Humanity meant far more to her than art:  she began her literary career by describing facts as she knew them:  critics drove her to examine their causes, and so she gradually changed from the chronicler with strong sympathies to the interpreter with a reasoned philosophy.  She discovered that a great deal of the suffering in this world is due not so much to original sin, but to a kind of original stupidity, an unimaginative, stubborn stupidity.  People were dishonest because they believed, wrongly, that dishonesty was somehow successful.  They were cruel because they supposed that repulsive exhibitions of power inspired a prolonged fear.  They were treacherous because they had never been taught the greater strength of candour.  George Sand tried to point out the advantage of plain dealing, and the natural goodness of mankind when uncorrupted by a false education.  She loved the wayward and the desolate:  pretentiousness in any disguise was the one thing she suspected and could not tolerate.  It may be questioned whether she ever deceived herself; but it must be said, that on the whole she flattered weakness—­and excused, by enchanting eloquence, much which cannot always be justified merely on the ground that it is explicable.  But to explain was something—­all but everything at the time of her appearance in literature.  Every novel she wrote made for charity—­for a better acquaintance with our neighbour’s woes and our own egoism.  Such an attitude of mind is only possible to an absolutely frank, even Arcadian, nature.  She did what she wished to do:  she said what she had to say, not because she wanted to provoke excitement or astonish the multitude, but because she had succeeded eminently in leading her own life according to her own lights.  The terror of appearing inconsistent excited her scorn.  Appearances never troubled that unashamed soul.  This is the magic, the peculiar fascination of her books.  We find ourselves in the presence of a freshness, a primeval vigour which produces actually the effect of seeing new scenes, of facing a fresh climate.  Her love of the soil, of flowers, and the sky, for whatever was young and unspoilt, seems to animate every page—­even in her passages of rhetorical sentiment we never suspect the burning pastille, the gauze tea-gown, or the depressed pink light.  Rhetoric it may be, but it is the rhetoric of the sea and the wheat field.  It can be spoken in the open air and read by the light of day.

George Sand never confined herself to any especial manner in her literary work.  Her spontaneity of feeling and the actual fecundity, as it were, of her imaginative gift, could not be restrained, concentrated, and formally arranged as it was in the case of the two first masters of modern French novel-writing.  Her work in this respect may be compared to a gold mine, while theirs is rather the goldsmith’s craft.  It must not be supposed, however, that she was a writer without very strong views with regard