What can be more sublime than the notion of a great man's relatives in tears about--his dinner?
With a few touches, what author ever more happily described A Snob?
We were reading the passage lately at the house of my friend, Raymond Gray, Esquire, Barrister-at-Law, an ingenuous youth without the least practice, but who has luckily a great share of good spirits, which enables him to bide his time, and bear laughingly his humble position in the world.

Meanwhile, until it is altered, the stern laws of necessity and the expenses of the Northern Circuit oblige Mr.Gray to live in a very tiny mansion in a very queer small square in the airy neighbourhood of Gray's Inn Lane.
What is the more remarkable is, that Gray has a wife there.

Mrs.
Gray was a Miss Harley Baker: and I suppose I need not say THAT is a respectable family.

Allied to the Cavendishes, the Oxfords, the Marrybones, they still, though rather DECHUS from their original splendour, hold their heads as high as any.

Mrs.Harley Baker, I know, never goes to church without John behind to carry her prayer-book; nor will Miss Welbeck, her sister, walk twenty yards a-shopping without the protection of Figby, her sugar-loaf page; though the old lady is as ugly as any woman in the parish and as tall and whiskery as a grenadier.
The astonishment is, how Emily Harley Baker could have stooped to marry Raymond Gray.