She received us very kindly, with hand stretched out, which I, with a natural emotion (I assure you my heart beat), stooped and kissed, when she said quickly, ‘Mais non, je ne veux pas,’ and kissed my lips.  She is somewhat large for her height—­not tall—­and was dressed with great nicety in a sort of grey serge gown and jacket, made after the ruling fashion just now, and fastened up to the throat, plain linen collarette and sleeves.  Her hair was uncovered, divided on the forehead in black, glossy bandeaux, and twisted up behind.  The eyes and brow are noble, and the nose is of a somewhat Jewish character; the chin a little recedes, and the mouth is not good, though mobile, flashing out a sudden smile with its white projecting teeth.  There is no sweetness in the face, but great moral as well as intellectual capacities—­only it never could have been a beautiful face, which a good deal surprised me.  The chief difference in it since it was younger is probably that the cheeks are considerably fuller than they used to be, but this of course does not alter the type.  Her complexion is of a deep olive.  I observed that her hands were small and well-shaped.  We sate with her perhaps three-quarters of an hour or more—­in which time she gave advice and various directions to two or three young men who were there, showing her confidence in us by the freest use of names and allusion to facts.  She seemed to be, in fact, the man in that company, and the profound respect with which she was listened to a good deal impressed me.  You are aware from the newspapers that she came to Paris for the purpose of seeing the President in behalf of certain of her friends, and that it was a successful mediation.  What is peculiar in her manners and conversation is the absolute simplicity of both.  Her voice is low and rapid, without emphasis or variety of modulation.  Except one brilliant smile, she was grave—­indeed, she was speaking of grave matters, and many of her friends are in adversity.  But you could not help seeing (both Robert and I saw it) that in all she said, even in her kindness and pity, there was an under-current of scorn.  A scorn of pleasing she evidently had; there never could have been a colour of coquetry in that woman.  Her very freedom from affectation and consciousness had a touch of disdain.  But I liked her.  I did not love her, but I felt the burning soul through all that quietness, and was not disappointed in George Sand.  When we rose to go I could not help saying, ’C’est pour la derniere fois,’ and then she asked us to repeat our visit next Sunday, and excused herself from coming to see us on the ground of a great press of engagements.  She kissed me again when we went away, and Robert kissed her hand.

Lady Elgin has offered to take him one day this week to visit Lamartine (who, we hear, will be glad to see us, having a cordial feeling towards England and English poets), but I shall wait for some very warm day for that visit, not meaning to run mortal risks, except for George Sand. Nota bene. We didn’t see her smoke.