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The Pickwick Papers 115

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Martin Eden

The Pickwick Papers

The Sea Wolf


For two days after the DEJEUNE at Mrs. Hunters, the Pickwickians remained at Eatanswill, anxiously awaiting the arrival of some intelligence from their revered leader. Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass were once again left to their own means of amusement; for Mr. Winkle, in compliance with a most pressing invitation, continued to reside at Mr. Potts house, and to devote his time to the companionship of his amiable lady. Nor was the occasional society of Mr. Pott himself wanting to complete their felicity. Deeply immersed in the intensity of his speculations for the public weal and the destruction of the INDEPENDENT, it was not the habit of that great man to descend from his mental pinnacle to the humble level of ordinary minds. On this occasion, however, and as if expressly in compliment to any follower of Mr. Pickwicks, he unbent, relaxed, stepped down from his pedestal, and walked upon the ground, benignly adapting his remarks to the comprehension of the herd, and seeming in outward form, if not in spirit, to be one of them. Such having been the demeanour of this celebrated public character towards Mr. Winkle, it will be readily imagined that considerable surprise was depicted on the countenance of the latter gentleman, when, as he was sitting alone in the breakfast- room, the door was hastily thrown open, and as hastily closed, on the entrance of Mr. Pott, who, stalking majestically towards him, and thrusting aside his proffered hand, ground his teeth, as if to put a sharper edge on what he was about to utter, and exclaimed, in a saw-like voice-- Serpent! Sir! exclaimed Mr. Winkle, starting from his chair. Serpent, Sir, repeated Mr. Pott, raising his voice, and then suddenly depressing it: I said, serpent, sir--make the most of it. When you have parted with a man at two oclock in the morning, on terms of the utmost good-fellowship, and he meets you again, at half-past nine, and greets you as a serpent, it is not unreasonable to conclude that something of an unpleasant nature has occurred meanwhile. So Mr. Winkle thought. He returned Mr. Potts gaze of stone, and in compliance with that gentlemans request, proceeded to make the most he could of the serpent. The most, however, was nothing at all; so, after a profound silence of some minutes duration, he said,-- Serpent, Sir! Serpent, Mr. Pott! What can you mean, Sir?-- this is pleasantry. Pleasantry, sir! exclaimed Pott, with a motion of the hand, indicative of a strong desire to hurl the Britannia metal teapot at the head of the visitor. 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 youd known How false shed have grown, When you heard the marriage bells tinkle; Youd have done then, I

The Pickwick Papers page 114        The Pickwick Papers page 116