needed. I was too exclusive, too selfconcentrated, too free from conventionalism. If I had known the source of the evil, I might have found a remedy; I might, perhaps, have succeeded in changing myself into another being; but I did not, in the least degree, comprehend either him or myself."

They remained but a short time in their dwelling in the environs, and soon took apartments in a pleasant situation in Paris. Here they were surrounded by a gay society, but Madame Dudevant relapsed into her accustomed melancholy. At this period Deschartres had become tired of his agricultural projects, and was living alone in the city. He now had some grand commercial speculations in his head, and, with a confidence foreign to his nature, became the dupe of unknown adventurers, who contrived to get possession of his money. In the spring of 1825, the family returned to Nohant, and hearing nothing of Deschartres for three months, sent for information to his lodgings. Poor Deschartres was dead! His little fortune had been entirely lost. He maintained a perfect silence to his last hour. No one knew anything about him. No one had seen him for a long time. He left his furniture to the washer-woman, who had faithfully taken care of him. Besides that, not a word of remembrance, not a complaint, not a message, not an adieu to any one. He had entirely disappeared, carrying with him the secret of his blasted ambition, or his betrayed confidence. His death affected Madame Dudevant more than she was willing to acknowledge. She at first experienced a sort of relief in being freed from his wearisome dogmatism, but soon felt that she had lost the presence of a devoted heart, and intercourse with a mind in many respects remarkable. Her brother, who had hated him as a tyrant, lamented his end, but did not regret his loss. For herself, to whom he had filled a large portion of her life, had been associated with all the recollections of her childhood, and had furnished the principal spur of her intellectual development, she felt that she was a little more an orphan than before. The secret of his death was never brought to light.

From 1825 to 1831, with the exception of several journeys, the family resided at Nohant. Although there was no end to domestic chagrins, no serious

rupture between husband and wife took place until the last-named date, when Madame Dudevant perceived the necessity of taking a decided course. Sho determined to separate from her husband by mutual consent, and establish herself at Paris, with her little daughter, who had been born about three years before. It was arranged that she should have permission to reside three months at a time at Nohant. Her son, Maurice, was left under the care of a private instructor, who had been in the family for two years. It was her intention, in coming to Paris, to devote herself to writing as a profession.

Her state of mind, in the interval, is feelingly described in her own words: "I had lived over an immense space during those few years. I seemed to have lived a hundred years under the influence of one idea, so weary had I become of gayety without heart, of a home without intimacy, of a solitude which the noise of intoxication made still more intense. Still I had not to complain seriously of any immediate bad treatment; and even had this been the case, I should have endeavored not to see it. The disorderly conduct of my poor brother, and the comrades whom he led away with him, had not proceeded to such a pitch that I could not inspire them with a sort of fear, which was not condescension, but an instinctive respect. On my side, I had exercised the greatest possible forbearance towards them. So long as they did nothing but drivel, bluster, and annoy, I attempted to laugh, and even accustomed myself to support a tone of pleasantry which was really revolting; but when my nerves were placed on the rack, when they became gross and obscene, and when even my poor brother, so long submissive and penitent under my remonstrances, grew brutal and malicious, I became deaf to everything, and, as soon as I was able, without making any pretense, retreated to my little chamber."

She had now become an inhabitant of Paris, with limited means of support, with little experience of the world, but with an undaunted spirit, and a resolution to rely upon herself in her struggle for independence.

She was eager for improvement, desirous to emerge from provincial narrowness, and to gain the level of the ideas and the forms of her time. She

was prompted to this no less by necessity than by curiosity. She was conscious of her ignorance, though well schooled in the world of books. With the exception of some of the most celebrated pieces, she had seen nothing of modern art. She was almost a stranger to the theatre, although greatly interested in it. But she perceived that it was out of the question for a poor woman in Paris to indulge in any fancies of that kind. Still she saw her young friends, whom she was intimate with in the country, living on as little as she had herself, and not neglecting any means of intellectual pleasure or improvement. They went everywhere, and saw everything. She had been a great walker at Nohant, but on the Paris pavement she was helpless as a boat upon the ice. Her fine shoes split out in two days, she could not learn to hold up her dress, she got bedraggled, fatigued, took constant colds, and found her wardrobe going to ruin with frightful rapidity. Before coming to Paris, she had often asked her mother how she could live on her moderate income in that expensive city. 66 At my age, and with my habits," was the reply, "it is not difficult; but when I was young, and your father wanted money, he thought of dressing me up as a boy. My sister did the same, and we went everywhere on foot with our husbands, and thus saved at least one-half the expense of the family." Madame Dudevant recalled the conversation, and the idea struck her as a good one. She had dressed like a boy when a child, and it did not seem strange to resume a costume to which she had been accustomed. She, accordingly, had made for her one of the long, gray frock-coats, which were then much worn, and pantaloons and waistcoat to match. With a gray hat, and a large woolen cravat, she was completely transformed into a young student of the first year. Her new boots gave her the greatest delight. She could almost have slept with them, as her young brother did when he had his first pair. With their iron heels, she stood firm on the pavement. She almost flew from one end of Paris to the other. She felt as if she could make the tour of the world. Her dress was afraid of nothing. She went out in all weather, returned at all hours, and sat in the parterre at all theatres. No one took any notice of her, or suspected

her disguise. This costume, however, was assumed only for a temporary purpose, and was then laid aside, although it has been said that she wore it for many years, and that, even ten years afterwards, her son was often taken for herself.

