Though Adelaide's character was ever the same, the style of her conversation varied with every different person she conversed with. She was generally animated, though seldom gay; and the liveliness of her discourse was owing to her possessing not only an uncommonly clear perception of the ideas of others, but also an equally clear arrangement of her own, which gave her conversation a lucidity, that elicited the thinking powers of her auditors; so that if she was not absolutely witty herself, she was often at least "the cause of wit in others." She was habitually cheerful, and generally self-possessed, except when her feelings were accidentally excited, and they lay too deep to be called forth in the common intercourse of society. In a word, her vivacity proceeded less from the buoyancy of animal spirits, as passing as youth itself, than from the satisfaction of a soul at peace with itself, and of a mind amused by a constant flow of intellect.
The entrance of the gentlemen transferred Miss Cecilia Webberly, and of course her guests, from the drawing-room to the music saloon. Here again her fine voice, like her fine person, was spoiled by affectation, and by an attempt at displaying a taste, of which nature had denied her mind any just perceptions. She had acquired from her master a would-be expression, which consisted of a regular alternation of piano and forte, as completely distinct as the black and white squares of a chess board, with corresponding movements of her eyes and shoulders; the tout ensemble seeming to the hearer like a succession of unprepared screams, neither leaving him the peace of a monotonous repose, nor affording him the charm of variety. "By heavens, I would as soon be shut up in a room with a trumpeter; she has voice enough to blow a man's brains out!" said young Mr. Thornbull to Mr. Temple, while his ears yet tingled with Cecilia's last shout. "I am sure Miss Wildenheim sings in a very different manner." "I am not sure," replied his reverend auditor, smiling, "that she sings at all. If she does, no doubt her judgment is as correct in music as in every thing else;—however, let us see:"—and walking up to Mrs. Sullivan, they begged of her to procure them a specimen of Miss Wildenheim's musical abilities. Adelaide complied with a look and a curtsy, that bespoke the pardon of her imperfections, and which, strange to say, procured a temporary absolution for her charms, even from those to whom they were most obnoxious.
The young man was too much engaged in watching the playful variety of her countenance when she sung (for she never looked half so charming as when singing), to criticise her performance, but took for granted it was divine, and so must
"Those who were there, and those who were not."
For though it is easy to exhibit deformity, it is impossible to describe the nicely adjusted balance of opposite beauties, which constitutes perfection: more especially in an art, that is often most felt when least understood, and whose evanescent charms are passing for ever away, whilst the mind is yet revelling in a consciousness of their existence!
When the usual routine of complimenting had been gone through by the rest of the company, and Adelaide was disengaged, Mr. Temple, after praising her performance, said, "Notwithstanding your delightful singing, I must say, I think the best days of music are past." The lovely songstress, casting her eyes on Selina and thereby applying her words to the beautiful girl's bewitching figure, replied, "I partly agree with you, my dear sir.—'When music, heavenly maid, was young,' perhaps her wild graces were more captivating than her mature elegance."—"Your simile is just, and well applied. Music certainly now feels her decay, and seeks to hide her faded charms by profuse ornament."
Mr. Temple not unfrequently talked by inch of candle, and would have gone on, perhaps, for an hour, had not his wife, tapping him on the shoulder, told him it was time to return home: and, as is usually the case in parties in the country, the announcement of one carriage was the signal for the abrupt departure of the whole company; and though Mrs. Sullivan roared out in an audible voice, "Why, Cilly, you haven't a gone half through the hairs you practised this morning! Where's your bravo hair? and your polacker?" before the anxious mother had recapitulated half the catalogue, she found, equally to her surprise and dismay, that all her guests had disappeared, nearly as suddenly as Tam O'Shanter's companions, before he had finished his commendatory exclamations:
"In an instant all was dark,
And,
"Out the hellish legion sallied."