons of their own, undoubtedly.
Footnote 10:
Americans never really say _niggers_, though constantly accused of
doing so by their British cousins. The word _negor_ we have heard, but
_nigger_ never.
Footnote 11:
It is customary with professional or public musicians, when in private
company, to volunteer a song or a piece; knowing that, out of
delicacy, no one will _ask_ them to give a gratuitous specimen of the
art by which they live. This is polite and proper. It is always duly
appreciated, and adds to the popularity of the performer.
Footnote 12:
A whisperer usually betrays herself by unconsciously fixing her eyes
on the person she is secretly talking of. If you wish to inform your
neighbour that a distinguished person is present, say softly, “Mr. C.
is here, but do not look at him just now.”
Footnote 13:
It is, however, customary in eating sweet potatoes of a large size, to
break them in two, and taking a piece in your hand, to pierce down to
the bottom with your fork, and then mix in some butter, continuing to
hold it thus while eating it.
Footnote 14:
When the name of the state is short, you may give all the letters that
compose it, as Maine—Ohio—Iowa—Texas—Utah.
Footnote 15:
In buying a _handsome_ parasol or umbrella, see that it has a
folding-joint in the middle of the stick, and that this joint works
easily, so that there may be no difficulty in packing it in a trunk or
box. To prevent the silk being rubbed, tie up the parasol in a smooth
linen case, previous to packing.
Footnote 16:
We were a few years since, told by one of our principal booksellers
that a young lady came into his store when he chanced to be at the
counter himself, and, showing him a small English prayer-book
elegantly bound, and with fine engravings, she enquired if he had any
exactly like that. On his replying in the negative, she desired that
he would get precisely such a prayer-book _made for her_, in time for
church on Sunday morning—(it was then Friday)—as she had set her mind
on it. It must have just such pictures, and just such a beautiful gilt
cover. He endeavoured in vain to convince her of the utter
impossibility of performing this feat of having one single book
printed, and bound, with plates engraved purposely for it, and all in
the space of a day and a half. She seemed much displeased, and went
away, in search, as she said, of a bookseller that was more obliging.
Footnote 17:
The author is a Protestant.
Footnote 18:
Miss Leslie’s American Girl’s Book (published by C. S. Francis,)
contains a great variety of amusing plays, ways to redeem forfeits,
&c., with an unusual number of conundrums.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
● Used numbers for footnotes, placing them all at the end of the last
chapter.
● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
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