as done, she criticised them with merciless
irony.

"This is no timid rhymster," she exclaimed, "but a true poet of the
Spanish school: No figure is too bold for him. A mere versifier would
have likened a lady's eyes to earthly diamonds or heavenly stars; the
blessed sun itself is not too bright for our poet's purpose.--My timid
fancy dared not follow his soaring wing; to me at the first glance,
the 'stately Roman maid' was building her mimic Rome on the banks of
the Guadiana with solid stone and tough cement, and I saddened at the
sight of her labors. To come down to the mechanism of the verse," she
continued, "besides a false rhyme or two, the measure halts a
little.--But we must not forget that the river-god is taking a
poetical stroll in the shackles of a foreign tongue. In this case we
have good assurance that the poet has never been out of his own
country, and to the _eye_ of a foreigner 'flood' and 'wood' and 'home'
and 'come' are perfect rhymes. We must deal gently with the poet while
'trying his 'prentice hand,' hoping better things when he shall
'become an artist true;' and when we remember that to the national
taste sublimity is represented by bombast, artifice takes the place of
nature, and sense is sacrificed to sound, the love of the _ore
rotundo_ demanding mouth-filling words at any price, we cannot fail to
discover the genuine Spanish beauties of the piece. I only wonder that
in his chronological picture of the races he should omit to display
the Phoenician, Jewish and Gipsy maidens to our admiring eyes."

"Heyday!" exclaimed Colonel Bradshawe, who now came in with Major
Warren, while she was still standing in the middle of the floor, with
the paper raised in her hand, "Is this a rehearsal? Are we to have
private theatricals, with Lady Mabel for first and sole actress? With
songs interspersed for her as _prima donna_? Pray let me come in as
one of the _dramatis personae_."

"It is no play!" said Lady Mabel, much confused. "I have just been
throwing away my powers of elocution in an attempt to make Colonel
L'Isle perceive the beauties of a piece of model poetry, moulded in
the purest Spanish taste. I thought him gifted with some poetic
feeling, but he shows not the slightest sense of its peculiar merits."

L'Isle, though much out of countenance, had kept his seat through the
recitation, but now got up looking little pleased with it.

"Try me," said Major Warren. "You may be more successful in finding