I have sat, as Shakspeare says, “at good men’s feasts ere now”—have ate turtle at the lord mayor’s and venison at peers’ tables, and soufflés at diplomatic dinners—have ate sturgeon at St Petersburg, and mullet at Naples; mutton in Wales, and grouse in the Highlands; roast-beef with John Bull, and volauxvents at Beauvilliers’; but I have no hesitation in saying that the hotch-potch and how-towdies of Blinkbonnie excelled them all. How far the happy human faces of all ages round the table contributed to enhance the gusto, I do not pretend to decide; but I can tell Mr Véry that, among all his consommés, there is nothing like a judicious mixture of youth and beauty, with manliness, integrity, and virtue.—Blackwood’s Magazine.
A SCOTTISH GENTLEWOMAN OF THE LAST CENTURY.
By Susan Edmonstone Ferrier.
“Though last, not least of nature’s works, I must now introduce you to a friend of mine,” said Mr Douglas, as they bent their steps towards the Castlehill of Edinburgh. “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-hearted 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’œil 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 hair-cloth 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 vestage of book or work was harboured there. She was a tall, large-boned woman, whom even Time’s iron hand had 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.