The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 01, No. 03, January, 1858: A Magazine of Literature, Art, and PoliticsVarious
General
The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 01, No. 03, January, 1858: A Magazine of Literature, Art, and Politics
Various
American periodicals
How strange, I thought, that this sphere should be thus condemned to
solitude! I had hoped, at least, to discover some new form of animal
life,--perhaps of a lower class than any with which we are at
present acquainted,--but still, some living organism. I find my
newly discovered world, if I may so speak, a beautiful chromatic
desert.
While I was speculating on the singular arrangements of the internal
economy of Nature, with which she so frequently splinters into atoms
our most compact theories, I thought I beheld a form moving slowly
through the glades of one of the prismatic forests. I looked more at
tentively, and found that I was not mistaken. Words cannot depict
the anxiety with which I awaited the nearer approach of this
mysterious object. Was it merely some inanimate substance, held in
suspense in the attenuated atmosphere of the globule? or was it an
animal endowed with vitality and motion? It approached, flitting
behind the gauzy, colored veils of cloud-foliage, for seconds dimly
revealed, then vanishing. At last the violet pennons that trailed
nearest to me vibrated; they were gently pushed aside, and the form
floated out into the broad light.
It was a female human shape. When I say "human," I mean it possessed
the outlines of humanity,--but there the analogy ends. Its adorable
beauty lifted it inimitable heights beyond the loveliest daughter of
Adam.
I cannot, I dare not, attempt to inventory the charms of this divine
revelation of perfect beauty. Those eyes of mystic violet, dewy and
serene, evade my words. Her long lustrous hair following her
glorious head in a golden wake, like the track sown in heaven by a
falling star, seems to quench my most burning phrases with its
splendors. If all the bees of Hybla nestled upon my lips, they would
still sing but hoarsely the wondrous harmonies of outline that
enclosed her form.
She swept out from between the rainbow-curtains of the cloud-trees
into the broad sea of light that lay beyond. Her motions were those
of some graceful Naiad, cleaving, by a mere effort of her will, the
clear, unruffled waters that fill the chambers of the sea. She
floated forth with the serene grace of a frail bubble ascending
through the still atmosphere of a June day. The perfect roundness of
her limbs formed suave and enchanting curves. It was like listening
to the most spiritual symphony of Beethoven the divine, to watch the
harmonious flow of lines. This, indeed, was a pleasure cheaply
purchased at any price. What cared I, if I had waded to the portal
of this wonder through another's blood? I would have given my own to
enjoy one such moment of intoxication and delight.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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