s more variety of picturesque aspect than perhaps in any other in
Europe, the poetic side of rural life should have been so sparingly
represented in her imaginative literature. French poets of nature have
mostly sought their inspiration out of their own land, "In France,
especially," observes Theophile Gautier, "all literary people live in
town, that is in Paris the centre, know little of what is unconnected
with it, and most of them cannot tell wheat from barley, potatoes from
beetroot." It was a happy inspiration that prompted Madame Sand to fill
in the blank, in a way all her own, and her task as we have seen was
completed, revolutions notwithstanding. She owns to having then felt the
attraction experienced in all time by those hard hit by public
calamities, "to throw themselves back on pastoral dreams, all the more
naive and childlike for the brutality and darkness triumphant in the
world of activity." Tired of "turning round and round in a false circle
of argument, of accusing the governing minority, but only to be forced
to acknowledge after all that they were put there by the choice of the
majority," she wished to forget it all: and her poetic temperament which
unfitted her for success in politics assisted her in finding consolation
in nature.

Moreover a district like Le Berry, singularly untouched by corruptions
of the civilization, and preserving intact many old and interesting
characteristics, was a field in which she might draw from reality many
an attractive picture. She was as much rallied by town critics about her
shepherdesses as though she had invented them. And yet she saw them
every day, and they may be seen still by any wanderer in those lanes,
and at every turn, Fanchons, Maries, Nanons, as she described them,
tending their flock of from five to a dozen sheep, or a few geese, a
goat and a donkey, all day long between the tall hedgerows, or on the
common, spinning the while, or possibly dreaming. A certain refinement
of cast distinguishes the type. Eugene Delacroix, in a letter describing
a village festival at Nohant, remarks that if positive beauty is rare
among the natives, ugliness is a thing unknown. A gentle, passive cast
of countenance prevails among the women: "They are all St. Annes," as
the artist expresses it. The inevitable changes brought about by
steam-communication, which have as yet only begun to efface the local
habits and peculiarities, must shortly complete their work. George
Sand's