, as he sometimes
did, in a sort of declamatory monologue.

"I am not such a fool as to say that genius is of either sex; but it is
an acknowledged fact that no woman ever was a great painter, poet, or
musician. Genius, the mighty one, scorns to exist in weak female nature;
and even if it did, custom and education would certainly stunt its
growth. Look here, child,"--and, to Olive's astonishment, he snatched up
one of her drawings, and began lecturing thereupon--"here you have
made a design of some originality. I hate your young lady copyists of
landscapes and flowers, and Jullien's paltry heads. Come, let us see
this epigraph, 'Laon's Vision of Cythna,'

_Upon the mountain's dizzy brink she stood._

Good! Bold enough, too!"

And the painter settled himself into a long, silent examination of the
sketch. Then he said--

"Well, this is tolerable; a woman standing on a rock, a man a little
distance below looking at her--both drawn with decent correctness, only
overlaid with drapery to hide ignorance of anatomy. A very respectable
design. But, when one compares it with the poem!" And, in his deep,
sonorous voice, he repeated the stanzas from the "Revolt of Islam."

She stood alone.
Above, the heavens were spread; below, the flood
Was murmuring in its caves; the wind had blown
Her hair apart, through which her eyes and forehead shone.
A cloud was hanging o'er the western mountains;
Before its blue and moveless depths were flying
Grey mists, poured forth from the unresting fountains
Of darkness in the north--the day was dying.
Sudden the sun shone forth; its beams were lying
Like boiling gold on Ocean, strange to see;
And on the shattered vapours which defying
The power of light in vain, tossed restlessly
In the red heaven, like wrecks in a tempestuous sea.

It was a stream of living beams, whose bank
On either side by the cloud's cleft was made;
And where its chasms that flood of glory drank,
Its waves gushed forth like fire, and, as if swayed
By some mute tempest, rolled on her. The shade
Of her bright image floated on the river
Of liquid light, which then did end and fade.
Her radiant shape upon its verge did shiver
Aloft, her flowing hair like strings of flames did quiver.

"There!" cried Vanbrugh, his countenance glowing with a fierce
inspiration that made it grand through all its ugliness--"th