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Joanna E. Wood
A Romance
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So the two girls went into the house, and Sidney Martin stood gazing after them, rapt in the vision of a magnificently made woman curbing and subduing a rearing horse. Surely a type of the eternal divinity of womanhood, striving against the evil that men do.
Sidney Martin, dreamer of dreams, cherisher of ideals, delicate and supra-sensitive, was subjugated for ever by love of that splendid piece of vitality—that woman whom even at this moment he likened to the Venus de Milo—whose magnificent energy and forceful grace recalled so vividly the Winged Victory of Samothrace. With a throb he remembered the beauty of that headless masterpiece, where it stands in the cool greyness of the Louvre, the inexplicable sense of triumphant effort expressed in its heroic pose. How many aspiring souls have gathered fresh courage from its mutilated majesty, where it stands at the head of the wide stairs! And here in the New England hills he had found a woman who might have been its original. The great sculptors had not dreamed then, when they created these Goddesses of stone; even unto this day, it seemed, they walked the earth, radiant in strength and beauty. How fitting that their statues should be given wings, to typify the splendid spirit prisoned in the imperial clay!
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