“Having a tongue rough as a cat, and biting like an adder, and all their reproofs are direct scoldings, their common intercourse is open contumely.” JEREMY TAYLOR.

“THOUGH last, not least of nature’s works, I must now introduce you to a friend of mine,” said Mr. Douglas, as, the Bailie having made his bow, they bent their steps towards the Castle Hill. “Mrs. Violet Macshake is an aunt of my mother’s, whom you must often have heard of, and the last remaining branch of the noble race of Girnachgowl.”

“I am afraid she is rather a formidable person, then?” said Mary.

Her uncle hesitated. “No, not formidable only rather particular, as all old people are; but she is very good-hearted.”

“I understand, in other words, she is very disagreeable. All ill-tempered people, I observe, have the character of being good-hearted; or else all good people are ill-tempered, I can’t tell which.”

“It is more than reputation with her,” said Mr. Douglas, somewhat angrily: “for she is, in reality, a very good-hearted woman, as I experienced when a boy at college. Many a crown piece and half-guinea I used to get from her. Many a scold, to be sure, went along with them; but that, I daresay, I deserved. Besides, she is very rich, and I am her reputed heir; therefore gratitude and self-interest combine to render her extremely amiable in my estimation.”

They had now reached the airy dwelling where Mrs. Macshake resided, and having rung, the door was at length most deliberately opened by an ancient, sour-visaged, long-waisted female, who ushered them into an apartment, the coup d’oeil of which struck a chill to Mary’s heart. It was a good-sized room, with a bare sufficiency of small-legged dining-tables, and lank haircloth chairs, ranged in high order round the walls. Although the season was advanced, and the air piercing cold, the grate stood smiling in all the charms of polished steel; and the mistress of the mansion was seated by the side of it in an arm-chair, still in its summer position. She appeared to have no other occupation than what her own meditations afforded; for a single glance sufficed to show that not a vestige of book or work was harboured there. She was a tall, large-boned woman, whom even Time’s iron hands scarcely bent, as she merely stooped at the shoulders. She had a drooping snuffy nose, a long turned-up chin, small quick gray eyes, and her face projected far beyond her figure, with an expression of shrewd restless curiosity. She wore a mode (not a-la-mode ) bonnet, and cardinal of the same, a pair of clogs over her shoes, and black silk mittens on her arms.

As soon as she recognised Mr. Douglas she welcomed him with much cordiality, shook him long and heartily by the hand, patted him on the back, looked into his face with much seeming satisfaction; and, in short, gave all the demonstrations of gladness usual with gentlewomen of a certain age. Her pleasure, however, appeared to be rather an impromptu than an habitual feeling; for as the surprise wore off her visage resumed its harsh and sarcastic expression, and she seemed eager to efface any agreeable impression her reception might have excited.

“An’ wha thought o’ seein ye enow?” said she, in a quick gabbling voice. “What brought you to the toon? Are ye come to spend our honest faither’s siller ere he’s weel cauld in his grave, puir man?”

Mr. Douglas explained that it was upon account of his niece’s health.

“Health!” repeated she, with a sardonic smile; “it wad mak’ an ool laugh to hear the wark that’s made aboot young fowk’s health noo-a-days. I wonder what ye’re aw made o’ “ grasping Mary’s arm in her great bony hand “a wheen puir feckless windlestraes; ye maun awa’ to Ingland for ye’re healths. Set ye up! I wonder what cam’ o’ the lasses i’ my time, that bute to bide at hame? And whilk o’ ye, I sude like to ken, ’II ere leive to see ninety-sax, like me? Health! he, he !”

Mary, glad of a pretence to in indulge the mirth the old lady’s manner and appearance had excited, joined most heartily in the laugh.

“Tak. aff ye’re bannet, bairn, an’ let me see ye’re face. Wha can tell what like ye are wi’ that snule o’ a thing on ye’re head?” Then after taking an accurate survey of her face, she pushed aside her pelisse.” Weel, it’s ae mercy, I see ye hae neither the red heed nor the muckle cuits o’ the Douglases. I ken nae whuther ye’re faither had them or no. I ne’er set een on him; neither him nor his braw leddie thought it worth their while to speer after me; but I was at nae loss, by aw accounts.”

“You have not asked after any of your Glenfern friends,” said Mr. Douglas, hoping to touch a more sympathetic chord.

“Time eneugh. Wull ye let me draw my breath, man? Fowk canna say awthing at ance. An’ ye bute to hae an Inglish wife tu; a Scotch lass wad nae serr ye. An’ ye’re wean, I’se warran’, it’s ane o’ the warld’s wonders; it’s been unco lang o’ cummin he, he!”

