“THE COUNTESS EMMELINE’S DISDAINMENT.”
“Bitter-black the winter’s whirlwind wail’d around the haunted hall,
Where the sheeted snow that fleeted fester’d on the mouldering wall.
“But his blacker soul within him childish calm appear’d to view,
And when gazing, ’twas amazing whence the sceptic terror grew.
“Then her voice, so silver-blended, to a trumpet-blast did swell,
As she task’d him when she asked him, ‘Mr. Johnson, is it well?’
“Ashen-white the curdled traitor paled before her eagle eye,
Whilst denying, in replying, deeper grew his perjury.”
“There! I can’t stand any more of that, at any price!” exclaimed Frere, putting his hands to his ears. “Unless you wish to make me seriously ill, spare me the infliction of those detestable compound adjectives.”
“My dear fellow, you’ve no taste,” returned Bracy. “Why, that’s written by one of our best contributors; an individual that will make Tennyson look to his laurels, and do the Brownings brown, one of these days. But if that’s too grand for you, here’s a little bit of pastoral simplicity may suit you better:—