In this silent solitary place, with the
walled field which was once Calleva Atrebatum at my feet, I
yet have a sense of satisfaction, of security, never felt in a
land that had no historic past. The knowledge that my
individual life is but a span, a breath; that in a little
while I too must wither and mingle like one of those fallen
yellow leaves with the mould, does not grieve me. I know it
and yet disbelieve it; for am I not here alive, where men have
inhabited for thousands of years, feeling what I now feel
--their oneness with everlasting nature and the undying human
family? The very soil and wet carpet of moss on which their
feet were set, the standing trees and leaves, green or yellow,
the rain-drops, the air they breathed, the sunshine in their
eyes and hearts, was part of them, not a garment, but of their
very substance and spirit. Feeling this, death becomes an
illusion; and the illusion that the continuous life of the
species (its immortality) and the individual life are one and
the same is the reality and truth. An illusion, but, as Mill
says, deprive us of our illusions and life would be
intolerable. Happily we are not easily deprived of them,
since they are of the nature of instincts and ineradicable.
And this very one which our reason can prove to be the most
childish, the absurdest of all, is yet the greatest, the most
fruitful of good for the race.
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