University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.
IN WHICH ROUNDJACKET READS HIS GREAT POEM.

Three days after the events which we have just related, or
rather after the introduction of the reader to the three localities
with which our brief history will concern itself, Mr. Roundjacket
was sitting on his high stool in one corner of the office, preparing
the papers in a friendly suit in Chancery.

It was about ten o'clock in the morning, and Verty, who rode
home every evening, had just come in and had taken his seat at
the desk in the corner appropriated to him, beneath the small
dingy window, looking out upon the yard. Longears was
stretched at his feet.

Verty's face was more dreamy and thoughtful than ever. The
dim smile still dwelt upon his lips, and though his countenance
had as much of the forest Indian character as ever, there was a
languor about the drooping eyelids, with their long lashes, and a
stoop in the usually erect neck, which betrayed the existence in
the boy's mind of some ever-present sadness. His costume was
just what it had always been—moccasins, deerskin leggings, a
shaggy forest paletot, and fringed leather gauntlets, which now
lay by him near his white fur hat. He had not changed by becoming
a lawyer's clerk; but, on the contrary, grown more wild,
apparently from the very contrast between his forest appearance
and the dingy office.

At times Verty would stretch out his hand, and, taking
his cedar bow from a chair, bend it thoughtfully, and utter
the low Indian murmur, which has been represented by the
letters, “ough,” so unsuccessfully; then he would allow the

weapon to slide from his nerveless hand—his head would
droop—the dim dreamy smile would light up his features for an
instant, and he would lean upon the desk and ponder—his countenance
half enveloped by the long tangled chestnut hair which
still flowed upon his shoulders in wild luxuriance.

Tired of thinking at last, Verty sighed, and took up his pen.
For some moments it glided slowly over the law parchment, and
the contortions of Verty's face betrayed the terrible effort necessary
for him to make in copying. Then his eyes no longer sought
the paper to be transcribed—his face lit up for a moment, and
his pen moved faster. Finally, he rose erect, and surveyed the
sheet, which he had been writing upon, with great interest.

Just beneath the words, “messuages, tenements, water courses,
and all that doth thereunto pertain,” Verty had made a charming
sketch of a wild-fowl, with expanded wings, falling from the
empyrean, with an arrow through his breast.

For some moments, the drawing afforded Verty much gratification:
it finally, however, lost its interest, and the boy leaned his
head upon his hand, and gazed through the window upon the
waving trees which overshadowed the rear of the building.

Then his eyes slowly drooped—the dusky lashes moved tremulously—the
head declined—and in five minutes Verty was asleep,
resting his forehead on his folded arms.

The office was disturbed, for the next quarter of an hour, by
no sound but the rapid seratching of Mr. Roundjacket's pen,
which glided over the paper at a tremendous rate, and did terrible
execution among plaintiffs, executors, administrators, and
assigns.

At the end of that time, Mr. Roundjacket raised his head,
uttered a prolonged whistle, and, wiping his pen upon the sleeve
of his old office coat, which bore a striking resemblance to the
gaberdine of a beggar, addressed himself to speech—

“Now, that was not wanted till to-morrow evening,” he observed,
confidentially, to the pigeon-holes; “but, to-morrow

evening, I may be paying my addresses to some angelic lady, or
be engaged upon my epic. I have done well; it is true philosophy
to `make assurance doubly sure, and to take a bond of fate.'
Now for a revisal of that last stanza; and, I think, I'll read it
alound to that young cub, as Rushton calls him. No doubt his
forest character, primitive and poetical, will cause him to appreciate
its beauties. Hallo!”

Verty replied by a snore.

“What, asleep!” cried Mr. Roundjacket. “Now, you young
sluggard! do you mean to say that the atmosphere of this mansion,
this temple of Chancery, is not enlivening, sprightly, and
anti-slumbrous? Ho, there! do you presume to fall asleep over
that beautiful and entertaining conveyance, you young savage!
Wake up!”

And Mr. Roundjacket hurled his ruler at Verty's desk, with
the accuracy of an experienced hand. The ruler came down
with a crash, and aroused the sleeper. Longears also started
erect, looked around, and then laid down again.

