As Mr. O'Sullivan's guests were rising from the breakfast table the following morning, a peremptory ringing of the hall door bell announced the welcome arrival of the gray headed postman, who travelled on foot at all seasons of the year, visiting in turn the scattered dwellings of the gentry of this mountainous region. Adelaide, with sparkling eyes and eager fingers, opened a letter from Mrs. Temple, in answer to hers from Shrewsbury, which, besides much domestic intelligence, contained the following paragraph:—

"I know you are much interested for Augustus Mordaunt, and therefore will be glad to hear that he is just gone abroad, with his uncle, Lord Osselstone, who, I am convinced, must grow proud, nay fond of him, as he has, by this means, an opportunity of being acquainted with the fine qualities of this noble young man. I am afraid my favourite wish, of his marrying Selina Seymour, is never likely to be gratified. Mr. Temple writes to me from London, that it is confidently reported she is engaged to Mr. Elton, Lord Eltondale's son and heir. He says, no young man in England bears a finer character (though it is impossible we could ever compare him to Augustus): a gentleman from Paris told Mr. Temple, that, instead of entering into the dissipation of that gay metropolis, he lives quite retired, absorbed in study; also that he had been acquainted with Mr. Elton in Sicily, where he was desperately in love with a lady of that country, whom he believed he had married: if this be the case, it is surely very dishonourable of him not to put an immediate stop to his engagement with Miss Seymour.—Augustus would never be guilty of such conduct."

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

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:

He more judiciously confined his endeavours to furnishing her with ideas and examples, leaving it to her unbiassed judgment to choose amongst them, and make what she pleased her own. He now wished to give her the advantage of associating, as much as possible, with Adelaide, noticing her perfections but generally, and trusting to Melicent's discernment to analyse each particular charm, unaided, save by the happy benevolence of disposition, which would make such an exercise of her faculties the first of all pleasures. He had accordingly lost no time in making his brother call on the strangers, for the purpose of inviting them to Bogberry Hall. It was settled, in this visit, that the party from Ballinamoyle should dine at Mr. Desmond's house early in the ensuing week, where they should remain till the following day, as the distance was too great to permit of returning at night.

Mr. O'Sullivan prevailed on the Desmonds to join his family circle at dinner; and when they prepared to return home in the evening, Colonel Desmond said to Adelaide, in a low voice, "I hope Melicent has not shocked you by her brogue; I find it most difficult to cure." "Oh, don't try to alter her accent, (replied she) she speaks the prettiest Irish! Any thing that would make her less original, would take from her charms: she is one of the most captivating creatures I ever saw." His only answer was a parting pressure of her hand, which conveyed his thanks for her admiration of his niece, and meant more than he yet ventured to express in words. "How different she is from Melicent, (thought he), yet how charming!"

A lover and an uncle could not be supposed to be expert at definition, otherwise he might have said, that the one amused the fancy, whilst the other touched the heart.