“ Mr. P. !” said his astonished lady.

“Wretched woman, look here,” exclaimed the husband. “Look here, ma’am⁠—‘Lines to a Brass Pot.’ ‘Brass Pot’; that’s me, ma’am. ‘False she’d have grown’; that’s you, ma’am⁠—you.” With this ebullition of rage, which was not unaccompanied with something like a tremble, at the expression of his wife’s face, Mr. Pott dashed the current number of the Eatanswill Eatanswill Independent at her feet.

“Upon my word, Sir,” said the astonished Mrs. Pott, stooping to pick up the paper. “Upon my word, Sir!”