"Then you have certainly noble relatives who will feel ashamed as they read these lines! Why, they will think you have become a gypsy yourself! Now, if you had at least idealized gypsy life! But you have drawn them true to nature, thus sinning against the first rules of poetry. Nor is this your grossest fault. But, in the name of all the poets, what versification is this? The like I have never come across before! Virgilius Mars wrote in hexameters; Horatius Flaccus in alcaic, sapphic, and anapestic verse. But what do you call yours? There is no rhythm, the lines rhyme in all directions, as if the smith had three hammers working together on his anvil; one line is too long, another too short! That I could not allow; where I have found a line too short I have lengthened it with an interjection: because; namely; but; however." And the death's-head beamed with self-satisfaction. "Yes, yes, my son, I have helped out many a poet. Derschavin owes the greater part of his fame to me; and I shall make something out of you!" "All right, make what you like out of me, but not one iota do you add to my verses! Your office is to cut out what does not please you." "Now, don't flare up, my child. You will have no need to complain of want of cutting. Do you see this red pencil in my hand? It is historical. It has never been pointed; that is done effectually by the constant striking out it performs. Since the year 1796--before you were born--I have been engaged, with this very pencil, striking out words, lines--ay, whole pages! And what it has struck out has been condemned to eternal death!" "By Jove! that pencil, then, is a very guillotine." "Eh, eh! A young man such as you should not pronounce the word 'guillotine!' This red lead, my son, preserves society from degeneration, conspiracies, epidemics. It is more precious than the philosopher's stone; more powerful than a marshal's staff. It is the pillar on which rests the peace of the whole land." "Just let me hear what miracles your enchanted wand has effected on my poor verses?" "It has done its duty. Do you suppose that lines like 'Men enclosed within narrow walls are ashamed to love one another' may see the light? Humph! to love in the sense of your fine heroes one might well be ashamed! Running after gypsy girls, without the sanction of a priest, without wedlock--all unfettered--a pretty incentive to the young who would read it!" "But, my dear sir, that is not my intention. As the dramatic development proceeds, I purpose to show up my hero's wrong-doing, for which he has to atone." The death's-head was discomfited. He was not prepared for this reply.