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--?"