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.
Round jacket 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.