The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 08, No. 49, November, 1861

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Various. The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 08, No. 49, November, 1861

GEORGE SAND

HAIR-CHAINS

THE FLOWER OF LIBERTY

ALEXIS DE TOCQUEVILLE

AGNES OF SORRENTO

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

HEALTH IN THE CAMP

"THE STORMY PETREL."

A STORY OF TO-DAY

CONCERNING PEOPLE WHO CARRIED WEIGHT IN LIFE

WHY HAS THE NORTH FELT AGGRIEVED WITH ENGLAND?

THE WILD ENDIVE

THE CONTRABANDS AT FORTRESS MONROE

THE WASHERS OF THE SHROUD

REVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES

RECENT AMERICAN PUBLICATIONS

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Was she not to all of us, in our early years, a name of doubt, dread, and enchantment? Did not all of us feel, in our young admiration for her, something of the world's great struggle between conservative discipline and revolutionary inspiration? We knew our parents would not have us read her, if they knew. We knew they were right. Yet we read her at stolen hours, with waning and still entreated light; and as we read, in a dreary wintry room, with the flickering candle warning us of late hours and confiding expectations, the atmosphere grew warm and glorious about us,—a true human company, a living sympathy crept near us,—the very world seemed not the same world after as before. She had given us a real gift; no criticism could take it away. The hands might be sinful, but the box they broke contained an exceeding precious ointment.

At a later day we saw these things rather differently. The electric intoxication over, which book or being gives but once to the same person, its elements were viewed with some distrust. Passing from ideal to real life, as all pass, who live on, we shook our heads over the books, sighed, ceased to read them. Grown mothers ourselves, we quietly removed them as far as possible from the young hands about us, and would rather have deprived them of the noble French language altogether than have allowed it to bring them such lessons as Jacques and Valentine. Yet we retain the old love for her; the world of literature still seems brighter for her footsteps; and should we live to learn her death, tears must follow it, and the sense of void left by the loss of a true friend, noble and loyal-hearted, if mistaken. With this confession of sympathy with the woman, we begin the critical consideration of the memoirs of herself she has given to the world.

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"You? Impossible! What have you done with it?"

"No matter, I have received it."

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