huzzy,” says Mrs. Tow-wouse, “have you the impudence to answer me? Did I not catch you, you saucy”—and then again repeated the terrible word so odious to female ears. “I can’t bear that name,” answered Betty: “if I have been wicked, I am to answer for it myself in the other world; but I have done nothing that’s unnatural; and I will go out of your house this moment, for I will never be called she-dog by any mistress in England.” Mrs. Tow-wouse then armed herself with the spit, but was prevented from executing any dreadful purpose by Mr. Adams, who confined her arms with the strength of a wrist which Hercules would not have been ashamed of. Mr. Tow-wouse, being caught, as our lawyers express it, with the manner, and having no defence to make, very prudently with-drew himself; and Betty committed herself to the protection of the hostler, who, though she could not conceive him pleased with what had happened, was, in her opinion, rather a gentler beast than her mistress.

Mrs. Tow-wouse, at the intercession of Mr. Adams, and finding the enemy vanished, began to compose herself, and at length recovered the usual serenity of her temper, in which we will leave her, to open to the reader the steps which led to a catastrophe, common enough, and comical enough too perhaps, in modern history, yet often fatal to the repose and well-being of families, and the subject of many tragedies, both in life and on the stage.