With regard to the adoption of the pseudonyme, George Sand, she gives a natural explanation, without attempting to make a mystery of what, at the time, seemed to her a quite insignificant circunstance. When her novel, "Indiana," which had been written at Nohant, was ready for the press, her mother-in-law, the Baroness Dudevant, who had heard of her intention to "print a book," protested against the family name appearing on the title-page. She reassured the stately matron by the promise that her aristocratic blood should not be thus scandalously compromised. Accordingly, she determined that her book should appear anonymously. She had sketched out the plan of a former work, which was afterwards finished by Jules Sandeau, and published under the name of Jules Sand. This became popular, and another publisher made proposals for a

new

romance with the same pseudonyme. She wished that Indiana" might appear under that name, but Jules Sandeau modestly declined to accept the paternity of a work to which he was an entire stranger. But this did not meet the views of the publisher. With the eye to prosperous traffic, characteristic of his tribe, he insisted on retaining the name. After talking the matter over with some of her friends, a compromise was agreed on, and it was decided that George Sand should be announced as the author of the forthcoming novel. From that time, Jules and George, who were unknown to the public, were regarded as brothers or cousins, who bid fair to attain a distinguished reputation in literature. After her writings became known in Germany, it was supposed that the name implied a relationship to Carl Sand, the political enthusiast, and the assassin of Kotzebue--and she often received letters from persons in that country requesting an explanation of the affinity. It has also been taken for granted that the pseudonyme, at least, was a proof of her sympathy with secret societies and political assassinations. This she expressly disclaims, declaring that nei

ther are in accordance with her religious principles nor her revolutionary instincts. As to the name itself, she acknowledged that she might have changed it if she had thought that it was destined to obtain any celebrity. But, until the time of the publication of "Lelia," when she was the subject of the most severe criticism, which attacked even to her pseudonyme, she had expected to pass without notice among the crowd of obscure writers. Seeing that, in spite of herself, this was not to be the case, she clung to the name, and continued her work, believing that the contrary course would have been cowardly. The adoption of the name was an accident. "Whatever it now is," says she, "I have made it myself, by my own labor, and that alone. I have never used the toil of another. I have never taken, nor bought, nor borrowed a line from any one whatever. Of seven or eight hundred thousand francs, which I have gained in twenty years, nothing remains; and now (1854), as twenty years ago, I live from day to day on this name which protects my labor, and on this labor, of which I have not reserved to myself a penny. I do not feel that any one can reproach me, and, without being proud of anything (for I have only done my duty), my serene conscience sees nothing to change in the name by which it is designated and personified."

Before the publication of the novel, her husband paid her a visit at Paris. He did not stay at her house, but dined with her every day, and took her to the theatre. He appeared satisfied with the arrangement which, without quarrel or question, had made them independent of each other. She returned with him to Nohant, which she no longer regarded as her own. She criticised none of the changes which had been made in her absence, and, though she found much that was displeasing, she had nothing to say, and said nothing. Returning to Paris, she devoted herself to writing, where she lived on the productions of her pen, making occasional visits to Nohant, and always sacrificing herself for the welfare of her children. A legal separation was afterwards effected between her husband and herself. By the judicial decree she was reinstated in the possession of Nohant, and intrusted with the care and education of her children. She thus became

The

both father and mother of a family at once. With only a moderate income, and partly depending for a livelihood on the precarious gains of authorship, she found her position one of perpetual anxiety and fatigue. But, with increased demands upon her efforts, she was inspired with a higher and more devoted love of her vocation as a writer. moment that it became not only a personal need but an austere duty, she pursued it with fresh enthusiasm, and derived from it unfailing encouragement, amid many trials. Her state of mind, under the painful complications into which she had been thrown, is sketched in one of the frank confessions with which she often challenges the sympathy of her reader: What various solicitudes for a head without very ample resources; what extremes of life I was compelled to experience simultaneously in my little sphere! The respect for art, the obligations of honor-the moral and physical care of children exceeding everything else-the details of a household, the duties of friendship, of charity, and of courtesy ! The days are all too short to prevent the affairs of the house,of the family, of business, and of the brain, from falling into disorder. I have done what I could. have done only what was possible to resolution and faith. I was not sustained by one of those marvelous organizations which embrace everything without effort, and which pass without fatigue from the sick bed of a child to a judicial consultation; from a chapter of a romance to an examination of accounts. I have taken far more pains than any one would imagine. many years, I have allowed myself but four hours' sleep; and, for many other years, I have been subject to terrible headaches, which even caused me to faint over my work. Still, things have by no means always gone according to my zeal and devotedness. Hence I conclude, that marriage should be made as indissoluble as possible; for, to conduct so fragile a bark, as the happiness of a family, over the troubled waves of modern society, a man and a woman are not too much--a father and mother mutually sharing the task according to their respective capacities."

