and polished sheets of stone, rich brown, with snow-white veins, on which danced for ever a dappled network of pale yellow light; to crusted beds of pink coralline; to caverns, in the dark crannies of which hung branching sponges and tufts of purple sea-moss; to strips of clear white sand, bestrewn with shells; to pools, each a gay flower-garden of all hues, where branching sea-weeds reflected blue light from every point, like a thousand damasked sword-blades; while among them, dahlias and chrysanthemums, and many another mimic of our earth-born flowers, spread blooms of crimson, and purple, and lilac, and creamy grey, half-buried among feathered weeds as brightly coloured as they; and strange and gaudy fishes shot across from side to side, and chased each other in and out of hidden cells.

Within and without all was at rest; the silence was broken only by the timid whisper of the swell, and by the chime of dropping water within some unseen cave:  but what a different rest!  Without, all lying breathless, stupefied, sun-stricken, in blinding glare; within, all coolness, and refreshing sleep.  Without, all simple, broad, and vast; within, all various, with infinite richness of form and colour.—­An Hairoun Alraschid’s bower, looking out upon the—­

Bother the fellow!  Why will he go on analysing and figuring in this way?  Why not let the blessed place tell him what it means, instead of telling it what he thinks?  And—­why, he is actually writing verses, though not about Fra Dolcino!

  “How rests yon rock, whoso half-day’s bath is done,
  With broad bright sight, beneath the broad bright sun,
    Like sea-nymph tired, on cushioned mosses sleeping. 
  Yet, nearer drawn, beneath her purple tresses,
    From down-bent brows we find her slowly weeping,
  So many a heart for cruel man’s caresses
    Must only pine and pine, and yet must bear
    A gallant front beneath life’s gaudy glare.”

Silly fellow!  Do you think that Nature had time to think of such a far-fetched conceit as that while it was making that rock and peopling it with a million tiny living things, of which not one falleth to the ground without your Father’s knowledge, and each more beautiful than any sea-nymph whom you ever fancied?  For, after all, you cannot fancy a whole sea nymph (perhaps in that case you could make one), but only a very little scrap of her outside.  Or if, as you boast, you are inspired by the Creative Spirit, tell us what the Creative Spirit says about that rock, and not such verse as that, the lesson of which you don’t yourself really feel.  Pretty enough it is, perhaps:  but in your haste to say a pretty thing, just because it was pretty, you have not cared to condemn yourself out of your own mouth.  Why were you sulky, sir, with Mrs. Vavasour this very morning, after all that passed, because she would look over the washing-books, while you wanted her to hear about Fra Dolcino?  And why, though she was