ion of the firm to be
kept up, and the senior partner always at the card-table?

Consorting now with genteel persons and Pall Mall bucks, Sackville
became ashamed of his snug little residence in Kennington Oval, and
transported his family to Pimlico, where, though Mrs. Chuff, his
mother-in-law, was at first happy, as the quarter was elegant and
near her Sovereign, poor little Laura and the children found a woful
difference. Where were her friends who came in with their work of a
morning?--At Kennington and in the vicinity of Clapham. 'Where were her
children's little playmates?--On Kennington Common. The great thundering
carriages that roared up and down the drab-coloured streets of the
new quarter, contained no friends for the sociable little Laura.
The children that paced the squares, attended by a BONNE or a prim
governess, were not like those happy ones that flew kites, or played
hop-scotch, on the well-beloved old Common. And ah! what a difference at
Church too!--between St. Benedict's of Pimlico, with open seats, service
in sing-song--tapers--albs--surplices--garlands and processions, and
the honest old ways of Kennington! The footmen, too, attending St.
Benedict's were so splendid and enormous, that James, Mrs. Chuff's boy,
trembled amongst them, and said he would give warning rather than carry
the books to that church any more.

The furnishing of the house was not done without expense.

And, ye gods! what a difference there was between Sackville's dreary
French banquets in Pimlico, and the jolly dinners at the Oval! No more
legs-of-mutton, no more of 'the best port-wine in England;' but ENTREES
on plate, and dismal twopenny champagne, and waiters in gloves, and
the Club bucks for company--among whom Mrs. Chuff was uneasy and Mrs.
Sackville quite silent.

Not that he dined at home often. The wretch had become a perfect
epicure, and dined commonly at the Club with the gormandising clique
there; with old Doctor Maw, Colonel Cramley (who is as lean as a
greyhound and has jaws like a jack), and the rest of them. Here you
might see the wretch tippling Sillery champagne and gorging himself with
French viands; and I often looked with sorrow from my table, (on which
cold meat, the Club small-beer, and a half-pint of Marsala form the
modest banquet,) and sighed to think it was my work.

And there were other beings present to my repentant thoughts. Where's
his wife, thought I? Where's poor, good, kind little Laura? At