When you have parted with a man at two o’clock 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. Pott’s gaze of stone, and in compliance with that gentleman’s 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 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, ‘What,’ said Mr. Pott solemnly--‘what rhymes to “tinkle,” villain?’