I protest that so awful was the
transition from the damned crocodile, and the other unutterable monsters
and abortions of my dreams, to the sight of innocent _human_ natures and
of infancy, that in the mighty and sudden revulsion of mind I wept, and
could not forbear it, as I kissed their faces.
June 1819
I have had occasion to remark, at various periods of my life, that the
deaths of those whom we love, and indeed the contemplation of death
generally, is (_caeteris paribus_) more affecting in summer than in any
other season of the year. And the reasons are these three, I think:
first, that the visible heavens in summer appear far higher, more
distant, and (if such a solecism may be excused) more infinite; the
clouds, by which chiefly the eye expounds the distance of the blue
pavilion stretched over our heads, are in summer more voluminous, massed
and accumulated in far grander and more towering piles. Secondly, the
light and the appearances of the declining and the setting sun are much
more fitted to be types and characters of the Infinite. And thirdly
(which is the main reason), the exuberant and riotous prodigality of life
naturally forces the mind more powerfully upon the antagonist thought of
death, and the wintry sterility of the grave. For it may be observed
generally, that wherever two thoughts stand related to each other by a
law of antagonism, and exist, as it were, by mutual repulsion, they are
apt to suggest each other.
Pages:
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133