Note 11 — Chapter V · CRITICAL REACTION (1870-1900)
Reading edition
Oh, nature! O pure, piteous mother! oh, cruel, implacable assassin! Hand that proffers both poison and balm, and blends smiles with tears. The cradle, where the infant opens her tiny mouth to smile, is the miniature, the vague image of a coffin,—the living germ of a frightful end! Eternal contrast. Birds twittering upon tombs … flowers floating upon the surface of ugly, putrid waters.… Sadness walks at the side of joy.… And this your bosom, wherein night is born, is the selfsame bosom whence is born the day.…