Adelaide did indeed take a much deeper interest in Augustus Mordaunt's fate, than Mrs. Temple imagined; and little did that kind friend suspect the misery her letter had caused on the perusal. "Gone abroad!" exclaimed Adelaide, in thought; "perhaps for years."—A deadly paleness overspread her face, and she precipitately sought the solitude of her own chamber. Let us not intrude on the privacy she has chosen; but turn to survey the motley groupes that are now assembling about Mr. O'Sullivan's door.
This day, being Saturday, Miss Fitzcarril held her levee, which was as numerously, though not quite so respectably, attended as her host's had been on the day before. On this day of the week she gave audience, and a halfpenny apiece, to all the beggars in the country, with many charges not to spend their money idly. On these occasions she stood at the breakfast room window; from which spot she inquired into all their complaints, without scruple; and, with the assistance of nurse, prescribed for them, and gave medicines, wine, spirits, or black currant jam, as their wants demanded: this affair being at an end, they all adjourned to the kitchen door, where each received a pitcher of broth, and a huge oaten cake, to bake which had been the principal employment of the women assembled there the day before. An English reader might suppose, that the amount of Miss Fitzcarril's donation in money had been limited to a halfpenny to each beggar, from her own inclination to parsimony; but it was in fact what was customary, a sort of toll, paid by the gentry to the mendicants, on condition of receiving which, they forbore to infest their abodes at other times. The country families generally gave something additional, in the way of provision, according to their ability; but the inhabitants of towns and villages literally paid only this new species of poll tax; which, when received from numbers, amounts to something considerable to each individual. It is a lamentable truth, that an undue proportion of the Irish population are beggars, either from necessity or inclination; and the predilection for this mode of living is encouraged by the extraordinary charity of the lower order to each other: no suppliant ever leaves the door of the most miserable cabin, without receiving a handful of oaten meal, or two or three potatoes, which are put into bags carried for the purpose; nor is a night's lodging and the use of the turf fire ever denied. The form of application, and admittance, is as follows:—The beggar stands on the threshold, and says, "Peace be to this house! Any good Christian within?"—"What do you want, poor sowl?"—"The blessing of the Lord, and the holy powers, be about ye; and give a desolate cratur a night's lodging."—"In the name of the holy Vargin, and the blessed saints, kindly welcome." After this formula, the beggar, and his or her family, take up their abode, as long as the neighbourhood affords them subsistence. In summer, hordes of people travel about the country in this manner. They plant their potatoes, and sow their oats in spring; then locking up their houses, repair, like their betters, to the watering places, where they remain till the season arrives for digging the one and reaping the other. To the beggars that are acknowledged to be hale in body and sound in mind must be added those, who draw on the charity of the working members of the community, as "innocents," "crouls," "spey" men or women, those afflicted with fits, dumb people, and lunatics. Whether it be, that the high premium that is given for any defect, mental or bodily, induces the fortunate possessor to bring it forward to publick view, and others, not so distinguished, to counterfeit infirmity; certain it is, that the eye of a stranger from England, where such objects are shut up in appropriate asylums, is as much shocked as surprised at the number of the above mentioned unfortunate beings, that are seen in the country parts of Ireland. There are numerous impostors, but still they are the exceptions, whilst the real sufferers form the rule.
Ere the beggars dispersed, Adelaide returned to the breakfast parlour. And is this proud and brilliant beauty the gentle, placid Adelaide? A vivid, perhaps a feverish glow, mantled her cheeks, and gave her eyes a dazzling lustre, that was almost as repelling as it was beautiful. The dignity of her carriage approached to majesty. She seemed to walk triumphantly, as if she led misfortune by the hand, and awed her by
"The strange powers which lie
Within the magic circle of the eye."
But had she thus quickly subdued all the rebel feelings, that so lately had mocked the calm control of reason? Oh, no! The smile that quivers round the trembling lip may play but to conceal the throb of agony. Even the melancholy sepulchre sometimes looks bright in the splendid beam of the sun; and the admiring spectator thinks not of the darkness and horror that reign within. At that moment Adelaide's heart was the tomb of hope. When she entered the breakfast room, Mr. Webberly stared at her like another Cymon, when Iphigenia first appeared to his wondering view. After gazing at her for some moments, he drew his breath, which had been repressed by his admiration, so as to give utterance to a most audible sigh; at the same time resolving, that, when she was Mrs. Webberly, she should always wear rouge. "When she has a colour (thought he) there is not a handsomer woman in all Lunnon.—At this very instant she looks as grand as Madame Catalani, when she acts that Di—Di—that virago queen, that burned herself like a fool. What a figure we shall cut when I drive her round the ring at the Park, in an open landaulet, with four dashing horses, and two out-riders, in smart liveries! No; I think I'll sit beside her; the fellows will envy me so! and have two postilions, with purple velvet caps, and jackets trimmed with gold lace!" Having thus settled his equipage to his satisfaction, he came up to the intended mistress of it, saying, with all the tenderness of accent he could command, "There is no body, Miss Wildenheim, I envy so much as Mrs. Temple; you used always to be so glad when you saw her; I should be the happiest man alive, if a letter from me would make you look so gay as hers has done."