“Ah!” murmured Verty, who woke like a bird upon the
boughs, “what was that, ma mere?”

“There's his outlandish lingo—Delaware or Shawnee, I have
no doubt!” said Mr. Roundjacket.

Verty rose erect.

“Was I asleep?” he said, smiling.

“I think you were.”

“This place makes me go to sleep,” said the boy. “How
dull it is!”

“Dull! do you call this office dull? No, sir, as long as I am
here this place is sprightly and even poetical.”

“Anan?” said Verty.

“Which means, in Iroquois or some barbarous language, that
you don't understand,” replied Mr. Roundjacket. “Listen, then,
young man, I mean that the divine spirit of poesy dwells here—
that nothing, therefore, is dull or wearisome about this mansion—

that all is lively and inspiring. Trust me, my dear young friend,
it was copying that miserable deed which put you to sleep, and
I can easily understand how that happened. The said indenture
was written by the within.”

And Mr. Roundjacket pointed toward the sanctum of Mr.
Rushton.

Verty only smiled.

Mr. Roundjacket descended from his stool, and cast his eyes
upon the paper.

“What!” he cried, “you made that picture! How, sir
Upon my word, young man, you are in a bad way. The youngster
who stops to make designs upon a copy of a deed in a law
office, is on the high-road to the gallows. It is an enormity, sir—
horrible! dreadful!”

“What the devil are you shouting about there!” eried the
voice of Mr. Rushton, angrily. And opening the door between
the two rooms, the shaggy-headed gentleman appeared upon the
threshold.

Roundjacket turned over the sheet of paper upon which Verty's
design had been made; and then turned to reply to the
words addressed to him.

“I am using my privilege to correct this youngster,” he replied,
with a flourish of his ruler, apparently designed to impress
the shaggy head with the idea that he, Mr. Roundjacket, would
not permit any infringement of his rights and privileges.

“You are, are you?” said Mr. Rushton.

“Yes, sir,” replied the clerk.

“And what do you find to correct in Mr. Verty?”

“Many things.”

“Specify.”

“With pleasure.”

And Mr. Roundjacket, inserting one thumb into the pocket of
his long waistcoat, pointed with the ruler to Verty's costume.

“Do you call that a proper dress for a lawyer's clerk?” he

said. “Is the profession to be disgraced by the entrance of a
bear, a savage, a wild boy of the woods, who resembles a catamountain?
Answer that, sir. Look at those leggins!”

And Mr. Roundjacket indicated the garments which reached
to Verty's knees, with the end of his ruler.

“Well,” said Mr. Rushton, smiling, “I should think you
might have them changed without troubling me, Verty.”

The boy raised his head with a smile.

“How would you like a new suit of clothes?”

“I don't want any, sir.”

“But these won't do.”

“Why not, sir?”

“They're too primitive, you cub. Clothes, sir, are the essence
of human society, and a man is known by his shell. If
you wish to reap those numerous advantages for your mother,
you must be re-habited.”

“Anan?” said Verty.

“I mean you must dress like a Christian—get new clothes.”
Verty smiled.

“You are willing, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well—that does honor to your filial affection, you handsome
savage. Roundjacket, take this young man up to O'Brallaghan's
to-morrow, and have his measure taken.”

“With pleasure,” said Mr. Roundjacket, who had evidently
taken a great liking to Verty; “what sort of clothes?”

Mr. Rushton looked at the subject of the conversation. Verty
was gazing through the window and dreaming. A smile passed
over the grim features, and a sort of sigh issued from the compressed
lips of the lawyer.

“Three suits, Roundjacket,” said Mr. Rushton; “one common,
another rich, another as elegant as O'Brallaghan can make.
I really believe this boy is going to amuse me.”

“A most remarkable youth,” observed the cleark, “and draws
sketches with astonishing ease.”

“Ah?”

“Don't you, young man?

Verty turned round, and interrogated Mr. Roundjacket with a
look. He had evidently not heard the question.

