"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 candidates-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
"`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, 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 Independent at her feet.
"Upon my word, sir," said the astonished Mrs. Pott, stooping to pick up the paper. "Upon my word, sir!"
Mr. Pott winced beneath the contemptuous gaze of his wife. He had made a desperate struggle to screw up his courage, but it was fast coming unscrewed again.
There appears nothing very tremendous in this little sentence, "Upon my word, sir," when it comes to be read; but the tone of voice in which it was delivered, and the look that accompanied it, both seeming to bear reference to some revenge to be thereafter visited upon the head of Pott, produced their full effect upon him. The most unskilful observer could have detected in his troubled countenance, a readiness to resign his Wellington boots to any efficient substitute who would have consented to stand in them at that moment.
Mrs. Pott read the paragraph, uttered a loud shriek, and threw herself at full length on the hearth-rug, screaming, and tapping it with the heels of her shoes, in a manner which could leave no doubt of the propriety of her feelings on the occasion.
"My dear," said the petrified Pott,--"I didn't say I believed it;--I--" but the unfortunate man's voice was drowned in the screaming of his partner.
"Mrs. Pott, let me entreat you, my dear ma'am, to compose yourself," said Mr. Winkle; but the shrieks and tappings were louder, and more frequent than ever.
"My dear," said Mr. Pott, "I'm very sorry. If you won't consider your own health, consider me, my dear. We shall have a crowd round the house." But the more strenuously Mr. Pott entreated, the more vehemently the screams poured forth.
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