“He has begun life under very melancholy auspices, poor fellow!” said Mr. Douglas, in allusion to his father’s death.

“An’ wha’s faut was that? I ne’er heard tell the like o’t; to hae the bairn kirsened an’ its grandfather deein! But fowk are naither born, nor kirsened, nor do they wad or dee as they used to du –­awthing’s changed.”

“You must, indeed, have witnessed many changes,” observed Mr. Douglas, rather at a loss how to utter anything of a conciliatory nature.

“Changes! weel a wat, I sometimes wonder if it’s the same warld, an’ if it’s my ain heed that’s upon my shoothers.”

“But with these changes you must also have seen many improvements?” said Mary, in a tone of diffidence.

“Impruvements!” turning sharply round upon her; “what ken ye about impruvements, bairn? A bony impruvement or ens no, to see tyleyors and sclaters leavin whar I mind jewks an yerls. An’ that great glowrin’ new toon there” pointing out of her windows “whar I used to sit an’ luck oot at bonny green parks, and see the coos milket, and the bits o’ bairnies rowin’ an’ tummlin,’ an’ the lasses trampin i’ their tubs what see I noo, but stane an’ lime, an’ stoor’ an’ dirt, an’ idle cheels, an’ dinket-oot madams prancin’. Impruvements, indeed!”

Mary found she was not likely to advance her uncle’s fortune by the judiciousness of her remarks, therefore prudently resolved to hazard no more. Mr. Douglas, who was more au fait to the prejudices of old age, and who was always amused with her bitter remarks when they did not touch himself, encouraged her to continue the conversation by some observation on the prevailing manners.

“Mainers!” repeated she, with a contemptuous laugh, “what caw ye mainers noo, for I dinna ken? Ilk ane gangs bang in till their neebor’s hoose, and bang oot o’t as it war a chynge-hoose; an’ as for the maister o’t, he’s no o’ sae muckle vaalu as tho flunky ahynt his chyre. I’ my grandfather’s time, as I hae heard him tell, ilka maister o’ a faamily had his ain sate in his ain hoose aye, an’ sat wi’ his hat on his heed afore the best o’ the land, an’ had his ain dish, an’ was aye helpit first, an’ keepit up his owthority as a man sude du. Paurents war paurents then; bairnes dardna set up their gabs afore them than as they du noo. They ne’er presumed to say their heeds war their ain i’ thae days wife an’ servants, reteeners an’ childer, aw trummelt i’ the presence o’ their heed.”

Here a long pinch of snuff caused a pause in the old lady’s harangue; but after having duly wiped her nose with her coloured handkerchief, and shook off all the particles that might be presumed to have lodged upon her cardinal, she resumed

“An’ nae word o’ ony o’ your sisters gaun to get husbands yet? They tell me they’re but coorse lasses: an’ wha’ll tak ill-farred tocherless queans whan there’s walth o’ bonny faces an’ lang purses i’ the market he, he!” Then resuming her scrutiny of Mary “An’ I’se warran’ ye’ll be lucken for an Inglish sweetheart tu that’ll be what’s takin’ ye awa’ to Ingland.”

“On the contrary,” said Mr. Douglas, seeing Mary was too much frightened to answer for herself “on the contrary, Mary declares she will never marry any but a true Highlander one who wears the dirk and plaid, and has the second-sight. And the nuptials are to be celebrated with all the pomp of feudal times; with bagpipes, and bonfires, and gatherings of clans, and roasted sheep, and barrels of whisky, and ”

“Weel a wat, an’ she’s i’ the right there,” interrupted Mrs. Macshake, with more complacency than she had yet shown. “They may caw them what they like, but there’s nae waddins noo. Wha’s the better o’ them but innkeepers and chise-drivers? I wud nae count mysel’ married i’ the hiddlins way they gang aboot it noo.”

“I daresay you remember these, things done in a very different style?” said Mr. Douglas.