A deeper hue painted Adelaide's cheek, and a still brighter beam sparkled in her eye. "What strange figure is that?" said she, laughing, and avoiding any direct reply; "mounted like the farrier of Tamworth, 'on a mare of four shilling?'" The equestrian, that thus attracted her notice, was one of a most unusual description. A sallow, meagre object was mounted on one of the rough mountain horses of the country; a straw rope served as bridle; and, instead of saddle, he sat on a well filled sack, wearing a coarse blanket, fastened under his chin, not to serve as a garment, as she unknowingly supposed, but to hide the good condition of those it concealed. "What's your business, good man?" inquired Miss Fitzcarril.—"I'm a stranger, and ye have a good name in the country, lady dear; and I'm just come to seek your charity, in God's name."—"What's that you've got in the sack?"—"Pratees and meal, honey."—"And where did you get that horse?"—"Troth, I bought him at the fair, last Tursday was tree weeks." "I've nothing for you, good man: many's the time I've heard of setting a beggar on horseback, but I never saw one till now." The following Saturday this hero returned on the same errand, but without his horse, still however retaining his blanket. Miss Fitzcarril's lynx's eye recognized him instantly; indeed such a peculiar figure could hardly have escaped the notice of the most casual observer. She inquired where he had left his horse? He very quietly answered, "Ye were no ways agreeable to him, jewel, the last time I was here, so I just hitched him up at the gate there below[3]!"
In the middle of this assembly of beggars, four gentlemen and a lady rode up to the door; and Mr. Webberly turned away with an expression of mortification, when he saw Adelaide kiss her hand to Colonel Desmond, who jumped off his horse, and, with his niece and Mr. Donolan, quickly entered the house; whilst his brother, with his characteristic jocularity, stopped to jest with the women on the outside, his son standing by in silence to enjoy the fun. When they, in a few minutes' time, joined their party within, the mendicant dames said one to another, "God bless his merry honour, but master Harry is a hearty gentleman[4]!"
Mr. Desmond was a very handsome man, tall, stout, and well made; his face, manner, and words expressive of the greatest bonhomie, mirth, and joviality. He had no pretensions whatsoever, but was one of the few, who openly dare to appear precisely what they are. He went through the world finding amusement in every person he met, whether beggar or king; laughing at himself, and with every body else: he danced, rode, and sung admirably; and particularly excelled in the composition of electioneering songs and squibs. His family had, for centuries, lost their blood and their property, in every rebellion Ireland was agitated by; but, about sixty years ago, had become protestants and loyalists in the same day; and, as the Irish are never lukewarm in any thing, Mr. Desmond now figured as Orange-man, captain of a yeomanry corps, freemason, and magistrate of the most approved zeal, which, however, his natural good disposition kept within the pale of humanity. Miss Desmond, who accompanied her father and uncle in this visit, was mentally and personally a softened resemblance of the former. She was just then fifteen, but so extremely tall and womanly in stature, that the spectator was constantly obliged to refer to her face, to correct the false calendar expressed by her figure. The dilettante, in the true spirit of hypercriticism, congratulated himself on having discovered, that she was not symmetrically formed; but though some said, "She would be a fine woman," and some that "She would be a coarse woman," all were agreed, that in the mean time she was a very lovely girl. Her features were not perfect, but her countenance was frank, good natured, and vivacious: a pair of laughing eyes sent forth from beneath their shading lashes fairy messengers of mirth, to dimple her blooming cheek, or pucker up the corners of her eye-lids. In manner, though she was not impudent, she was not bashful, perhaps from the total absence of self-conceit, which never led her to suppose she occupied a place in the thoughts of those who did not love her; and on the partiality of those who did she relied implicitly. Until her uncle fixed his residence at her father's house, she was nearly as wild as the heaths that surrounded it. But the observer of nature is well aware, that in such uncultivated regions blooms many a flower, whose beauty is more exquisite than that of those the art of man raises in the brilliant parterre. Some happy star seemed to rule over Melicent Desmond, that saved her from the very verge of what was unlovely in woman. She was so tall, she would have looked masculine, but for the fairest complexion in the world, which gave her face, neck, and arms a most feminine appearance. The expression of her countenance was so droll, it would have been satirical, but for the kindness of heart it beamed with. She was so lively she was almost boisterous; and any other girl, equally careless of her attire, would have seemed untidy. But all her looks, words, and actions had a peculiar charm, that, though none would or could have imitated them, few were so harsh as to condemn; and, in the very act of censure, the face of the speaker expressed fondness and admiration, of which nobody could define to themselves the cause: she seized upon the affections with a sort of arbitrary power, which defied the remonstrances of reason, when it did not receive her sanction. This dear girl was the idol of her parents and her uncle: but the latter, though most anxious to see her all that was delightful in a female character, was extremely cautious in the line of conduct he adopted towards her; he rather sought to add, than to change, and was not a little fearful of "improving for the worse," as his countrymen emphatically express the effects arising from a spirit of false refinement:
"Many are spoil'd by that pedantic throng,
Who with great pains teach youth to reason wrong:
Tutors, like virtuosoes, oft inclin'd,
By strange transfusion to improve the mind,
Draw off the sense we have, to pour in new,
Which yet with all their skill they ne'er could do."