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palaces of the Bourbons at Versailles, which we feared would soon be
tainted by the dead, when we looked forward to vallies lovelier than any
garden, to mighty forests and halls, built not for mortal majesty, but
palaces of nature's own, with the Alp of marmoreal whiteness for their
walls, the sky for their roof.
Yet our spirits flagged, as the day drew near which we had fixed for our
departure. Dire visions and evil auguries, if such things were, thickened
around us, so that in vain might men say--
These are their reasons, they are natural,[1]
we felt them to be ominous, and dreaded the future event enchained
to them. That the night owl should screech before the noon-day
sun, that the hard-winged bat should wheel around the bed of
beauty, that muttering thunder should in early spring startle
the cloudless air, that sudden and exterminating blight should fall
on the tree and shrub, were unaccustomed, but physical events, less
horrible than the mental creations of almighty fear. Some had sight of
funeral processions, and faces all begrimed with tears, which flitted
through the long avenues of the gardens, and drew aside the curtains of the
sleepers at dead of night. Some heard wailing and cries in the air; a
mournful chaunt would stream through the dark atmosphere, as if spirits
above sang the requiem of the human race. What was there in all this, but
that fear created other senses within our frames, making us see, hear, and
feel what was not? What was this, but the action of diseased imaginations
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