“I dinna mind them whan the war at he best; but I hae heard my mither tell what a bonny ploy was at her waddin. I canna tell ye hoo mony was at it; mair nor the room wad haud, ye may be sure, for every relation an’ freend o’ baith sides war there, as well they sude; an’ aw in full dress: the leddies in their hoops round them, an’ some o’ them had sutten up aw night till hae their heeds drest; for they hadnae thae pooket-like taps ye hae noo,” looking with contempt at Mary’s Grecian contour. “An’ the bride’s goon was aw shewed ow’r wi’ favour, frae the tap doon to the tail, an’ aw roond the neck, an’ aboot the sleeves; and, as soon as the ceremony was ow’r, ilk ane ran till her, an’ rugget an’ rave at her for the favours till they hardly left the claise upon her back. Than they did nae run awa as they du noo, but sax an’t hretty o’ them sat doon till a graund denner, and there was a ball at night, an’ ilka night till Sabbath cam’ roond; an’ than the bride an’ the bridegroom, drest in their waddin suits, an’ aw their freends ’n theirs, wi’ their favours on their breests, walkit in procession till the kirk. An’ was nae that something like a waddin? It was worth while to be married i’ thae days-he, he!”

“The wedding seems to have been admirably conducted,” said Mr. Douglas, with much solemnity. “The christening, I presume, would be the next distinguished event in the family?”

“Troth, Archie-an’ ye sude keep your thoomb upon kirsnins as lang’s ye leeve; yours was a bonnie kirsnin or ens no! I hae heard o’ mony things, but a bairn kirsened whan its grandfaither was i’ the deed-thraw, I ne’er heard tell o’ before.” Then observing the indignation that spread over Mr. Douglas’s face, she quickly resumed, “An’ so ye think the kirsnin was the neist ploy? He, he! Na; the cryin was a ploy, for the leddies did nae keep themsels up than as they do noo; but the day after the bairn was born, the leddy sat up i’ her bed, wi’ her fan intill her hand; an’ aw her freends earn’ an’ stud roond her, an’ drank her health an’ the bairn’s. Than at the leddy’s recovery there was a graund supper gien that they caw’d the cummerfealls, an’ there was a great pyramid o’ hens at the tap o’ the table, an’ anither pyramid o’ ducks at the fit, an’ a muckle stoup fu’ o’ posset i’ the middle, an’ aw kinds o’ sweeties doon the sides; an’ as sune as ilk ane had eatin their fill they aw flew till the sweeties, an’ fought, an’ strave, an’ wrastled for them, leddies an’ gentlemen an’ aw; for the brag was wha could pocket maist; an’ whiles they wad hae the claith aff the table, an’ aw thing i’ the middle i’ the floor, an’ the chyres upside doon. Oo! muckle gude diversion, I’se warran,’ was at the cummerfealls. Than whan they had drank the stoup dry, that ended the ploy. As for the kirsnin, that was aye whar it sude be i’ the hoose o’ God, an’ aw the kith an’ kin bye in full dress, an’ a band o’ maiden cimmers aw in white; an’ a bonny sight it was, as I’ve heard my mither tell.”

Mr. Douglas, who was now rather tired of the old lady’s reminiscences, availed himself of the opportunity of a fresh pinch to rise and take leave.

“Oo, what’s takin’ ye awa, Archie, in sic a hurry? Sit doon there,” laying her hand upon his arm, “an’ rest ye, an’ tak a glass o’ wine, an’ a bit breed; or may be,” turning to Mary, “ye wad rather hae a drap broth to warm ye. What gars ye luck sae blae, bairn? I’m sure it’s no cauld; but ye’re juste like the lave; ye gang aw skiltin aboot the streets half naked, an’ than ye maun sit an’ birsle yoursels afore the fire at hame.”

She had now shuffled along to the farther end of the room, and opening a press, took out wine, and a plateful of various-shaped articles of bread, which she handed to Mary.

“Hae, bairn tak a cookie; tak it up what are you fear’d for? It’ll no bite ye. Here’s t’ye, Glenfern, an’ your wife, an’ your wean, puir tead; it’s no had a very chancy ootset, weel a wat.”

The wine being drunk, and the cookies discussed, Mr. Douglas made another attempt to withdraw, but in vain.

“Canna ye sit still a wee, man, an’ let me spear after my auld freens at Glenfern? Hoo’s Grizzy, an’ Jacky, and Nicky? Aye workin awa at the pills an’ the drogs? –­he, he! I ne’er swallowed a pill, nor gied a doit for drogs aw my days, an’ see an ony of them’ll rin a race wi’ me whan they’re naur five score.”

Mr. Douglas here paid her some compliments upon her appearance, which were pretty graciously received; and added that he was the bearer of a letter from his Aunt Grizzy, which he would send along with a roebuck and brace of moor-game.