“There, you are dreaming again, sir,” said Mr. Rushton;
“this will never do—come, write away. The idleness of this
world is revolting!” he growled, returning to his sanctum, and
closing the door with a bang.

Roundjacket pointed after him with his ruler.

“An odd fish, young man,” he said, shaking his head; “take
care not to make him your model. If you want a proper model
to imitate, you need not go far. Modesty, which is my weakness,
prevents my saying more.”

And Mr. Roundjacket cleared his throat, and looked dignified.

“It was my purpose, before this interruption,” he said, after a
pause of some moments, “to read to you some portions of a
work which will, probably, be spoken of extensively by the
world.”

And Mr. Roundjacket paused. Verty also was silent.

“All countries,” said the poetical gentleman, with a preparatory
flourish of his ruler, “have possessed localities famous in the
history of literature:—as Athens, in Greece; the Island of Scio,
where Homer first saw the light; and Stratford, where Shakspeare
appeared. Now, sir, reasoning from analogy, which is the
finest possible way of reasoning, we must conclude that Virginia
has such a locality, and I leave you to decide the probable situation
of it. It cannot be Williamsburg, the seat of government,
for that place is given up to the vanity of life—to balls and horse-races,
meetings of the House of Burgesses, and other varieties.
Williamburg, sir, cannot become famous—it is too near the sea.
Then there is the thriving village of Richmond, to which they
speak of moving the seat of government. I suppose, sir, that
no one asserts that Richmond is ever likely to produce any remarkable
men. Mark me, sir, that place will never be famous—
it is too far from the sea. Now, what is the irresistible conclu-sion

we arrive at from a view of these incontestable facts,” observed
Mr. Roundjacket, endeavoring to eatch Verty's wandering
eye; “why, my young friend, that Winchester here is to be
the celebrated locality—that the great poet of Virginia will here
arise! Is it not plain, sir?”

“Anan?” said Verty, smiling, and roused from his abstraction
by the silence.

“Ah, you are not very well accustomed to these trains of reasoning,
I perceive, sir,” said Mr. Roundjacket; “but you will be
able to comprehend my meaning. I designed only to say, that this
town will probably be mentioned in many books, hereafter, as
the residence of some distinguished man. Of course, I do not
express any opinion upon that point—I don't know who it will
be; but I presume he will follow the poetical calling from the
vicinity of the mountains. Those beautiful mountains will make
his cheeks flush, sir, at all times. The Shenandoah, more noble
than even the Mississippi, will inspire him, and possibly he will
turn his attention to humor—possibly, sir, the proceedings in
courts of law may attract his attention—justification, and cognovit,
and certiorari. Let me read you a small portion of a poem
written upon those subjects by a very humble poet—are you listening,
Mr. Verty?”

Verty aroused himself, and smiled upon Mr. Roundjacket—a
proceeding which seemed to be eminetly satisfactory to that
gentleman.

With many preparatory, “hems,” therefore, the poet commenced
reading.

At the risk of bringing down upon our heads the anathema of
antiquaries in general, we are compelled to forbear from making
any quotations from the Roundjacket Iliad. It was not quite
equal to Homer, and inferior, in many points, to both the Enied
and the Dunciad;—but not on that account did the poet undervalue
it. He read with that deep appreciation which authors in
all ages have brought to bear upon their own productions.

Verty preserved a profound and respectful silence, which flattered
the poet hugely. He recited with new energy and pleasure—becoming,
at times, so enthusiastic, indeed, that a smothered
growl from the adjoining apartment bore soothing testimony
to his eloquence.

Mr. Roundjacket wound up with a gigantic figure, in which
the muse of Chancery was represented as mounted upon a golden
car, and dispensing from her outstretched hands all sorts of fruits,
and flowers, and blessings on humanity;—and having thus brought
his noble poem to a noble termination, the poet, modestly smiling,
and ready for applause, rolled up his manuscript, and raised
his eyes to the countenance of his silent and admiring listener—
that listener who had been so rapt in the glowing images and
sonorous couplets, that he had not uttered so much as a word.

Verty was asleep.