We have seen a photograph done of George Sand, shortly before she died. The face is massive, but lit up by the wonderful eyes, through which the soul still shines. An expression of tenderness and gentle philosophy hovers round the lips, and we feel almost as though they would break into a smile as we gaze. She became, latterly, like one of those grand old trees of her own “Vallée Noir,” lopped and maimed by the storms and struggles of life, but ever to the last putting forth tender shoots and expanding into fresh foliage, through which the soft winds of heaven whisper, making music in the ears of those weary wayfarers who pause to rest beneath their shade.
—— ——: ‘George Sand.’ Temple Bar.
Two notable opinions of George Sand’s works.
Though I never saw any of her works which I admired throughout (even ‘Consuelo,’ which is the best, or the best that I have read, appears to me to couple strange extravagance with wondrous excellence), yet she has a grasp of mind, which, if I cannot fully comprehend, I can very deeply respect; she is sagacious and profound.... It is poetry, as I comprehend the word, which elevates that masculine George Sand, and makes out of something coarse, something godlike.
Charlotte Brontë: Letters to G. H. Lewes, 1848, in Mrs. Gaskell’s ‘Life of Charlotte Brontë’. London: Smith, Elder & Co., 1857.
George Sand is the greatest female genius the world ever saw—at least, since Sappho, who broke off a fragment of her soul to be guessed by, as creation did by its fossils. And George Sand, it is remarkable, precisely like her prototype, has suffered her senses to leaven her soul—to permeate it through and through, and make a sensual soul of it. She is a wonderful woman, and, I hope, rising into a purer atmosphere by the very strength of her wing.
Elizabeth Barrett: ‘Letters of Elizabeth Barrett Browning to R. H. Horne.’ New York: James Miller, 1877.