ic--"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