ost useful and essential for her in writing her books. She is
undoubtedly the most masculine mind of France at the present day.
Through the folly of her relations she was early married to a fool,
but she soon left him in disgust, and afterwards formed a friendship
with Jules Sandeau, a novelist and clever critic. It was he who
discovered her genius, and first caused her to write. It was the name
of this author, Jules Sandeau, that she altered into Georges Sand--a
name which she has made immortal.

Georges Sand in company is silent, and except when the conversation
touches a sympathetic chord in her nature, little given to
demonstration. Then she will talk earnestly on great matters,
generally on philosophy or theology, but in vain will you seek to draw
her into conversation on the little matters of ordinary chit-chat. She
lives in a small circle of friends, where she can say and do as she
pleases. Her son is a poor, weak-brained creature, perpetually
annoying the whole neighbourhood by beating on a huge drum night and
day. She has a daughter married to Chlessindur, the celebrated
sculptor, but who resembles but little her talented mother. Madame
Georges Sand has had a life of wild storms, with few rays of sunshine
to brighten her pathway; and like most of the reformers of the present
day, especially if it is her misfortune to be a woman, is a target to
be placed in a conspicuous position, to be shot at by all dark,
unenlightened human beings who may have peculiar motives for
restraining the progress of mind; but it is as absurd in this glorious
nineteenth century to attempt to destroy freedom of thought and the
sovereignty of the individual, as it is to stop the falls of Niagara.

There was a gifted and fashionable lady (the Countess of Agoult),
herself an accomplished authoress, concerning whom and Georges Sand a
curious story is told. They were great friends, and the celebrated
pianist Liszt was the admirer of both. Things went on smoothly for
some time, all _couleur de rose_, when one fine day Lizst and Georges
Sand disappeared suddenly from Paris, having taken it into their heads
to make the tour of Switzerland for the summer together. Great was the
indignation of the fair countess at this double desertion; and when
they returned to Paris, Madame d'Agoult went to Georges Sand, and
immediately challenged the great writer to a duel, the weapons to be
finger-nails, etc. Poor Lizst ran out of the room, and locked himse