I cannot tell why, but death, under every form, appears to me like something getting free - to expand in I know not what element - nay, I feel that this conscious being must be as unfettered, have the wings of thought, before it can be happy.
Existence is often but a painful consciousness of misery.
When I was shown these human petrifactions, I shrank back with disgust and horror. It is something worse than natural decay. It is treason against humanity. For nothing is so ugly as the human form when deprived of life, and thus dried into stone, merely to preserve the most disgusting image of death.
The waters murmur, and fall with more than mortal music, and spirits of peace walk abroad to calm the agitated breast. Eternity is in these moments. Worldly cares melt into the airy stuff that dreams are made of, and reveries, mild and enchanting as the first hopes of love or the recollection of lost enjoyment.
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