 | Life and sayings of Mrs. Partington and others
of the family |  |
281
AN EDITOR A LITTLE HEATED.
Copy! quotha? copy! — with the thermometer at 96°.
What an unconscionable dog it is, to be sure, to worry
one so. Not one line, so help us Stebbings! — not one
line. Avaunt! quit our sight! for the heat of the day
is fused into our spirit, and,
“By that sword which gleams above us,”
importunity. The idea of writing at such time is abominable,
and no reasonable devil would insist on 't. A vile
knave thou art at best, with thy swart and lank jaws
there distended, bawling for copy. Grin away, you waif
from the lake of Tartarus, whose burning flood ne'er
yielded a more hideous whelp for our, or the world's,
torment. We tell thee, swart minion, vile Mercury of
inordinate jours, that copy thou canst not have. What!
write when the atmosphere, like hot lava, wreathes the
brow and sticks there with the tenacity of molten pitch,
and burns and burns upon the brain like the thirst for
revenge, or the seething scald of impending pecuniary
obligation? Away, caitiff! and “tell thy masters this,
and tell them, too,” that we will see them hanged ere
we will write a line for them to-day. Vamose! mizzle!
scatter! or, by St. Paul, temper, outraged, shall take to
itself form, and launch its thunders on thy devoted head!
But, stay. This, the ebullition of our wrath, is copy,
poor at best, — give it 'em.
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