Graham's Magazine, Vol. XLI, No. 3, September 1852Various
General
Graham's Magazine, Vol. XLI, No. 3, September 1852
Various
Literature -- Periodicals; Literature, Modern -- 19th century -- Periodicals
“So should I,” I replied, mechanically, without reflecting that the cap
which instantly fulfilled all such wishes was upon my head. Scarcely had
the three syllables passed my lips, when I found myself in an immense
vaulted apartment, whose high ceiling was undiscernible to the eye.
Pillars of marble, porphyry, and jaspar, reared themselves from the
floor, which was covered with the most costly carpets. I saw before me
the silver doors of a smaller apartment standing open. In the midst
hovered, without losing its balance, an object which resembled a coffin.
“Allah! Allah!” resounded around me, and everywhere I saw prostrate the
pious worshipers of Islam. I tried to collect myself. “A Giaour!” cried
many voices, suddenly. “Seize the Christian dog, who defiles the tomb of
the Holy Prophet—stone him.” They had recognized me, and were thronging
toward me with cries of “Death!” The danger was imminent—but relief was
close at hand. In the next moment I was sitting quietly in the carriage
of the Duchess of Silvio Cremonio, opposite to the fairest of the fair.
A pallor overspread the features of both ladies, and they trembled
excessively. The mother regarded me with terror and astonishment, the
daughter more with curiosity.
“By all the saints!” began the mother, in a trembling voice, “I have
never met with so remarkable an adventure in a drive before; suddenly,
in the midst of an intensely interesting conversation, my lord marquis,
you vanish, as if blown away like a mote tossed about by the wind. And
now, just as wonderfully, and, as if created from nothing, you appear
again in your seat. What does this mean, dear Mostarda? You certainly
owe us an explanation.”
“’Tis nothing! A mere trifle,” I replied, confused. “It is a disease
that I inherit, but the attacks are very rare, nor do they, as you have
seen, last long. It is a very peculiar kind of cramp. One is drawn
entirely into himself, into the merest speck, into the plexus solaris of
the soul. There is no danger in the case—before one can turn round, it
is over. I shall be extremely sorry if such a trifle has alarmed you,
ladies.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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