If Black-sea, White-sea, Red-sea ran
One tide of ink to Ispahan;
If all the geese in Lincoln fens
Produced spontaneous well-made pens;
If Holland old or Holland new,
One wondrous sheet of paper grew;
Could I, by stenographic power,
Write twenty libraries an hour;
And should I sing but half the grace
Of half a freckle on thy face;
Each syllable I wrote should reach
From Inverness to Bognor's beach;
Each hair-stroke be a river Rhine,
Each verse an equinoctial line.
We have already exceeded our limits, but cannot refrain from
extracting Chapter XXV. It will convey some idea of the character of
the Heroine. She is now at the mansion of Lady Gwyn, who, for the
purpose of amusing her friends, has dressed up her nephew to represent
the supposed mother of the Lady Cherubina.