e was ill but played beautifully. Oscar Commettant said he fainted in
the artist's room. Sand and Chopin met but once again. She took his
hand, which was "trembling and cold," but he escaped without saying a
word. He permitted himself in a letter to Grzymala from London dated
November 17-18, 1848, to speak of Sand. "I have never cursed any one,
but now I am so weary of life that I am near cursing Lucrezia. But she
suffers too, and suffers more because she grows older in wickedness.
What a pity about Soli! Alas! everything goes wrong with the world!" I
wonder what Mr. Hadow thinks of this reference to Sand!

"Soli" is Solange Sand, who was forced to leave her husband because of
ill-treatment. As her mother once boxed Clesinger's ears at Nohant, she
followed the example. In trying to settle the affair Sand quarrelled
hopelessly with her daughter. That energetic descendant of "emancipated
woman" formed a partnership, literary of course, with the Marquis
Alfieri, the nephew of the Italian poet. Her salon was as much in vogue
as her mother's, but her tastes were inclined to politics,
revolutionary politics preferred. She had for associates Gambetta,
Jules Ferry, Floquet, Taine, Herve, Weiss, the critic of the "Debats,"
Henri Fouquier and many others. She had the "curved Hebraic nose of her
mother and hair coal-black." She died in her chateau at Montgivray and
was buried March 20, 1899, at Nohant where, as my informant says, "her
mother died of over-much cigarette smoking." She was a clever woman and
wrote a book "Masks and Buffoons." Maurice Sand died in 1883. He was
the son of his mother, who was gathered to her heterogeneous ancestors
June 8, 1876.

In literature George Sand is a feminine pendant to Jean Jacques
Rousseau, full of ill-digested, troubled, fermenting, social,
political, philosophical and religious speculations and theories. She
wrote picturesque French, smooth, flowing and full of color. The
sketches of nature, of country life, have positive value, but where has
vanished her gallery of Byronic passion-pursued women? Where are the
Lelias, the Indianas, the Rudolstadts? She had not, as Mr. Henry James
points out, a faculty for characterization. As Flaubert wrote her: "In
spite of your great Sphinx eyes you have always seen the world as
through a golden mist." She dealt in vague, vast figures, and so her
Prince Karol in "Lucrezia Floriana," unquestionably intended for
Chopin, is a burlesque--little wonder he wa