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.
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.