who, when they catch a little one, toy with it until they kill
it), but she leaves you at the end of one of her brief, rich, melancholy
sentences, with plenty of food for future cogitation. I can't express
to you the charm of them; they seem to me like the sound of country
bells--provoking I don't know what vein of musing and meditation, and
falling sweetly and sadly on the ear.

This wonderful power of language must have been felt by most people
who read Madame Sand's first books, "Valentine" and "Indiana": in
"Spiridion" it is greater, I think, than ever; and for those who are
not afraid of the matter of the novel, the manner will be found most
delightful. The author's intention, I presume, is to describe, in
a parable, her notions of the downfall of the Catholic church; and,
indeed, of the whole Christian scheme: she places her hero in a
monastery in Italy, where, among the characters about him, and the
events which occur, the particular tenets of Madame Dudevant's doctrine
are not inaptly laid down. Innocent, faithful, tender-hearted, a young
monk, by name Angel, finds himself, when he has pronounced his vows, an
object of aversion and hatred to the godly men whose lives he so much
respects, and whose love he would make any sacrifice to win. After
enduring much, he flings himself at the feet of his confessor, and begs
for his sympathy and counsel; but the confessor spurns him away, and
accuses him, fiercely, of some unknown and terrible crime--bids him
never return to the confessional until contrition has touched his heart,
and the stains which sully his spirit are, by sincere repentance, washed
away.

"Thus speaking," says Angel, "Father Hegesippus tore away his robe,
which I was holding in my supplicating hands. In a sort of wildness I
still grasped it tighter; he pushed me fiercely from him, and I fell
with my face towards the ground. He quitted me, closing violently after
him the door of the sacristy, in which this scene had passed. I was
left alone in the darkness. Either from the violence of my fall, or the
excess of my grief, a vein had burst in my throat, and a haemorrhage
ensued. I had not the force to rise; I felt my senses rapidly sinking,
and, presently, I lay stretched on the pavement, unconscious, and bathed
in my blood."

[Now the wonderful part of the story begins.]

"I know not how much time I passed in this way. As I came to myself
I felt an agreeable coolness. It seemed as if some harmonious