was in
early middle age. Guizot was in his full prestige, literary and
administrative. Liszt and Chopin held the opposite poles of the musical
world, and wielded, the one its most intense, the other its broadest
power. The civilized world then looked to Paris for the precious
traditions of good taste, and the city deserved this deference as it
does not now.

The sense of security which then prevailed in the French capital was
indeed illusory. The stable basis of things was already undermined by
the dangerous action of theories and of thinkers. Louis Philippe was
unconsciously nearing the abrupt close of his reign. A new chaos was
imminent, and one out of which was to come, first a heroic uprising, and
then a despotism so monstrous and mischievous as to foredoom itself, a
caricature of military empire which for a time cheated Europe, and in
the end died of the emptiness of its own corruption.

Into this Paris Margaret came, not unannounced. Her essay on American
Literature, which had recently appeared in her volume entitled "Papers
on Literature and Art," had already been translated into French, and
printed in the "Revue Independante." The same periodical soon after
published a notice of "Woman in the Nineteenth Century." Margaret
enjoyed the comfortable aspect of the apartment which she occupied with
her travelling-companions at Hotel Rougemont, Boulevard Poissoniere. She
mentions the clock, mirror, curtained bed, and small wood-fire which
were then, and are to-day, so costly to the transient occupant.

Though at first not familiar with the sound of the French language, she
soon had some pleasant acquaintances, and was not long in finding her
way to the literary and social eminences who were prepared to receive
her as their peer.

First among these she mentions George Sand, to whom she wrote a letter,
calling afterwards at her house. Her name was not rightly reported by
the peasant woman who opened the door, and Margaret, waiting for
admittance, heard at first the discouraging words, "Madame says she does
not know you." She stopped to send a message regarding the letter she
had written, and as she spoke, Madame Sand opened the door and stood
looking at her for a moment.

"Our eyes met. I shall never forget her look at that moment. The doorway
made a frame for her figure. She is large, but well formed. She was
dressed in a robe of dark violet silk, with a black mantle on her
shoulders, her beautiful hair dressed w