The Aldine, Vol. 5, No. 1., January, 1872 | Page 8

and his author
longed to get him across his knee, and correct him in the good old way.
But meantime the point of the young warrior's sword was getting
unpleasantly near the left breast-pocket of the author's dressing gown
(which he wore at the time), and the latter happened to recollect, with a
nervous thrill, that this was the sword which mortally wounded the
traitor lover (for whom Sam evidently mistook him) during the stirring
combat so vividly described in the twenty-second chapter. Could he but

have foreseen the future, what a different ending that engagement
should have had! But again it was too late, and the author sprang
behind the big easy chair with astonishing agility, and from that
vantage ground endeavored to bring on a parley.
Yet how could he argue and expostulate against himself? How arraign
Sam of harboring murderous designs which he had himself implanted
in his bosom? How, indeed, expect him to comprehend conversation so
entirely foreign to his experience? It was an awkward dilemma.
It was Sam who took it by the horns. Somebody, he felt, must be
mortally wounded; and finding himself defrauded of one subject, he
took up with the next he encountered, which chanced to be none other
than the venerable and white-haired gentleman who filled the position,
in the tale, of a wealthy and benevolent uncle. The author, having
always felt a sentiment of exceptional respect and admiration for this
reverend and patriarchal personage, who by his gentle words and sage
counsels, no less than his noble generosity, had done so much to
elevate and sweeten the tone of his book, fell into an ecstasy of terror at
witnessing the approach of his seemingly inevitable destruction;
especially as he perceived that the poor old fellow (who never in his
life had met with aught but reverence and affection, and knew nothing
of the nature of deadly weapons and impulses) was, so far, from
attempting to defend himself, or even escape, actually opening his arms
to the widest extent of avuncular hospitality, and preparing to take his
assassin, sword and all, into his fond and forgiving heart!
"You old fool!" shrieked the author, in the excess of his irritation and
despair; "he isn't your repentant nephew! Why can't you keep your
forgiveness until it's wanted?"
But Uncle Dudley having been created solely to forgive and benefit,
was naturally incapable of taking care of himself, and would certainly
have been run through the ample white waistcoat, had not an
unexpected and wholly unprecedented interruption averted so awful a
catastrophe.
A small, graceful figure, wearing a picturesque white cap, with jaunty
ribbons, and a short scarlet petticoat, from beneath which peeped the
prettiest feet and ancles ever seen, stepped suddenly between the
philanthropic victim and his would-be-murderer, dealt the latter a
vigorous blow across the face with a broom she carried, thereby

toppling him over ignominiously into the coal-scuttle, and then, placing
her plump hands saucily akimbo, she exclaimed with enchanting
_naivete_: "There! Mr. Free-and-easy! take that for your imperance."
This little incident caused the author to fall back into his easy chair in a
condition of profound emotion. It appeared to have corrected a certain
dimness or obliquity in his vision, of the existence of which its cure
rendered him for the first time conscious. The appearance of the little
country girl (whose very introduction into the romance the author had
looked upon with misgivings) had afforded the first gleam of natural,
refreshing, wholesome interest--in fact, the only relief to all that was
vapid, irrational, and unreal--which the combined action of the
characters in his romance had succeeded in producing. But the
enchantress who had effected this, so far from being the most
unadulterated product of his own brain and genius, was the only one of
all his _dramatis personæ_ who was not in the slightest degree indebted
to him for her existence. She was nothing more than an accurate copy
of Mary the house-maid, while the others--the mis-formed, ill-balanced,
one-sided creations, who, the moment they were placed beyond the
pale of their written instructions--put out of the regular and
pre-arranged order of their going--displayed in every word and gesture
their utter lack and want of comprehension of the simplest elements of
human nature: these were the unaided offspring of the author's fancy.
And yet it was by help of such as these he had thought to push his way
to immortality! How the world would laugh at him! and, as he thought
this, a few bitter tears of shame and humiliation trickled down the sides
of the poor man's nose.
Presently he looked up. The warlike Sam remained sitting
disconsolately in the coal-hod; his instructions suggested no means of
extrication. Forsaken Constance lay fainting on the sofa, waiting for
some one to chafe