The chandler's basket, on his shoulders borne,
With tallow spots thy coat.'"
This appropriate quotation not only drew forth a loud laugh of approbation, but illumined the minds of the party as brightly as two pounds of fours might have enlightened Mr. Hiccup's back-shop parlour on a long-whist and welsh-rabbit night.
"I'm sure I wish them no harm," remarked Mrs. Muzzle, with a benevolent smile; "but pride is a sad failing, which deserves to be brought down."
"Oh, the deuce mend them!" rejoined Mrs. Sniffnettle; "if they're brought to their proper bearings a peg or two."
"Because they had a little dirty cash—the Lord knows how they made it!—they were as pert as a pear-monger's horse!" exclaimed Mr. Hiccup.
"Pride comes first, shame comes after," added Mr. Sniffnettle.
"The priest forgets that he was a clerk," professionally observed Mrs. Muzzle.
"I could put up with pride, now," said Mr. Hiccup, "from the Wittingtons."
"Ay!" replied the poet, quoting Byron,