“You see what I have here,” he said.
Tom nodded.
“Well, there are some of the articles I should like to ask you about, if you don't object.”
“No; go on.”
“Here is one, then, to begin with. I won't read it all. Let me see; here is what I was looking for,” and he began reading; “One would think, to hear these landlords, our rulers, talk, that the glorious green fields, the deep woods the everlasting hills, and the rivers that run among them, were made for the sole purpose of ministering to their greedy lusts and mean ambitions; that they may roll out amongst unrealities their pitiful mock lives, from their silk and lace cradles to their spangled coffins, studded with silver knobs, and lying coats of arms, reaping where they have not sown, and gathering where they have not strewed, making the omer small and the ephah great, that they may sell the refuse of the wheat—”
“That'll do, Jack; but what's the date of that paper?”
“July last. Is it yours, then?”
“Yes. And I allow it's too strong and one-sided. I have given up writing altogether; will that satisfy you? I don't see my own way clear enough yet. But, for all that, I'm not ashamed of what I wrote in that paper.”
“I have nothing more to say after that, except that I'm heartily glad you have given up writing for the present.”
“But I say, old fellow, how did you get these papers, and know about my articles?”