The Aldine, Vol. 5, No. 1., January, 1872 | Page 6

and Arizonian are birds of the same dark feather. They
have journeyed in strange lands; they have had strange experiences;
they have returned to Civilization. Each, in his way, is a Blighted Being!
"Who is she?" we inquire with the wise old Spanish Judge, for,
certainly, Woman is at the bottom of it all. If our readers wish to know
what woman, we refer them to "Arizonian:" they, of course, have read
"Lara."
Byron was a great poet, but Byronism is dead. Mr. Miller is not a great

poet, and his spurious Byronism will not live. We shall all see the end
of Millerism.

_THE REAL ROMANCE._
The author laid down his pen, and leaned back in his big easy chair.
The last word had been written--Finis--and there was the complete
book, quite a tall pile of manuscript, only waiting for the printer's hands
to become immortal: so the author whispered to himself. He had
worked hard upon it; great pains had been expended upon the
delineations of character, and the tone and play of incident; the plot, too,
had been worked up with much artistic force and skill; and, above all,
everything was so strikingly original; no one, in regarding the various
characters of the tale, could say: this is intended for so-and-so! No,
nothing precisely like the persons in his romance had ever actually
existed; of that the author was certain, and in that he was very probably
correct. To be sure, there was the character of the country girl, Mary,
which he had taken from his own little waiting-maid: but that was a
very subordinate element, and although, on the whole, he rather
regretted having introduced anything so incongruous and
unimaginative, he decided to let it go. The romance, as a whole, was
too great to be injured by one little country girl, drawn from real life.
"And by the way," murmured the author to himself, "I wish Mary
would bring in my tea."
He settled himself still more comfortably in his easy chair, and thought,
and looked at his manuscript; and the manuscript looked back; but all
its thinking had been done for it. Neither spoke--the author, because the
book already knew all he had to say; and the book, because its time to
speak and be immortal had not yet arrived. The fire had all the talking
to itself, and it cackled, and hummed, and skipped about so cheerfully
that one would have imagined it expected to be the very first to receive
a presentation copy of the work on the table. "How I would devour its
contents!" laughed the fire.
Perhaps the author did not comprehend the full force of the fire's
remark, but the voice was so cosy and soothing, the fire itself so ruddy
and genial, and the easy chair so softly cushioned and hospitable, that
he very soon fell into a condition which enabled him to see, hear, and
understand a great many things which might seem remarkable, and,

indeed, almost incredible.
The manuscript on the table which had hitherto remained perfectly
quiet, now rustled its leaves nervously, and finally flung itself wide
open. A murmur then arose, as of several voices, and presently there
appeared (though whether stepping from between the leaves of the
book itself, or growing together from the surrounding atmosphere, the
author could not well make out) a number of peculiar-looking
individuals, at the first glance appearing to be human beings, though a
clear investigation revealed in each some odd lack or exaggeration of
gesture, feature, or manner, which might create a doubt as to whether
they actually were, after all, what they purported to be, or only some
_lusus naturæ_. But the author was not slow to recognize them, more
especially as, happening to cast a glance at the manuscript, he noticed
that it was such no longer, but a collection of unwritten sheets of paper,
blank as when it lay in the drawer at the stationer's--unwitting of the
lofty destiny awaiting it.
Here, then, were the immortal creations which were soon to astound the
world, come, in person, to pay their respects to the author of their being.
He arose and made a profound obeisance to the august company, which
they one and all returned, though in such a queer variety of ways, that
the author, albeit aware that every individual had the best of reasons for
employing, under certain special circumstances, his or her particular
manner of salute, could scarcely forbear smiling at the effect they all
together produced in his own unpretending study.
"Your welcome visit," said the author, addressing his guests with all the
geniality of which he was master (for they seemed somewhat stiff and
ill-at-ease), "gives me peculiar gratification. I regret not having asked
some of my friends, the critics, up