Is it that by its indefiniteness it shadows forth the
heartless voids and immensities of the universe, and thus
stabs us from behind with the thought of annihilation,
when beholding the white depths of the milky way? Or is
it, that as in essence whiteness is not so much a color as
the visible absence of color; and at the same time the
concrete of all colors; is it for these reasons that there
is such a dumb blankness, full of meaning, in a wide
landscape of snows — a colorless, all-color of atheism
from which we shrink? And when we consider that other
theory of the natural philosophers, that all other earthly
hues — every stately or lovely emblazoning — the sweet
tinges of sunset skies and woods; yea, and the gilded
velvets of butterflies, and the butterfly cheeks of young
girls; all these are but subtile deceits, not actually
inherent in substances, but only laid on from without; so
that all deified Nature absolutely paints like the harlot,
whose allurements cover nothing but the charnel-house
within; and when we proceed further, and consider that the
mystical cosmetic which produces every one of her hues,
the great principle of light, for ever remains white or
colorless in itself, and if operating without medium upon
matter, would touch all objects, even tulips and roses,
with its own blank tinge — pondering all this, the palsied
universe lies before us a leper; and like wilful
travellers in Lapland, who refuse to wear colored and
coloring glasses upon their eyes, so the wretched infidel
gazes himself blind at the monumental white shroud that
wraps all the prospect around him. And of all these things
the Albino whale was the symbol. Wonder ye then at the
fiery hunt?