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frightened, and yet blissfully happy. “"What people they
were,” we thought to ourselves; “we shall never see
their like!”
“Did people in those days never think of what
they were doing?” we asked.
“Certainly, they did,” our elders answered.
“But not as we think,” we persisted. Then our
elders did not understand what we meant.
For we were thinking of the wonderful spirit of
self-analysis which had already taken possession of
our minds; we were thinking of him with the icy eyes
and the long, knotted fingers—he, who sits in the
darkest corner of our souls, and plucks our being
to pieces as old women pluck scraps of wool and
silk. Piece by piece, the long, hard fingers have
dissected us till our whole being lies there like a heap
of rags—till all our best feelings, our innermost
thoughts, all we have said and done is examined,
ransacked, disintegrated, and the icy eyes have
watched, and the toothless mouth has sneered and
whispered, “See, it is but rags, nothing but rags.”
One of the people of those old days had opened
her soul to that spirit. He sat there watching at the
font of all impulse, sneering both at the good and
the evil, understanding all, judging nothing,
examining, searching, and plucking to pieces and
paralyzing all emotions of the heart and all
strength of thought by smiling scornfully at everything.
Marienne Sinclaire bore the spirit of
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