I

For

The position of George Sand led her into friendly and intimate relations with many of the most distinguished characters of the age. She took a deep inter

66

est in political discussions, as well as those relating to literary and social questions. No portion of her work is more attractive than her personal sketches of several celebrities among the circle of her acquaintance. Her wide experience gives value to her opinions, and her comments on society, as the results of her observation, are not without a certain pensive grace. "I have been conversant in my time," she says, with the extremes of society in various relations-with opulence and misery, with the most conservative ideas and the most revolutionary principles. I have loved to trace out and to comprehend the different impulses which act upon humanity, and which decide its vicissitudes. I have looked on with attention, have often been deceived, but sometimes have seen clearly. After the despondencies of my youth, I yielded to too many illusions. My morbid skepticism was succeeded by too great benevolence and ingenuousness. I was a thousand times the dupe of the dream of an archangelic harmony between the opposing forces in the great conflict of ideas. I am still sometimes capable of this simplicity, proceeding from a fullness of the heart, although I ought to be cured of it, for I have bled much. The life which I here relate has been good

on the surface. I have enjoyed the pleasant sunshine which was on my children, my friends, my labor; but the life which I do not relate has been embittered by frightful grief."

In closing the imperfect narrative of her history, as set forth in the ingenuous disclosures of these volumes, we have no wish to disguise or palliate the errors which have given George Sand an unenviable notoriety before the world. She is even more conspicuous for her systematic independence of the wholesome regulations of society than for the splendor of her genius and the boldness of her artistic creations. Nor is this the place to criticise her career or her productions in an ethical point of view. We have endeavored to illustrate the circumstances amidst which her character has received its distinctive impression, the natural traits which have blossomed out into such peculiar development, and the mental experiences which have made her life a perpetual alternation between the most strongly-marked extremes. Her strange, eventful biography, which has not yet reached its denouement, awaits the verdict of the age. In pronouncing the final decision, let the stern behests of justice be mingled with the tender pleadings of Christian charity.

The slave-question is becoming more and more prominent, and I have thought it well to give a simple, faithful narrative of a slave's experience and views. The sketch has not been gotten up for effect, but has been written as an authentic illustration of the results, moral and physical, of the system. Though the owner of slaves, I have always advocated some plan of gradual emancipation by our own state, and, therefore, have no motive for concealing anything in relation to the effects of slavery. I have given, exactly, Ralph's narrative— many facts in which I could myself establish, and verify others by unquestionable evidence.

Your obedient servant,

-]

I WAS born about the year 1794, on a large plantation, thirty odd miles. above Richmond, Virginia, and was descended, in the third generation, from imported Africans, and, probably, from some of the darkest of the native race; for my parents as well as myself were pretty black-more SO than slaves generally are now. My parents belonged to a gentleman supposed to be wealthy, residing in Williamsburg, who had been a member of the King's Council, and afterwards of the House of Delegates. Of course, he seldom visited his distant estate, but intrusted it -comprising more than six thousand acres, and slaves enough to cultivate it -to the management and the honesty of an overseer. As in most other cases, the overseer managed very well for himself, but not so well for his employer; and, at the death of my parents' master, his debts and legacies encumbered his estate so much, that his only son, who then removed to the lands before-mentioned, and whom I designate as my master, found himself compelled to sell immediately a portion of the slaves.

My parents and their five children—including myself, then an infant-were amongst those sold. But their kind master did the best he could for them, and sold the whole family, privately, to some man very near or beyond the mountains. The contrast between their new situation and the mild government of their young master, soon rendered my parents greatly dissatisfied; and, after a few months, they both absconded from the purchaser, leaving their four elder children, whom they never saw again, and taking me with them. They found their way back to their former neighborhood, and, for a summer and part of autumn, were concealed in a large body of woods on their former master's premises. Of course, all the neighboring slaves soon knew their lurking; place, and supplied them with food, and often with shelter. At length the young master was informed, in some way, of the circumstance; and, with that kindnoss which distinguished him through life, he repurchased my parents and myself, at considerable loss and inconvenience.

The running away of slaves, that is, their concealment on or near their mas ter's premises, or sometimes at a distance of several miles, is inevitable. The exercise of arbitrary and irresponsible power will produce a determination to counteract or escape from its effects. In almost every instance, the fear or the infliction of bodily punishment drives the slave to the woods. Few of those who lurk about the neighborhood abscond, because such a life is preferable to that on the plantation, and many resort to it in the hope that the master's desire for them to return to their labor will induce him to overlook a fault which the slave persuades himself does not deserve stripes. A few, repugnant to labor, or rendered desperate by harsh usage, will resort to almost any expedient to escape. In one instance, I knew two men to live more than a year in a cave, in a large wood, about a mile from their master's house. The stock on the adjacent farms supplied them with meat, and bread was easily gotten from their fellow-slaves-for, in almost every such case, regular communication is kept up