k note to the
Celtic; there is the Greek clearness and brightness, with the Celtic
aerialness and magic coming in. Then we have the sheer, inimitable
Celtic note in passages like this:--

"Met we on hill, in dale, forest or mead,
By paved fountain or by rushy brook,
Or in the beached margent of the sea--"[293]

or this, the last I will quote:--

"The moon shines bright. In such a night as this,
When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees,
And they did make no noise, in such a night
Troilus, methinks, mounted the Trojan walls--

... in such a night
Did Thisbe fearfully o'ertrip the dew--
... in such a night
_Stood Dido, with a willow in her hand,
Upon the wild sea-banks, and waved her love
To come again to Carthage._"[294]

And those last lines of all are so drenched and intoxicated with the
fairy-dew of that natural magic which is our theme, that I cannot do
better than end with them.

And now, with the pieces of evidence in our hand, let us go to those who
say it is vain to look for Celtic elements in any Englishman, and let us
ask them, first, if they seize what we mean by the power of natural
magic in Celtic poetry: secondly, if English poetry does not eminently
exhibit this power; and, thirdly, where they suppose English poetry got
it from?

GEORGE SAND[295]

The months go round, and anniversaries return; on the ninth of June
George Sand will have been dead just one year. She was born in 1804; she
was almost seventy-two years old when she died. She came to Paris after
the revolution of 1830, with her _Indiana_[296] written, and began her
life of independence, her life of authorship, her life as _George Sand_.
She continued at work till she died. For forty-five years she was
writing and publishing, and filled Europe with her name.

It seems to me but the other day that I saw her, yet it was in the
August of 1846, more than thirty years ago. I saw her in her own Berry,
at Nohant,[297] where her childhood and youth were passed, where she
returned to live after she became famous, where she died and has now her
grave. There must be many who, after reading her books, have felt the
same desire which in those days of my youth, in 1846, took me to Nohant,
--the desire to see the country and the places of which the books that
so charmed us were full. Those old provinces of the centre of France,
primitive and slumbering,--Berry, La Marche, Bour