of love, and I walked alone by a lonely road, more often sobbing, sometimes singing; alas, those hours did not last long. And I always found myself suddenly cool and passionless, and my uncertainty of mind awoke; when the scene changed I was no more a player, but a critic. Was it my strength or weakness? I could not accept wisdom good-naturedly, as my sceptic eye saw much foolishness in it; when I faced laughter my first question was of tears, and I was really a sad mortal, prone to undervalue the worth of love. Oh! what a wretchedness, after all! My mind is full of questions. And this questioning is, I think, the newest thing; the best possible pride is to say that I am of a new race. Such is my fate—the saddest fate indeed.
Happy was the ancient age when the minds of people were not tortured and wounded by questions, did not attempt to understand what they could not understand; and they had a great genius to tun their ignorance to the wonder of awakening. They lived fully. It is true that even I know how to live fully by reason or argument; but I have no faith, and
