Such a sight sets a viewless network of emotion, which seems to
interlace far back into the ages, all pulsating and stirring. One
sees in a flash that humanity lived, carelessly and brutally
perhaps, as we too live, and were confronted, as we are confronted,
with the horror of the gap, the intolerable mystery of life lapsing
into the dark. Ah, the relentless record, the impenetrable mystery!
I care very little, I fear, for the historical development of
funereal rites, and hardly more for the light that such things
throw on the evolution of society. I leave that gratefully enough
to the philosophers. What I care for is the touch of nature that
shows me my ancient brethren of the dim past--who would have mocked
and ridiculed me, I doubt not, if I had fallen into their hands,
and killed me as carelessly as one throws aside the rind of a
squeezed fruit--yet I am one of them, and perhaps even something of
their blood flows in my veins yet.
As I grow older, I tend to travel less and less, and I do not care
if I never cross the Channel again.
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