through the trees, which made a very pervious screen in their wintry bareness. Larger, of course, but nearly as ugly as the ugly Jointure House itself, did her mother's ancient ancestral home look to Cecy's eyes now. Now-but she was destined to view those old grey walls again through a very different medium than that which clouded her spirit to-day. THE Dowager Mrs. Macnamara was a daughter of a younger branch of the old stock, whose name she still bore. Immensely “old” it was, running quite back into fable-land and extending its genealogical tree roots into the very primary strata of Milesian aristocracy. The days of Milesian glory, however, are, it is needless to say, long since over. The mornings of whiskey, the roons of duelling, the nights of claret, which formed, so to speak, the renaissance period in Milesian social prominence, departed likewise, and to the simple rank of country gentry obliged to observe the laws and exist after the manner of other mortals, were the descenddants of the ancient Namara reduced when it devolves upon us to record a page in their family annals. The dowager was wont to boast, she had lived her seventy years as became her great name and ancestry. At seventeen, in the fresh bloom of her remarkable beauty, she had made her débût at the Viceregal Court. Of course (for those were the good old times, my dear), dozens, hundreds, of rival admirers, all sorts of conditions of men, from his grace to his reverence, instantly worshipped, fought, died at her shrine. At eighteen, in the midst of these triumphs and to the general consternation and despair of the masculine world, she married her cousin. The Macnamara, as he was styled the head of the Sept. He was a handsome, worthless individual, a good many years senior to the fair coquette, who accepted his addresses from no tenderer sentiment than pique at some fancied slight, she had received from the one her heart really preferred amongst her train of suitors. At thirty she was left a widow with four children; daughters, alas !-all; and all inheriting the high looks, high spirit, high temper of their race. Very regretful that Heaven had denied her a son to succeed to the entailed estate, which passed away to a more distant kinsman, Mrs. Macnamara still contrived to perform her duty, as a woman and a mother, towards the less feminine quartette by marrying off the sisters as quickly, eligibly, or ineligibly as she could. She had herself introduced each in turn to whatever excellency presided at Dublin Castle, and in later years untiringly fulfilled a like parental office for successive granddaughters. Finally on this day (or night) of grace, 28th January, 186-, she is preparing to to do the same for Cecile De Burgh-actually prepared, indeed, for she has already got into her morie jupe. Her velvet train has been fastened on. Lappets and diamonds adjusted, and majestic and sufficiently terrible, she descends to the sitting-room, where Cecile, arrayed in the regulation white of coming out, has been for some time ensconced. Her pulses beating very fast, and her colour varying like an April day, as this dreaded presentation for which grandmamma has been drilling her all the winter, draws nearer to realisation. She is sure-quite sure-she will curtsey badly, fall back on her train-do everything wrong, in fact—just as grandmamma has predicted. But there is no help for it, the hour is come, and Uncle Oliver, looking horribly sardonic and meagre in his court-dress announces "The jobbed affair is at the door, madam," by which his audience understand the hired carriage is arrived. The maid assists in carefully arranging trains. The two ladies are safely stowed into the vehicle, Uncle Oliver's lank person occupies the small additional space left over and above the feminine paraphernalia, grandmamma sees once more she has the cards ready for the chamberlain, the door is slammed, and they are off-quickly enough for two or three minutes till they get into the more crowded thoroughfares, and are blocked, stopped, passed at intervals by the long line of carriages all proceeding to the same destination. By slow degrees Dame Street is ascended. The courtyard of the castle reached, and at last, after such a wait, comes the Macnamara's turn for being admitted; and from the flickering rays of gas and lamps outside they enter into a blaze of light that fairly dazzles Cecy's eyes, as with her train carried anything but comme il faut on her arm, and feeling overwhelmingly shy, nervous, and miserable, she mounts the broad staircase beside composed grandmamma, and keeping close to the parental protection, stands silently amidst the groups of gorgeous uniforms, civil and military. The sweep of silk and velvet, the sheen of satin, and glimmer of pearl, which, past all enjoyment of the gay show, remind ber of the approaching ordeal, special warnings whereof every instant recur as names are called, and, like the fading tints of a rainbow, bright forms vanish from the circling throng. Presently Mrs. Macnamara touches admonitorily the trembling hand. Our little débutante's train is down as if by magic, the crowd traversed somehow, the inner sanctum reached-full