nt state of Catholicism no way
exaggerated. Alexis is no more persecuted than Abelard was,
and is so, for the same reasons. From the examinations of the
Italian convents in Leopold's time, it seems that the grossest
materialism not only reigns, but is taught and professed in
them. And Catholicism loads and infects as all dead forms do,
however beautiful and noble during their lives.' * *

GEORGE SAND, AGAIN.

'1839.--When I first knew George Sand, I thought I found tried
the experiment I wanted. I did not value Bettine so much;
she had not pride enough for me; only now when I am sure of
myself, would I pour out my soul at the feet of another. In
the assured soul it is kingly prodigality; in one which cannot
forbear, it is mere babyhood. I love _abandon_ only when
natures are capable of the extreme reverse. I knew Bettine
would end in nothing, when I read her book. I knew she could
not outlive her love.

'But in _Les Sept Cordes de la Lyre_, which I read first, I
saw the knowledge of the passions, and of social institutions,
with the celestial choice which rose above them. I loved
Helene, who could so well hear the terrene voices, yet keep
her eye fixed on the stars. That would be my wish, also, to
know all, then choose; I ever revered her, for I was not sure
that I could have resisted the call of the Now, could have
left the spirit, and gone to God. And, at a more ambitious
age, I could not have refused the philosopher. But I hoped
from her steadfastness, and I thought I heard the last tones
of a purified life:--Gretchen, in the golden cloud, raised
above all past delusions, worthy to redeem and upbear the wise
man, who stumbled into the pit of error while searching for
truth.

'Still, in _Andre_, and in _Jacques_, I traced the same high
morality of one who had tried the liberty of circumstance
only to learn to appreciate the liberty of law, to know that
license is the foe of freedom. And, though the sophistry of
passion in these books disgusted me, flowers of purest hue
seemed to grow upon the dank and dirty ground. I thought she
had cast aside the slough of her past life, and began a new
existence beneath the sun of a true Ideal.

'But here (in the _Lettres d'un Voyageur_) what do I see? An
unfortunate bewailing her loneliness, bewailing her mistake