University of Virginia Library

49. CHAPTER XLIX.
BACK TO WINCHESTER, WHERE EDITORIAL INIQUITY IS DISCOURSED
OF.

Busy with the various fortunes of our other personages, we
have not been able of late to give much attention to the noble
poet, Roundjacket, with whose ambition and great thoughts, this
history has heretofore somewhat concerned itself.

Following the old, fine chivalric mansion, “Place aux dames!”
we have necessarily been compelled to elbow the cavaliers from
the stage, and pass by in silence, without listening to them. Now,
however, when we have written our pastoral canto, and duly
spoken of the sayings and doings of Miss Redbud and Miss
Fanny—used our best efforts to place upon record what they
amused themselves with, laughed at, and took pleasure in, under
the golden trees of the beautiful woods, and in the happy autumn
fields—now we are at liberty to return to our good old border
town, and those other personages of the history, whose merits
have not been adequately recognized.

When Verty entered Winchester, on the morning after the
events, or rather idle country scenes, which we have related, he
was smiling and joyous; and the very clatter of Cloud's hoofs
made Longears merry.

Verty dismounted, and turned the knob of the office-door.

In opening, it struck against the back of Mr. Roundjacket, who,
pacing hastily up and down the apartment, seemed to be laboring
under much excitement.

In his left hand, Roundjacket carried a small brown newspaper,

with heavy straggling type, and much dilapidated from its
contact with the equestrian mail-bag, which it had evidently
issued from only a short time before. In his right hand, the
poet held a ruler, which described eccentric circles in the air,
and threatened imaginary foes with torture and extermination.

The poet's hair stood up; his breath came and went; his
coat-skirts moved from side to side, with indignation; and he
evidently regarded something in the paper with a mixture of
horror and despair.

Verty paused for a moment on the threshold; then took off
his hat and went in.

Roundjacket turned round.

Verty gazed at him for a moment in silence; then smiling:

“What is the matter, sir?” he said.

“Matter, sir!” cried Roundjacket—“everything is the matter,
sir!”

Verty shook his head, as much as to say, that this was a dreadful
state of things, and echoed the word “everything!”

“Yes, sir! everything!—folly is the matter!—crime is the
matter!—statutory misdemeanor is the matter!”

And Roundjacket, overcome with indignation, struck the
newspaper a savage blow with his ruler.

“I am the victim, sir, of editorial iniquity, and typographical
abomination!”

“Anan?” said Verty.

“I am a victim, sir!”

“Yes, you look angry.”

“I am!”

Verty shook his head.

“That is not right,” he replied; “Redbud says it is wrong to
be angry—”

“Redbud!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Consign Miss Redbud—!”

“Oh, no!” said Verty, “don't do that.”

“I have a right to be angry,” continued Roundjacket, flourishing
his ruler; “it would be out of the question for me to be
anything else.”

“How, sir?”

“Do you see that?”

And Roundjacket held up the paper, flourishing his ruler at it
in a threatening way.

“The paper, sir?” said Verty.

“Yes!”

“What of it?”

“Abomination!”

“Oh, sir.”

“Yes! utter abomination!”

“I don't understand, sir.”

“Mark me!” said Roundjacket.

“Yes, sir.”

“That is the `Virginia Gazette.' ”

“Is it, sir?”

“Published at Williamsburg.”

“I think I've heard of it, sir.”

“Williamsburg, the centre of civilization, cultivation, and the
other ations!” cried Roundjacket, flourishing his ruler savagely,
and smiling with bitter scorn.

“Ah!” said Verty, finding that he was expected to say something.

“Yes! the Capital of Virginia, forsooth!”

“Has Williamsburg made you angry, sir?”

“Yes!”

“But the `Gazette'—?”

“Is the immediate cause.”

Verty sat down.

“I'm sorry, sir,” he said, smiling; “but I don't understand.
I never read the newspapers. Nothing but the Bible—because
Redbud wants me to: I hope to like it after awhile though.”

“I trust you will never throw away your time on this thing!”
cried Roundjacket, running the end of his ruler through the
paper; “can you believe, sir, that the first canto of my great
poem has been murdered in its columns—yes, murdered!”

“Killed, do you mean, sir?”

“I do—I mean that the illiterate editor of this disgraceful
sheet has assassinated the offspring of my imagination!”

“That was very wrong, sir.”