stopmisty vision of a tall man, wearing a blue ribbon and glittering star, standing in front of a gilded diademmed chair. She is named. Her cheek receives the prescribed salutation; a few backward steps, the silk lowered momentarily before representative royalty is again on her arm. The crowd again engulfs her, the viceregal presence is past, and it is over. Cecy allows herself to breathe and raise her eyelids and look around at the ebbing and flowing tide of rank, fashion, and beauty, all so new and strange to her. Grandmamma, however, seems to know some people, and Uncle Oliver exchanges, dry, brief acknowledgments with various withered contemporaries. Her ears confusedly receive such phrases as "Rather a good drawing-room!" "How well" or "How badly so and so looks to-night!" At last her faculties are suddenly roused, and concentrated in an introduction made to herself. It is Uncle Oliver speaks this presentation, and he does so in his most sardonic tones: "Cecy, here is your cousin, Fred Macnamara. Fred-Cecile; you had better shake hands, I suppose." Cecile glances up shyly-too late to catch Mr. Fred Macnamara's angry frown at his elder relative's unceremoniousness-just in time to see the former's handsome face relit with its habitual gay, careless expression. "Most happy to make the acquaintance of a cousin of whom I have heard so much!" he says, more gracefully than truthfully, considering that up to this moment he has been barely cognisant of the said cousin's existence. Cecily, however, is too delighted by the unexpected kind tone to analyse the words, and her wretched timidity temporarily thawed she looks bright, and smiling, and pretty. "Got through the presentation capitally, didn't you?" goes on Fred, in his slightly couceited blasé manner. "No, very badly, I'm afraid," and Cecy glances nervously at Grandmamma. "Nonsense!" laughs Fred. "It's a horrid bore, of course, but must be got through, you know." "Yes." Cecy laughs a little also; but she is unaccustomed to the calm, fashionable, criticising stare wherewith Mr. Macnamara is at present honouring her, and she asks, confusedly: "Are your sisters here to-night?" "No; on this occasion my august family is represented by myself solus. My elde-t sister, Fan, considers amusement a waste of valuable time. No 2, Lily, is not to make her début till the second drawing-room. But you will make their acquaintance presently. 1, at any rate, shall do myself the pleasure of calling upon you tomorrow, if you allow me." “Oh, thank you," flutters forth Cecily. She has time for no longer acknowledgments, as the surrounding crowd is dispersing. Plumed heads, swords, trains, gold lace, float off and disappear. Uncle Oliver gives Grandmamma his supporting arm, Cecy is escorted by Fred, murmuring all manner of pretty things as only Fred can; the carriage is announced, the trio are replaced therein, and en route again. "How many inches survive of your dress, Cecy?" demands Uncle Oliver. She assures him it is all in the carriage. "Fan? gloves ?-wonderful, I declare, for a beginning! Wish, tLough, we had not come across that goose Fred; not a grain of sense in his whole composition; moreover, only a younger brother, wouldn't pay at all-eh, Sarah ?" But Mrs. Macnamara is too fatigued and sleepy to acquiesce or assent. The glare, and heat, and standing attitude of long duration, tell irresistibly on even the strongest constitution aged three score and ten. However, this physiological fact Grandmamma is slow to acknowledge. "I don't know why I feel so tired," she enunciates, inquiringly, as she regains the threshhold of her hired home in Mount Street. "It is because you are too old for the sort of diversion you have just gone through," responds Uncle Oliver, unflatteringly. "You should have stayed at home, and let me do the same." Stayed at home! Fancy a drawing-room without us! or my granddaughter not properly introduced!" "Oh, Irish Pride,'" chuckles Uncle Oliver. "Irish pride! nonsense!" wrathfully repeats grandmamma, who hates this rather mystic and favourite expression of her brother's, which he has a fashion of applying in a descriptive manner to all his family except himself. "What is peculiar about Irish pride, I'd like to know." "That it is the only thing in the country that never grows tired, or sleepy, or dies of old age," replies Uncle Oliver, as he lights his candle and marches off to his room. PERSIAN DRINKING SONG. BY HAFIZ. Boy, bring me quick a cup of wine, For wine is Love's sole remedy, And, boy, I am a suffering brother; From love I live in agony I've drained my goblet-fetch another ! Like liquid fire throughout my frame Another of the fiery liquor! The roses fade, bright cheeks grow pale, Since all around us seems to fail- The nightingale—poetic bird, Her song suspended in a twinkling; What matter, so by us are heard, The winedrops in the beaker tinkling? Sleep makes me blind to Time's sad lapse, I fain would slumber; so, perhaps, (Or drunk would say a plainer speaker), Then quickly fetch, to sober me— Best antidote-another beaker. Another, and another still; Thus, Hafiz, I, your poet, sing it. It may be good, it may be ill, CHARLES DAVIES. |