"Mrs. Fye, it surprises me that such proud people as you Americans
should condescend to the meanness of borrowing from those whom you
affect to despise. Besides, as you never repay us for what you
pretend to borrow, I look upon it as a system of robbery. If
strangers unfortunately settle among you, their good-nature is taxed
to supply your domestic wants, at a ruinous expense, besides the
mortification of finding that they have been deceived and tricked
out of their property. If you would come honestly to me and say,
'I want these things, I am too poor to buy them myself, and would be
obliged to you to give them to me,' I should then acknowledge you as
a common beggar, and treat you accordingly; give or not give, as it
suited my convenience. But in the way in which you obtain these
articles from me, you are spared even a debt of gratitude; for you
well know that the many things which you have borrowed from me will
be a debt owing to the Day of Judgment."
"S'pose they are," quoth Betty, not in the least abashed at my
lecture on honesty, "you know what the Scripture saith, 'It is
more blessed to give than to receive.'"
"Ay, there is an answer to that in the same book, which doubtless
you may have heard," said I, disgusted with her hypocrisy, "'The
wicked borroweth, and payeth not again.'"
Never shall I forget the furious passion into which this too apt
quotation threw my unprincipled applicant. She lifted up her voice
and cursed me, using some of the big oaths temporarily discarded for
conscience sake. And so she left me, and I never looked upon her
face again.
When I removed to our own house, the history of which, and its
former owner, I will give by-and-by, we had a bony, red-headed,
ruffianly American squatter, who had "left his country for his
country's good," for an opposite neighbour. I had scarcely time
to put my house in order before his family commenced borrowing,
or stealing from me. It is even worse than stealing, the things
procured from you being obtained on false pretences - adding lying
to theft. Not having either an oven or a cooking stove, which at
that period were not so cheap or so common as they are now, I had
provided myself with a large bake-kettle as a substitute. In this
kettle we always cooked hot cakes for breakfast, preferring that to
the trouble of thawing the frozen bread. This man's wife was in the
habit of sending over for my kettle whenever she wanted to bake,
which, as she had a large family, happened nearly every day, and
I found her importunity a great nuisance.
I told the impudent lad so, who was generally sent for it; and asked
him what they did to bake their bread before I came.
"I guess we had to eat cakes in the pan; but now we can borrow this
kettle of your'n, mother can fix bread."
I told him that he could have the kettle this time; but I must
decline letting his mother have it in future, for I wanted it for
the same purpose.
The next day passed over. The night was intensely cold, and I did
not rise so early as usual in the morning. My servant was away at a
quilting bee, and we were still in bed, when I heard the latch of
the kitchen-door lifted up, and a step crossed the floor. I jumped
out of bed, and began to dress as fast as I could, when Philander
called out, in his well-known nasal twang -
"Missus! I'm come for the kettle."
I (through the partition ): "You can't have it this morning. We
cannot get our breakfast without it."
Philander: "Nor more can the old woman to hum," and, snatching up
the kettle, which had been left to warm on the hearth, he rushed out
of the house, singing, at the top of his voice -
"Hurrah for the Yankee Boys!"
When James came home for his breakfast, I sent him across to demand
the kettle, and the dame very coolly told him that when she had done
with it I MIGHT have it, but she defied him to take it out of her
house with her bread in it.
One word more about this lad, Philander, before we part with him.
Without the least intimation that his company would be agreeable,
or even tolerated, he favoured us with it at all hours of the day,
opening the door and walking in and out whenever he felt inclined.
I had given him many broad hints that his presence was not required,
but he paid not the slightest attention to what I said. One morning
he marched in with his hat on, and threw himself down in the
rocking-chair, just as I was going to dress my baby.
"Philander, I want to attend to the child; I cannot do it with you
here. Will you oblige me by going into the kitchen?"
No answer. He seldom spoke during these visits, but wandered about
the room, turning over our books and papers, looking at and handling
everything. Nay, I have even known him to take a lid off from the
pot on the fire, to examine its contents.
I repeated my request.
Philander: "Well, I guess I shan't hurt the young 'un. You can
dress her."
I: "But not with you here."
Philander: "Why not? WE never do anything that we are ashamed of."
I:
