'
Yes, such is the fact. In the race of fashion the resolute and active
De Mogyns has passed the poor old Clapperclaw. Her progress in gentility
may be traced by the sets of friends whom she has courted, and made,
and cut, and left behind her. She has struggled so gallantly for polite
reputation that she has won it: pitilessly kicking down the ladder as
she advanced degree by degree.
Irish relations were first sacrificed; she made her father dine in the
steward's room, to his perfect contentment: and would send Sir Alured
thither like-wise but that he is a peg on which she hopes to hang her
future honours; and is, after all, paymaster of her daughter's fortunes.
He is meek and content. He has been so long a gentleman that he is used
to it, and acts the part of governor very well. In the day-time he goes
from the 'Union' to 'Arthur's,' and from 'Arthur's' to the 'Union.' He
is a dead hand at piquet, and loses a very comfortable maintenance to
some young fellows, at whist, at the 'Travellers'.'
His son has taken his father's seat in Parliament, and has of course
joined Young England. He is the only man in the country who believes in
the De Mogynses, and sighs for the days when a De Mogyns led the van of
battle. He has written a little volume of spoony puny poems. He wears a
lock of the hair of Laud, the Confessor and Martyr, and fainted when
he kissed the Pope's toe at Rome.
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