manner seemed struggling in all her gestures, and in every syllable that she articulated—­a naturally free, familiar, good-natured, precipitate, Irish manner, had been schooled, and schooled late in life, into a sober, cold, still, stiff deportment, which she mistook for English.  A strong, Hibernian accent, she had, with infinite difficulty, changed into an English tone.  Mistaking reverse of wrong for right, she caricatured the English pronunciation; and the extraordinary precision of her London phraseology betrayed her not to be a Londoner, as the man, who strove to pass for an Athenian, was detected by his Attic dialect.  Not aware of her real danger, Lady Clonbrony was, on the opposite side, in continual apprehension, every time she opened her lips, lest some treacherous A or E, some strong R, some puzzling aspirate, or non-aspirate, some unguarded note, interrogative or expostulatory, should betray her to be an Irishwoman.  Mrs. Dareville had, in her mimickry, perhaps a little exaggerated as to the TEEBLES and Cheers, but still the general likeness of the representation of Lady Clonbrony was strong enough to strike and vex her son.  He had now, for the first time, an opportunity of judging of the estimation in which his mother and his family were held by certain leaders of the ton, of whom, in her letters, she had spoken so much, and into whose society, or rather into whose parties, she had been admitted.  He saw that the renegade cowardice, with which she denied, abjured, and reviled her own country, gained nothing but ridicule and contempt.  He loved his mother; and, whilst he endeavoured to conceal her faults and foibles as much as possible from his own heart, he could not endure those who dragged them to light and ridicule.  The next morning the first thing that occurred to Lord Colambre’s remembrance when he awoke was the sound of the contemptuous emphasis which had been laid on the words Irish absentees!  This led to recollections of his native country, to comparisons of past and present scenes, to future plans of life.  Young and careless as he seemed, Lord Colambre was capable of serious reflection.  Of naturally quick and strong capacity, ardent affections, impetuous temper, the early years of his childhood passed at his father’s castle in Ireland, where, from the lowest servant to the well-dressed dependant of the family, everybody had conspired to wait upon, to fondle, to flatter, to worship, this darling of their lord.  Yet he was not spoiled—­not rendered selfish.  For, in the midst of this flattery and servility, some strokes of genuine generous affection had gone home to his little heart; and, though unqualified submission had increased the natural impetuosity of his temper, and though visions of his future grandeur had touched his infant thought, yet, fortunately, before he acquired any fixed habits of insolence or tyranny, he was carried far away from all that were bound or willing to submit to his commands, far away from all signs of hereditary