“Not Hottentots,” mildly interposed Aunt Barbara.  “Philistines was what I called them, Sophia; and in doing so; I did not mean all of them, you know.”

“Well, Philistines, then, if that’s a better word than Hottentots, which I doubt,” Mrs. Van Buren retorted sharply.

Aunt Barbara’s evident wish to smooth matters irritated her to say more than she might otherwise have done, and she went on: 

“I know you made exceptions, but if my memory serves me right, your opinion of Ethie’s mother-in-law was not very complimentary to that lady.  A man has no business to take his wife to live with his mother when he knows how different they are.”

“But I did not know,” Richard said; “that is, I had never thought much of the things which tried Ethie.  Mother was always a good mother to me, and I did not suppose she was so very different from other women.”

“You certainly must be very obtuse, then,” Mrs. Van Buren replied:  “for, if all accounts which I hear are true, your mother is not the person to make a daughter-in-law happy.  Neither, it seems, did you do what you could to please her.  You annoyed her terribly with your codger-like ways, if I may be allowed that term.  You made but little effort to improve, thinking, no doubt, that it was all nonsense and foolishness; that it was just as well to wear your hat in church, and sit with your boots on top of the stove, as any other way.”

“I never wore my hat in church!” Richard exclaimed, with more warmth than he had before evinced.

“I don’t suppose you did do that particular thing, but you were guilty of other low-bred habits which grated just as harshly as that.  You thought because you were a judge and an M.C., and had the reputation of possessing brains, that it did not matter how you demeaned yourself; and there you were mistaken.  The manners of a gentleman would sit ten times more gracefully upon you because you had brains.  No one likes a boor, and no man of your ability has any business to be a clown.  Even if you were not taught it at home, you could learn from observation, and it was your duty to do so.  Instead of that, you took it for granted you were right because no one had ever suggested that you were wrong, while your mother had petted you to death.  I have not the honor of her acquaintance, but I must say I consider her a very remarkable person, even for a Western woman.”

“My mother was born East,” Richard suggested, and Mrs. Van Buren continued: 

“Certainly; but that does not help the matter.  It rather makes it worse, for of all disagreeable people, a Western Yankee is, I think, the most disagreeable.  Such an one never improves, but adheres strictly to the customs of their native place, no matter how many years have passed since they lived there, or how great the march of improvement may have been.  In these days of railroads and telegraphs there is no reason why your mother should not be up to the times.  Her neighbors are, it seems, and I have met quite as cultivated people from beyond the Rocky Mountains as I have even seen in Boston.”