“Wrong? It was infamous? What should be done with
such a man!” cried Roundjacket.

“Arrest him?” suggested Verty

“It is not a statutable offence.

“What, sir?”

“Neglecting to send sheets to correct.”

“Anan?” said Verty, who did not understand.

“I mean that I have not had an opportunity to correct the
printed verses, sir; and that I complain of.”

Verty nodded.

“Mark me,” said Roundjacket; “the publisher, editor, or
reviewer who does not send sheets to the author for correction,
will inevitably perish, in the end, from the tortures of remorse!”

“Ah?” said Verty.

“Yes, sir! the pangs of a guilty conscience will not suffer him
to sleep; and death only will end his miserable existence.”

Which certainly had the air of an undoubted truth.

“See!” said Mr. Roundjacket, relapsing into the pathetic—
“see how my unfortunate offspring has been mangled—maimed—
a statutory offence—mayhem!—see Bacon's Abridgment, page—;
but I wander. See,” continued Roundjacket, “that is all that
is left of the original.”

“Yes, sir,” said Verty.

“The very first line is unrecognizable.”

And Roundjacket put his handkerchief to his eyes and sniffled.

Verty tried not to smile.

“It's very unfortunate, sir,” he said; “but perhaps the paper
—I mean yours—was not written plain.”

“Written plain!” cried Roundjacket, suppressing his feelings.

“Yes, sir—the manuscript, I believe, it is called.”

“Well, no—it was not written plain—of course not.”

Verty looked surprised, spite of his own suggestion.

“I thought you wrote as plain as print, Mr. Roundjacket.”

“I do.”

“Why then—?”

“Not do so in the present instance, do you mean?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Young man,” said Roundjacket, solemnly, “it is easy to see
that you are shockingly ignorant of the proprieties of life—or you
never would have suggested such a thing.”

“What thing, sir?”

“Plain writing in an author.”

“Oh!” said Verty.

“Mark me,” continued Roundjacket, with affecting gravity,
“the unmistakable evidence of greatness is not the brilliant
eye, the fine forehead, or the firm-set lip; neither is the `lion
port' or noble carriage—it is far more simple, sir. It lies
wholly in the hand-writing.”

“Possible, sir?”

“Yes, highly probable even. No great man ever yet wrote
legibly, and I hold that such a thing is conclusive evidence
of a narrowness of intellect. Great men uniformly use a
species of scrawl which people have to study, sir, before they
can understand. Like the Oracles of Delphos, the manuscript
is mysterious because it is profound. My own belief, sir, is,
that Homer's manuscript—if he had one, which I doubt—resembled
a sheet of paper over which a fly with inked feet has

crawled;—and you may imagine, sir, the respect, and, I may
add, the labor, of the old Greek type-setters in publishing the
first edition of the Iliad.”

This dissertation had the effect of diverting Mr. Roundjacket's
mind temporarily from his affliction; but his grief soon returned
in full force again.

“To think it!” he cried, flourishing his ruler, and ready to
weep,—“to think that after taking all the trouble to disguise my
clear running hand, and write as became an author of my
standing—in hieroglyphics—to think that this should be the result
of all my trouble.”

Roundjacket sniffed.

“Don't be sorry,” said Verty.

“I cannot refrain, sir,” said Roundjacket, in a tone of acute
agony; “it is more than I can bear. See here, sir, again: `High
Jove! great father!' is changed into `By Jove, I'd rather!' and
so on. Sir, it is more than humanity can bear; I feel that I
shall sink under it. I shall be in bed to-morrow, sir—after
all my trouble—`By Jove!' ”

With this despairing exclamation Roundjacket let his head
fall, overcome with grief, upon his desk, requesting not to be
spoken to, after the wont of great unfortunates.

Verty seemed to feel great respect for this overwhelming
grief; at least he did not utter any commonplace consolations.
He also leaned upon his desk, and his idle hands traced
idle lines upon the paper before him.

His dreamy eyes, full of quiet pleasure, fixed themselves
upon the far distance—he was thinking of Redbud.

He finally aroused himself, however, and began to work.
Half an hour, an hour, another hour passed—Verty was
breaking himself into the traces; he had finished his work.

He rose, and going to Mr. Rushton's door, knocked and opened
it. The lawyer was not there; Verty looked round—his companion
was absorbed in writing.

Verty sat down in the lawyer's arm-chair.