I may as well acknowledge at once that Martin
A CASTLEHAVEN WOMAN.
and I have ever adored and encouraged beggars, however venal, and have seldom lost an opportunity of enjoying their conversation; ancient female beggars especially, although I have met many very attractive old men. At my mother’s Famine Conversaziones many beggar-women, whose names were on no list, would join themselves to the company of the accredited.
“I have no certain place Achudth!” (a term of endearment), said one such to me, “I’m between God and the people.”
It may be said that the people, however deep their own want, are unfailing in charity to such as she. I had, for a long time, a creature on my visiting list, or, to be accurate, I was on hers, who was known as “the Womaneen.” As far as I know, she subsisted entirely on “the Neighbours,” wandering round the country from house to house, never refused a night’s lodging and the “wetting of her mouth o’ tay” generally given “a share o’ praties” to “put in her bag for herself.” She was the very best of company, and the bestowal of that super-coveted boon, an old pair of boots, had power to evoke a gratitude that shamed its recipient.
“Yes, Hanora,” I have said, “I believe I have a pair to give you.”
On this the “Womaneen” opened the service of thanksgiving by clasping her hands, mutely raising her eyes to Heaven, and opening and shutting her mouth; this to show that emotion had rendered her speechless. She next seized my reluctant hand, and smacked upon it kisses of a breadth and quality that suggested the enveloping smack of a pancake when it has been tossed high and returns to its pan. Her speech was then recovered.