Chapter 18 - Page 2

'Pleasantry, sir!--But--no, I will be calm;
I will be calm, Sir;' in proof of his calmness, Mr. Pott flung
himself into a chair, and foamed at the mouth.

'My dear sir,' interposed Mr. Winkle.

'DEAR Sir!' replied Pott. 'How dare you address me, as dear Sir,
Sir? How dare you look me in the face and do it, sir?'

'Well, Sir, if you come to that,' responded Mr. Winkle, 'how
dare you look me in the face, and call me a serpent, sir?'

'Because you are one,' replied Mr. Pott.

'Prove it, Sir,' said Mr. Winkle warmly. 'Prove it.'

A malignant scowl passed over the profound face of the editor,
as he drew from his pocket the INDEPENDENT of that morning; and
laying his finger on a particular paragraph, threw the journal
across the table to Mr. Winkle.

That gentleman took it up, and read as follows:--

'Our obscure and filthy contemporary, in some disgusting
observations on the recent election for this borough, has presumed
to violate the hallowed sanctity of private life, and to refer,

in a manner not to be misunderstood, to the personal affairs of
our late candidate--aye, and notwithstanding his base defeat, we
will add, our future member, Mr. Fizkin. What does our dastardly
contemporary mean? What would the ruffian say, if we, setting
at naught, like him, the decencies of social intercourse, were to
raise the curtain which happily conceals His private life from
general ridicule, not to say from general execration? What, if we
were even to point out, and comment on, facts and circumstances,
which are publicly notorious, and beheld by every one but our
mole-eyed contemporary--what if we were to print the following
effusion, which we received while we were writing the commencement
of this article, from a talented fellow-townsman and
correspondent?

'"LINES TO A BRASS POT

'"Oh Pott! if you'd known
How false she'd have grown,
When you heard the marriage bells tinkle;
You'd have done then, I vow,
What you cannot help now,
And handed her over to W*****"'

'What,' said Mr. Pott solemnly--'what rhymes to "tinkle,"
villain?'

'What rhymes to tinkle?' said Mrs. Pott, whose entrance at the
moment forestalled the reply. 'What rhymes to tinkle? Why,
Winkle, I should conceive.' Saying this, Mrs. Pott smiled sweetly
on the disturbed Pickwickian, and extended her hand towards
him. The agitated young man would have accepted it, in his
confusion, had not Pott indignantly interposed.

'Back, ma'am--back!' said the editor. 'Take his hand before
my very face!'

'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,