'Then I am sure it is not my fault,' said Lady Clonbrony; 'for I brought
my lord a large fortune; and I am confident I have not, after all, spent
more any season, in the best company, than he has among a set of low
people, in his muddling, discreditable way.'
'And how has he been reduced to this?' said Lord Colambre. 'Did he
not formerly live with gentlemen, his equals, in his own country; his
contemporaries? Men of the first station and character, whom I met in
Dublin, spoke of him in a manner that gratified the heart of his son;
he was respectable and respected at his own home; but when he was forced
away from that home, deprived of his objects, his occupations induced
him to live in London, or at watering-places, where he could find no
employments that were suitable to him--set down, late in life, in the
midst of strangers, to him cold and reserved--himself too proud to bend
to those who disdained him as an Irishman--is he not more to be pitied
than blamed for--yes, I, his son, must say the word--the degradation
which has ensued? And do not the feelings, which have this moment forced
him to leave the room, show that he is capable?--Oh, mother!' cried Lord
Colambre, throwing himself at Lady Clonbrony's feet, 'restore my father
to himself! Should such feelings be wasted?--No; give them again to
expand in benevolent, in kind, useful actions; give him again to
his tenantry, his duties, his country, his home; return to that home
yourself, dear mother! leave all the nonsense of high life--scorn the
impertinence of these dictators of fashion, by whom, in return for all
the pains we take to imitate, to court them--in return for the sacrifice
of health, fortune, peace of mind, they bestow sarcasm, contempt,
ridicule, and mimickry!'
'Oh, Colambre! Colambre! mimickry--I'll never believe it.
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