“Gin your roebuck’s nae better than your last, at weel it’s no worth the sendin’-poor dry fisinless dirt, no worth the chowing; weel a wat I begrudged my teeth on’t. Your muirfowl was na that ill, but they’re no worth the carryin; they’re dong cheap i’the market enoo, so it’s nae great compliment. Gin ye had brought me a leg o’ gude mutton, or a cauler sawmont, there would hae been some sense in’t; but ye’re ane o’ the fowk that’ll ne’er harry yoursel’ wi’ your presents; it’s but the pickle poother they cost you, an’ I’se warran’ ye’re thinkin mail’ o’ your ain diversion than o’ my stamick, when ye’re at the shootin’ o’ them, puir beasts.”

Mr. Douglas had borne the various indignities levelled against himself and his family with a philosophy that had no parallel in his life before; but to this attack upon his game he was not proof. His colour rose, his eyes flashed fire, and something resembling an oath burst from his lips as he strode indignantly towards the door.

His friend, however, was too nimble for him. She stepped before him, and, breaking into a discordant laugh, as she patted him on the back, “So I see ye’re just the auld man, Archie, aye ready to tak the strums, an’ ye dinna get a’ thing yer ain wye. Mony a time I had to fleech ye oot o’ the dorts whan ye was a callant. Div ye mind hoo ye was affronted because I set ye doon to a cauld pigeon-pie, an’ a tanker o’ tippenny, ae night to ye’re fowerhoors, afore some leddies he, he, he! Weel a wat, yer wife maun hae her ain adoos to manage ye, for ye’re a cumstairy chield, Archie.”

Mr. Douglas still looked as if he was irresolute whether to laugh or be angry.

“Come, come, sit ye do on there till I speak to this bairn,” said she, as she pulled Mary into an adjoining bedchamber, which wore the same aspect of chilly neatness as the one they had quitted. Then pulling a huge bunch of keys from her pocket she opened a drawer, out of which she took a pair of diamond earrings. “Hae, bairn,” said she as she stuffed them into Mary’s hand; “they belanged to your father’s grandmother. She was a gude woman, an’ had fouran’-twenty sons an’ dochters, an’ I wiss ye nae war fortin than just to hae as mony. But mind ye,” with a shake of her bony finger, “they maun a be Scots. Gin I thought ye wad mairry ony pock-puddin’, fient haed wad ye hae gotten frae me. Noo, had ye’re tongue, and dinna deive me wi’ thanks,” almost pushing her into the parlour again; “and sin ye’re gaun awa the morn, I’ll see nae mair o’ ye enoo so fare ye weel. But, Archie, ye maun come an’ tak your breakfast wi’ me. I hae muckle to say to you; but ye manna be sae hard upon my baps as ye used to be,” with a facetious grin to her mollified favourite, as they shook hands and parted.

“Well, how do you like Mrs. Macshake, Mary?” asked her uncle as they walked home.

“That is a cruel question, uncle,” answered she, with a smile. “My gratitude and my taste are at such variance,” displaying her splendid gift, “that I know not how to reconcile them.”

“That is always the case with those whom Mrs. Macshake has obliged,” returned Mr. Douglas. “She does many liberal things, but in so ungracious a manner that people are never sure whether they are obliged or insulted by her. But the way in which she receives kindness is still worse. Could anything equal her impertinence about my roebuck? Faith, I’ve a good mind never to enter her door again!”

Mary could scarcely preserve her gravity at her uncle’s indignation, which seemed so disproportioned to the cause. But, to turn the current of his ideas, she remarked that he had certainly been at pains to select two admirable specimens of her countrywomen for her.

“I don’t think I shall soon forget either Mrs. Gawffaw or Mrs Macshake,” said she, laughing.

“I hope you won’t carry away the impression that these two lusus naturae specimens of Scotchwomen,” said her uncle. “The former, indeed, is rather a sort of weed that infests every soil; the latter, to be sure, is an indigenous plant. I question if she would have arrived at such perfection in a more cultivated field or genial clime. She was born at a time when Scotland was very different from what it is now. Female education was little attended to, even in families of the highest rank; consequently, the ladies of those days possess a raciness in their manners and ideas that we should vainly seek for in this age of cultivation and refinement. Had your time permitted, you could have seen much good society here; superior, perhaps, to what is to be found anywhere else, as far as mental cultivation is concerned. But you will have leisure for that when you return.”

Mary acquiesced with a sigh. Return was to her still a melancholy-sounding word. It reminded her of all she had left of the anguish of separation the dreariness of absence; and all these painful feelings were renewed in their utmost bitterness when the time approached for her to bid adieu to her uncle. Lord Courtland’s carriage and two respectable-looking servants awaited her; and the following morning she commenced her journey in all the agony of a heart that fondly clings to its native home.